How to Disappear(12)

I know Luna’s theory that the bogeyman isn’t going to find me if I head out into the warm Texas night is total BS.

But I want to believe her.

She pats me on the arm. A hand on my skin.

I would have kissed Connor, my second-to-last poor-choice ex, right then, even though he’s 90 percent slime, just to feel his 10 percent human arms around me. I’m starting to relate to those baby monkeys in honors psychology who shrivel up and die because they only have wire mothers. Meanwhile, the monkeys with fluffy, soft mother dolls snuggle into the fur and eat their mashed bananas.

“Cheer up,” Luna says. “I’ve got something for you.”

Three ancient red bicycles are chained up in a utility closet in the alley behind the motel. Apparently, Mrs. Bluebonnet decided people would rent three-speeds. Nobody did, and here they are.

Luna points into the alley. “Hop on, and you could be at Tech having a good old time in ten minutes.”

I try not to pant, that’s how much I want to jump on one of those red bikes and book it out of here. Even though I can spot an impulse that bad from fifty yards away.

I half-know I’m lying to myself. Telling myself that if I pedal around at twilight, I’ll be basically invisible.

That it’s not even that big of a risk.

Eight summers of cheerleading camp, and I know a lot of girls who party on three continents. I get it. But half the time, people can’t even tell who I am right away at Halloween when I do weird enough makeup. And who’s even heard of South Texas Tech, Galkey? It’s not like I’m going to a party at Ohio State.

I can tell that how much I want five minutes that approximate normal—five minutes when I can pretend I’m leading a whole other kind of life—might be clouding my thinking. But there’s an actual plus column.

If I went out, I could forage for all the stuff TV characters who run away on purpose take with them. Granted, they mostly use these provisions during the zombie apocalypse. But if (when) I have to run (soon), it wouldn’t hurt to have it.

Plus this could solve the dilemma of Mrs. Bluebonnet’s mandatory ID. Colleges have freshmen in need of fake IDs, and people who know where to get them. To save myself, I have to have some fake ID, right?

And a fake ID procurement outfit from Goodwill. Nice enough to get guys to want to help me find fake ID. Not good enough for them to remember the next day.

And an ice pick.

Plus, I buy a daypack, more makeup, a rainbow of hair dye, and nutrition bars to keep me from having to sneak candy out of any more mini-marts if I get stranded.

There’s the cutest dress, summery, backless, midnight-blue. And sandals I can’t justify spending seven dollars on, except that they’re the highest heels in the place. Being a whole different height is good, right?

What does it say about me that even when life hits its most wretched moment of sadness, shopping is still fun?

I feel so bold, grabbing clothes off hangers, sliding shoes onto my feet.

On the way back to the Bluebonnet, I stop at a convenience store with country music blasting out the open door.

I buy a prepaid burner phone.

“For emergencies,” I say to the cashier. I don’t know why.

I feel so sly and furtive. Like a drug dealer or, I guess, me.

Not that I plan to call 9-1-1 anytime soon, but if I see it coming, at least I want to tell a couple of people I love them before permanently hanging up.

That, and where the body’s buried.





14


Jack


I’m the guy who can always concentrate at school. I can shut out anything, turn off my mind and any trouble flowing through it like a faucet turns off water. I was in class nine days after they killed my dad, handing in make-up work.

Now I’m sitting in AP English, seeing and hearing nothing, trying to figure this out. I’ve run through every conceivable scenario a hundred times. Best case, I disappear into Don’s alternate universe for a short nightmare. I wake up with a couple of weeks shot to hell, but to my same life and plans, college, and future.

The most striking flaw is that it’s also the least realistic scenario—and how do you have a best case that someone else doesn’t wake up from?

My teacher, Mr. Berger, looks pissed.

“‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood’? What say you, Mr. Manx?” Jesus, this guy is pretentious. And seriously? This poem has a built-in, teacher-approved right answer, which ordinarily I’d be rolling out, if only to one-up Dan Barrons. Not today.

“It’s condescending.”

Berger is pacing around like a matador waiting for the bull to charge.

All I want to do is charge, gore him, and leave town.

“All the ordinary jerks take the big road with the streetlights. The superior poetic guy we’re supposed to admire takes the cool nonconformist road. Come on, did you ever find one student who thought it was cool to take the more traveled road?”

Mr. Berger says, “Did you read this poem?”

After English, Calvin corners me by my locker. “What’s wrong with you?”

I don’t blurt things I don’t want blurted, even to Calvin, even when we’re plowed and running off at the mouth. But I blurt, “I have to run an errand for Don.”

“Are you brain-damaged?”

Don’s my go-to excuse for acting brain-damaged, even I know this. And according to my former girlfriend—and Dan Barron’s current girlfriend—Scarlett, I’m the least insightful guy in Nevada.