Mirage(14)

I don’t open those doors.

Not for anyone. Or any thing.

Behind what psychological door is the mirage girl hiding?

As soon as the house slips into the quiet hum of night, I slip out the back door. Sneaking out drunk and alone is the potent dose of rebellion I need after the fight with my dad, the lecture from my mom, and Gran’s vague warnings. They gang up on me and expect that I’ll swallow their bitter medicine without a chaser. Ha. I take another swig of my spiked cranberry juice and march down the road, using the raised road reflectors like braille so I don’t veer off into the brush and disappear forever.

The night stills me. The sky is a cap of blue-black with constellations as familiar as Gran’s age spots. I’m lost in it until a reflector winks light at me and I realize a car is approaching from behind. The tires make a sticky-wet sound on the asphalt as the car slows. It crawls alongside me as I walk the dusty shoulder. It’s not the leering face of the crusty old man that kicks my adrenaline into high gear and sends my heart rocketing. It’s her face, rolling up and over, up and over in the chrome rims: a ghost on wheels with eyes that promise to follow me everywhere.

With my heart beating drums in my temples, I turn back and run straight home.

Even in the safety of my room, in the cocoon of my bed, my mind spins like the face in those tires. I lie there and realize . . . every barred door is wide open.

I grit my teeth against the feelings. This haunt is pissing me off.



“See this cowbell?” Mauricio holds up a large copper bell dangling from a thick leather braid and gives it a good shake. It clangs through the motor home so loud that my eyes squint. “If anyone walks out the door, put the bell around your neck. That way we can find your dumb ass if you’re wandering around in the desert.”

The motley assortment of people chuckle and shuffle nervously. I imagine it would be terrifying to be lost in the vast desert while trippin’ on hallucinogenic drugs. The Mojave Desert will swallow you whole and spit your bleached skeleton in the sand.

I’m glad to be in the safety of a closed hangar, but I have to admit, coming back into this RV makes me feel like I’ve walked into a meat locker. Not warm and safe like a cocoon in the summer, where humidity hides under the felt leaves of the succulents. In here it’s snow and sand: a cold and rough paste against my skin.

Nibbling on chips, trying not to dwell on how boxed in I feel, I blow out a deep breath and look for Joe. He sits in the driver’s seat of the RV, reading a book, and occasionally looks up at me through his blond lashes. He jerks his head toward the door with a question on his raised eyebrows. I’m not leaving. He won’t either. No matter what I say, he won’t let me do this without him being some kind of “trip sitter.”

Dad would kill me if he knew what I’m about to do. But hey, I warned him. Skydiving gives me the rush I need. It makes me special and unique in the regular world. Without jumping out of airplanes, I’m . . . average, and average isn’t where I want to be on life’s curve. I’d seriously rather be dead than the walking dead. Besides, this is where it started. I figure if I can come in here and face down my fear, it’ll stop haunting me.

There is a small group of us trying LSD for the first time. Avery’s face is more white than normal, and I wonder why she’s here. It’s one thing if you’re trying to prove something to yourself, a non-thing if you’re trying to prove something to everyone else. I avoid her greedy, attention-seeking eyes. Half the time I don’t know what Avery wants. Our relationship has never been an easy one. The last time we fought, it devolved into petty insults, the kind sisters sling at each other. I told her she was a phony. She laughed and accused me of being a hypocrite. She said she saw through me?—?that I acted like a big hotshot as a cover-up for feeling really small. She said I was the phony. We didn’t talk for a spell. Since then we’ve been peaceful, but I feel prickly as a cactus around her.

The faces of the people in the motor home are not unlike those of a group of first-time jumpers. Masks of excitement overlaid upon fear. Anxiety is exposed by fidgety fingers and increased rates of speech. It shows in the eyes, for sure: a little more rounded than normal, with hollowed pupils that look like newly dug holes.

I’ve become convinced that no one can truly hide their fear.

I pat my own fear on the head. Down, boy.

Mauricio hands each of us a tiny, colorful paper square. “The blotter paper goes under your tongue,” Dom whispers. I tilt my head like duh, but I had no idea. I slip the square in my mouth, wondering if it will dissolve or what. Dom and I take seats at either end of the couch, facing each other, wiggling our bare toes together. He starts video recording on his phone. Joe sits with his book propped up to his nose and tries to pretend he’s not watching me like a bug under glass. I wink and wait to feel abnormal.

Mauricio approaches with a bowl in his hands. It’s full of small folded notepapers. I wonder if I’m supposed to put one in my mouth, but we’re instructed to put them in a pocket. “Read it when you need something to think about,” he says with a knowing smirk. “Sometimes it’s good to have a distraction if you’re wandering down a bad street in your brain.”

“Wait, isn’t LSD supposed to bliss me out?” I ask, stuffing the paper into my pocket.

“Depends.” Mauricio moves on to the next person.