How to Disappear(17)

I’m going to take a road trip and track down this killer bitch Nicolette and, one way or another, I’m going to solve the f*cking problem. I don’t care if it takes my mother’s money and the Manx money—each dollar of which might as well represent a bullet through somebody’s head—and every penny I earned, and was forced to save, from three summers of lifeguarding.

I’m going to do this.

I wake up at dawn, hunched over the steering wheel, back aching, filled with nausea and resolve. A couple of goony little kids pound on my window. My first impulse is to slam the car door into them. Instead, I wave and make a funny face.

Between being awakened and yawning, I’ve imagined knocking little children over with a metal door.

I’m not that guy.

Nevertheless, my mind turns to destruction. Those are my thoughts.

A thousand miles from Nevada, and the beast is off leash.





18


Cat


Frat row at South Texas Tech, Galkey, is two blocks long but intense. Big wooden houses with torn-up lawns in front. Every one of them having a party.

People cutting across the front lawns, hanging off the porches.

I stash the bike and the zombie-apocalypse preparedness kit between a Dumpster and a broken bookshelf the frat boys are throwing out instead of fixing.

Back home, we fix things. Me, Olivia, and Jody, nine years old, in my room in pajamas after we collapsed my bed by jumping on it. Steve trying to figure out how to put it back together. Us telling him how sorry we are. Him telling us if this is the worst thing we ever do, there’s nothing to worry about. Only don’t do it again.

Must. Stop. Thinking. About. Home.

It’s been so much worse since I called up Olivia. I thought it would make it better, but it didn’t.

Must. Get. Head. In. Game.

Now.

All right, I’m in love with this Goodwill halter dress. It’s the exact kind I like. And these cute fake-leather heels. The whole outfit looks better than it was supposed to, but what was I going to do? Show up in grungy sweats and ask a guy to do me favors? Good luck, Bean.

Everyone looks so far gone, I figure they’ll all be blacked out by two a.m. I won’t even be a dim memory.

That’s what I tell myself to quell the fear.

That I look like the Little Mermaid with this mass of red hair.

That I’m unrecognizable, only as cute as I have to be to get a couple of drunk frat guys to point me to someone who can scare up some nice-looking fake ID.

I pick Theta Chi. They’re the loudest. Lots of girls moving to the music inside, so you figure this is the cool party.

What they say about Texas girls with big hair? True. Only these girls look good. They look top-of-wedding-cake good, if brides danced down the aisle dressed in Forever 21.

The first guy to hit on me is dark and cute in an ROTC kind of way. He asks me if I need a beer (or some sentence with beer at the end; it’s noisy in here). I need to avoid beer, but I say yes just so I’ll get to follow him outside to the keg.

I’m not what you could call a party novice.

I take the red cup. “I wish I could get some Jose Cuervo, but I don’t have ID.”

“You want tequila? Come with me. I’ll grant your every wish. And we’ve got limes.”

I need to avoid tequila even more than I need to avoid beer.

He puts his hand on my waist and starts to kind of dance with me. People are making out all over the yard. I press my face against the guy’s neck so I seem friendly but with an unavailable mouth.

He says, “You’re so pretty.”

“You aren’t bad, either.” This makes him pull me closer, breasts smashed against his chest. Not a romantic feeling if you like to breathe. “What’s your name?”

“Clark.”

I don’t want to lose him, so I take his hand. I pull him toward the back porch, which opens to a room with guys playing pool. It’s a hundred degrees and smelly in there, like boy armpits and moldy Doritos.

“You play?”

“Prepare to be impressed.” He pushes up his sleeves and goes to work. Every time he drops a ball into a pocket, I act enthusiastic.

When he goes out to get more beer, I trot along next to him. It’s quieter in the backyard now. I say, “Hey, Clark, do you know where a person could get an ID?”

“From your big sister?” He’s perplexed and completely unhelpful.

“I need one with my name on it. Don’t even ask. I was an idiot.”

He shakes his head and takes another drink. Looks more perplexed. “I know someone at UT who might.”

He smiles at me, white teeth, green eyes. And it’s not like I’m waiting for a knight with a pool cue to rescue me, because I’m not. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel something. Like the tiny filaments of hair on my arms rising in unison. Like I should have DON’T shellacked on my fingernails.

He hands me his cell phone. “Give me your number and maybe he’ll call you.” Leaning in. “Maybe I’ll call you.”

This is when it wallops me: I have to stop acting like this is a party party. If I don’t start acting like this is my opportunity to get what I need, I’m dead. Not the wink-giggle-my-daddy-will-kill-me-if-I-climb-into-your-backseat metaphorical kind of dead. The literal kind.