Grown(43)

“Grandma?”

Silence. I’m alone. And when Korey walks in here . . . he may kill me.

Run.

The bedroom door glows golden. I test the knob. It’s unlocked.

Run.

My bare feet touch the carpeted steps. Gently, one by one, down I go, my balance off. No one is around. Music blares; the speakers vibrate with the bass. I slip on my sneakers, glancing up at the camera. Is he awake? Does he see me?

Run.

My hand touches the cold front-door lock. I inhale, press my lips together, and slowly click it right. I burst through the doors, the corner of the gate clipping my shoulder.

Run.

The bright sun in the sky disarms me. Where am I?

Run.

I smell pine trees, wet grass, and car exhaust. A driveway. A street. A stop sign. What do I do? What do I do?

Run.

Can’t call Mom. She’s so mad at me. She may hang up. She may leave me here.

Can’t call Daddy. He’ll do the same.

Run.

What if he wakes up? What if he finds I’m not there? Cameras? He knows! He’s coming, he’s coming.

Run.

Slip, swoop, down. I’m up and running again. Converse hitting the pavement. Laces undone. Run, faster, harder. Nothing looks familiar. What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

Run.

Into the woods. I’m safe in the woods. He can’t find me here.

Run.

Telephone wires make music sheets in the sky.

Thicker wires lead to a highway. The highway. A yellow sign, yellow Scrabble letters. A Waffle House. Police car in the parking lot.

Run.

The door is heavy. My arms are weak.

Two cops sit at the counter. Coffee, black. Plates, empty.

Ask me if I’m OK. Ask me. Ask me. Ask me . . .

“Sit anywhere, bae,” a waitress says, walking by with plates of sizzling eggs and bacon. “Be right with ya.”

I limp and stumble to the counter, opposite the cops, lips quivering. It’s so cold. I left my jacket, my songbook, my everything.

The cops laugh, joking about something they see on their phones. I had a phone. But it’s gone. Along with everything else.

Dirty bleeding wound on my legs from a fall. Customer notices and stops eating.

Open your mouth and sing. Sing! Sing!

But my throat is full of sand and hunks of coral. I can’t sing. I can’t talk. How do I explain I’m a caught fish who needs to be thrown back into the sea?

“There you are! You got lost?”

Tony. I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but his forehead is damp with sweat. Hand gripping my forearm, breathing hard, he leans down to whisper.

“One word, you’ll never talk to Gab again.”

Everything in the sky comes crashing down and the earth shakes.

Sing!

“I can’t,” I tell the voice. He knows about Gab.

“Come on. Let’s get you home,” he says, an arm around my shoulders.

I gape across the counter at the cops peeping our interaction.

“Hey. Everything OK?” one of the officers asks.

“Oh yeah! We fine,” Tony says with a smile and nods. “Y’all have a good day.”

They nod back as I’m led to the car.





Chapter 56


Get Help




I don’t recognize myself in the bathroom of Terminal T.

Melissa is on top of my head, glued secure, yet loosening after wear. My makeup is thick, lipstick bright. But I don’t know the girl staring back at me on her eighteenth birthday.

She has weak arms, potholes under her eyes, a sagging belly, and she can fall asleep standing up. At the same time, she’s malnourished, surviving off McDonald’s and the purple drink she chugged before leaving for the airport.

My wounds are invisible, weeping invisible blood. Can anyone see the black-and-blue marks painted on my heart?

What if that’s it? What if I’m invisible? That’s why no one has tried to save me. Why no one can hear my screams, inside and out.

I wash my hands in the basin, the faucet automatic. And right on the lower righthand corner of the mirror, there’s a sticker: If you are a victim of human trafficking, call this number.

The word “victim” glows red. Or . . . at least I think so. I pat through my bag, forgetting I no longer have a phone.

Just my songbook.

Korey hates flying. He especially hates flying commercial.

After some crazy storm, flights are canceled, private planes are grounded, and the only way he’ll make soundcheck is if we fly on Delta.

But as the plane rattles up twenty thousand feet, Korey wants nothing more than to skip the entire tour.

“Shit,” he mumbles, taking a shot of vodka.

We hover above the angry clouds in first class—me by the window, Korey by the aisle. Amber, Tony, Richie, and crew are scattered in coach, the only seats available.

Korey grips the armrest, shaking his head. He reaches out, squeezing my thigh. Once, his touch used to be thrilling, now I only flinch in terror.

I peer out the tiny window, at the giant, dark gray, mountain-shaped clouds full of lightning, the plane maneuvering around them.

“Hello. This is your captain speaking. Sorry about that takeoff there! We’ve just reached our cruising altitude. We are expecting some rough air closer to landing, so I’m going to leave the seat-belt sign on for the time being and anticipate an on-time arrival. So, sit back, relax, and enjoy your flight.”