One Hundred Different Lives

The next day was almost exactly the same, if with a little less exuberance. Frenchies still tested their skills by speaking to me. Teachers hesitated when giving directions, thinking that I couldn’t understand. And I came home in the same mood – ready to jump down someone’s throat for the slightest thing. I went to bed early that night since it wasn’t like I had homework, and there was certainly nothing else to do.

                    My mom went out to the bar to “have fun” as she called it. I don’t know why she bothered telling me that shit; I know she never really stopped working. If she could con a guy out of a few drinks, she would. Of course, I was underage, but she had taught me everything, or at least I think she did, and you can bet your bippy that I could con a guy for just as many drinks as she could.

                    Sleep came slowly – probably something to do with the clock displaying the number seven, followed by a zero and a five. By the time I fell asleep, my legs were restless and I couldn’t remember the dream I had, something about the ocean.

                    “Sky! Wake the hell up!” my mother nearly shouted. “We have to go. Now.” Her words registered as I stifled a yawn, making me bolt out of bed and zip my closet clothes into a bag, going through the motions we’d rehearsed at least a hundred times, but hadn’t ever actually needed. Until now. We had five minutes.

                    My mom flew down the hall to her own room. When I had finished packing, I ran to help her. Three minutes left. More shoes equaled more of a burden, but she never listened when I told her not to buy them. Two minutes left. Finally, all her things were in three large duffel bags and mine were in two.

                    I headed toward the front door, but my mom shook her head. “Fire escape.” One minute.

                    Suddenly a sound shoved my stomach up my throat and a cold sweat broke out on my palms. It was a sound that literally haunted my nightmares and made me sick. There were sirens in the distance. And they were getting louder.

                    Iron self control kept me from hyperventilating, but my hands shook frenziedly as I passed the duffles to my mom and climbed out my window after her. Every creak in the rusted structure seemed to grate in my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard and I was sure everyone in a ten-mile radius knew exactly where we were. The three stories of stairs seemed like a million and by the time we reached the bottom, my heart was pounding so hard in my chest that I could barely hear the sirens, even though I was sure they were only a few blocks away by now.

                    The Jag was parked right by the escape and we loaded our things in faster than I ever thought possible. When we got in, mom gunned it, speeding in the opposite direction as the sirens were coming. Slowly, painfully slowly, they faded into the distance, until the only thing left was our breathing. For two hours, we followed back roads, avoiding highways but still heading for the border. After a while, I regained my composure enough to ask what the hell happened.

                    “Someone recognized me. You know that guy from the office in Montana? The one with the toupee and strong cologne? I don’t know how he found us, but he was at the bar.”

                    “He recognized you?” Panic edged my voice, making it sound like someone else’s. “Even with the blond hair?” We had both dyed our hair blond before coming here. I didn’t recognize myself in mirrors for a week.

                    “He did, and he came right up to me and started shouting. There was no way I could talk my way out of it. I left right away, but I knew he called the cops.” We were silent for a few minutes while we thought. A little dinging noise sounded in the background, making us both jump, but it was only the fuel gauge beeping.

By this time, we were well out of the city and heading south. We wouldn’t be able to make it to the nearest rest stop, so we’d have to stop at a gas station. There was a toss-up: find one with other people so that we’d be less noticeable on the cameras, or find one that was deserted so fewer people would see us.

After we refueled, we could make it without being found. Getting out of the state was the problem. The gauge beeped again, and we had no choice but to stop at a deserted station. At this time of night, or morning rather, it was the more likely find anyway.

“I’ll do it mom.” It wasn’t an offer. “Your face is more recognizable.” For once she didn’t argue, just handed me the Visa gift card and stared ahead at the road. I knew how she felt. We couldn’t be comfortable until we were away from here, until these people had stopped hunting us.