When My Heart Joins the Thousand(66)

I don’t answer. My mouth opens, but all that comes out is a faint croak. The words won’t line up, won’t form proper sentences. “Lies,” I manage to whisper.

“What?”

“Don’t bother trying to talk to her,” the other says. “I don’t think anyone’s home upstairs.”

The blood pounds in my head, making me dizzy. A thin, reedy sound fills my ears, like an animal in distress, and I realize it’s coming from my own throat. I huddle in a tiny ball on the floor and begin to rock back and forth. I can’t stop myself. I rock harder and harder until my head is banging against the back of the closet.

“What’s she doing in there?” one man mutters.

“Just ignore her.”

The rocking speeds up. My head knocks against the wall again and again. Bang, bang, bang.

I’m glad they don’t open the door, glad they can’t see me like this, because I know what I look like. I look like what I am: an autistic girl having a meltdown.

My body won’t stop, so I let it go, rocking over and over until the pain numbs me and my movements slow, like a toy winding down. When it’s over, I am squeezed into a corner of the closet, fists bunched up and pressed against my temples, and the world is dark and still. The overpowering lemon smell still snarls inside my nostrils. A dull ache pounds in my forehead. When I touch the ache, my fingers come away wet with blood.

I do a few algebra problems in my head to make sure I don’t have a concussion. Breathing shallowly through my mouth, I press my ear against the door, but I can’t hear any voices or movement. I don’t know if the men are still there or if they left the office. For a few minutes I just sit, listening. The shuddering little gulps of my own breathing fill the silence.

I try the doorknob, but it won’t open. My hand falls, limp, to my side.

Soon the police will arrive. I’ve never been arrested, so I don’t know what will happen after that. Will they handcuff me? Will I have to spend the night in jail?

I try the knob again. I jiggle it. I kick the door and then kick it a few more times, and something jars loose and clatters to the floor. The chair? For a few minutes I stand motionless, holding my breath, but I still don’t hear anything from outside. I try the knob again. This time, it turns smoothly.

When I open the door, the office is empty, dimly lit by the faint sunlight spilling in through the window, and the chair is lying on the floor. I creep out of the closet, hunker down, and peek over the windowsill. Outside, I can see the men standing and smoking.

“How long has it been, anyway?” one says.

The other snorts. “Bet they don’t even show up. The cops in this city are a joke.”

Holding my breath, I duck back into the office. If I go out through the door, they’ll see me. I open the window on the opposite wall and squeeze through, then run and run until I reach the wire fence. I scramble over it and keep running until I find my car, parked on a narrow residential street.

I sag against the car, my body weighted with exhaustion, and close my eyes.

Will anyone come looking for me? I don’t think hunting down some crazy girl who broke into a zoo will be a big priority for the police. I try to remember where I dropped the sign, but it doesn’t matter. They’ll probably just put it back up tomorrow.

It’s started to snow. Fat, heavy flakes drift down from the sky and settle onto my hair and clothes. I watch them for a few minutes, then get into my car.

When I return to my apartment, there’s a bright yellow eviction notice on the door.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


I stare numbly.

I thought I had a little more time. But it doesn’t matter. Either way, I don’t have the money, and Mrs. Schwartz has been looking for a chance to get rid of me. I decide to leave now and spare myself the indignity of being removed by force.

There’s not a lot to take. The TV is ancient and the furniture is mostly junk. I stuff my clothes, toiletries, Rubik’s Cube, laptop, my last bit of cash, and as many books as I can fit into a duffel bag. I pause, looking at the single carnation, still in its glass on the coffee table, now brittle and dead. I take it from the glass and place it in my duffel bag, atop the pile of clothes.

I sling the bag over my shoulder, then pause again, looking back at the living room where I spent so many nights watching TV on the couch, eating cereal or Cool Whip and washing it down with orange soda. Bare walls and mangy, threadbare carpeting stare back at me. Not much, but it is—was mine. The first place that was ever mine.

I toss all my possessions into the backseat of my car.

My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I flip it open, and my heartbeat speeds. A text from Stanley: I know what we had was real. I didn’t imagine it.

He’s still trying. Even after all this time.

I think about calling him back and trying to explain things to him. But I’m not that strong. I know that I’ll end up telling him everything, and then he’ll feel obligated to help me. If I don’t walk away now, it won’t ever happen. But it needs to happen. The kindest thing I can do is to break his heart.

A cramp seizes my stomach. I double over, gasping, one hand pressed to my abdomen.

Stanley is sitting next to me on the park bench, holding out his hand to me.

He’s in the motel room with me, touching me, whispering that I’m beautiful.