Paris: The Memoir(44)

Counting the cash I’d swiped from Mom’s purse, I scanned the bus schedule and calculated how long it would take to get to LA. Even though it wasn’t the most direct route, I got on the first bus out of there and found a seat near the back, slumping down below the edge of the window until the bus rolled out of town.

The first stop was Chico, I think. A police officer got on and exchanged a few words with the driver, who laughed and shook her head. The cop got off, and we drove on, never going as fast as I would have liked. I scrunched down with my heart pounding. Eventually, I fell asleep with my knees pulled up to my chest, my arms covering my head. I didn’t realize we’d stopped again until I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes to find a cop standing there.

He said, “I need you to come with me, Miss Hilton.”

“Where’s my mom? I want to talk to my mom.”

“She’s pretty upset,” he said. “One of the counselors from your school is here to take you back to campus.”

I didn’t bother begging. I went with a woman who looked a lot like Weaselmug. Same mousy hair and haggard expression. We drove for an hour or so, winding through a dark forest of fragrant pine trees, past a frozen lake, up into the jagged mountains. We stopped briefly at a set of big iron gates. There was a big rock emblazoned with gold letters: CASCADE SCHOOL.

The main building was another big log cabin/lodge-type thing. They gave me a rule book. Same CEDU deal as Running Springs: work, monitored calls, Raps, Propheets. I felt nothing when the male counselor told me to take off my clothes. I squatted and coughed and endured the cavity search without whimpering. I put on the pinks and followed my new “big sister” to our room.

She turned out the lights, and I waited until it sounded like she was sleeping. Only then did I finally allow myself to touch the slim roll of cash tucked under the bun on top of my head. The money was rolled tight, as slender as a skeleton key.

See, I had learned that these strip searches were about invasion, not investigation. It was a demonstration of their power over every part of your body, so they focused on the private parts—the parts you instinctively try to protect. Some of them obviously enjoyed it. They didn’t even bother pretending. The cavity searches—like any sexual assault—that was about them, not the person they were doing it to. Once I understood that, it was easy to fool them.

I formed a strategy for keeping my money hidden while I waited for my next opportunity to run. It wasn’t a lot. A couple hundred dollars. But it was mine. My sweet little money roll. Knowing it was there gave me a quiet fizz of happiness. Money meant hope. Money meant freedom.

Someday, I decided, I’m going to work so hard and make so much money. Like a million dollars. And then I’ll be safe and fuck trusting anyone ever again.

I spent my days at Cascade working on a building site, trying not to be noticed. Weeks went by. Maybe a month. One day a skinny little girl came over to me while we were picking rocks. I don’t remember her name; in my mind, she was always Mouse.

“You’re going to run, aren’t you?” she whispered.

I didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at her.

“Take me with you,” said Mouse. “If I stay here, I’ll die.”

Fuck.

She was so skinny and small—barely up to my shoulder, maybe fourteen—and she cried a lot. She kept getting ripped apart in Raps for “tempting” her uncle and making him do bad things. She hadn’t figured it out yet; you had to give them something to distract them. Like say, “Oh, I hate myself because everyone in my family is vegetarian, and I used to sneak out to Burger King.” Let them all jump on that. “Bitch! Animal eater! Cow murderer!” Because, who cares if people tear you up for something that isn’t true? I mean, it’s annoying. It still hurts. But it’s not as bad as people pouncing on the real you. If they get their claws into something real, shame takes hold of you from the inside, and you become your own worst enemy. (Apply as needed to internet trolls and gossip blogs.)

“Please, take me with you,” said Mouse. “Please.”

Crap. This complicated things, but I couldn’t leave her, knowing what it felt like to be left behind, knowing that the lady with the long black braid would have said “of course” and helped her without hesitating. I wanted to be like her, not like all the people who looked away.

On a night when the moon was good and bright, Mouse and I took off running. I dragged her down the mountain, gripping her skinny wrist in my hand. No mercy. No stopping. We had to get back to that Greyhound station. It was the only way out.

Finally, I saw a 7–Eleven.

Gotta love 7–Eleven. Open all night. Now it was almost morning.

“We need a disguise,” I told Mouse.

I was being careful with my cash, but I bought some inexpensive brown mascara and used it to thicken our eyebrows into heavy unibrows. I feathered on mustaches and even gave myself a thin goatee. We slicked our hair back under baseball caps and hoodies from the clearance bin and got on a Greyhound bus, attempting to walk like beat boys. (Honestly, thinking about that cracks me up now.) We scrunched down in our seats and stayed silent through the long, winding ride. Ten or twelve hours later, we got to LA and disappeared into the city.

My friend let us stay at his place in Bel Air, just a few minutes away from the Jaclyn Smith house where we lived when I was little. For the first few days, I did nothing but sleep and eat and listen to music. Mouse and I sat in front of the TV for hours, soaking up all the interesting things we’d missed. When it felt safe to venture out, I went to the Whiskey Bar in the Sunset Marquis Hotel, where all the rock stars stay. I sat in the corner bobbing my head to the Cardigans’ “Lovefool.” I sang along, loud and joyful. I felt safe and fully alive, lost in the crowd.