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Authors: Miranda Simon

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BOOK: Becoming Sarah
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So now I knew who I was, and presumably where. I figured I could find out a whole lot more by going through the mail, or checking the files on the computer I’d glimpsed in the spare room, or listening to the messages on the frantically blinking answering machine. But while I’d accepted – for now – that I was no longer in possession of my own body, I wasn’t nearly ready to let go of myself, of Jamie. For all I knew, this Sarah person could show up any minute and demand her life back. I’d be happy to give it to her, too, in return for my own. My mother must be going out of her mind right now. And Maria. I checked the clock on the wall. She would wonder why I’d skipped out on our geometry class, and whether I’d be around to eat lunch with her on the wall in front of the school.

Except maybe Sarah was now in my body. One sure way to find out. I grabbed
a
cordless phone from its stand on the counter and dialed my home number.

“Hello?” My mother’s voice. My throat went tight with longing.

“Um, hi.” That low, throaty voice again. “Can I talk to Jamie?”

A long silence. Fear blossomed in the pit of my belly. Please, no, I thought. Then another voice came on, one I recognized. Our neighbor, Janelle. Aunt Janelle, I’d called her since I was a child. Den mother to the whole block. Always at her house there with extra plate of spaghetti, a leftover slice of cake, especially at the end of the month when the Lumley family’s food stamps where long gone.

“Who’s this?” Aunt Janelle demanded.

“I’m, ah, a friend of Jamie’s. From school. From French club.”

Another silence, too long. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to speak to her,” Aunt Janelle said. The suspicion lacing her voice had gone, leaving a weariness I’d never heard before. “She’s – something’s happened.”

“But she’s okay, right?” I tried to swallow down the note of desperation. “I mean, she will be, right?”

“No. I’m sorry, no. She’s not okay. She’s. . .dead.”

In the background I heard my mother’s wail, like the shriek of a wounded animal. I dropped the phone; it clattered on the kitchen floor, skidded under a cabinet, and lay still.

CHAPTER TWO

In the bedroom was a walk-in closet, the floor littered with discarded outfits. A sequined halter top. L
atex pants in a red so bright they
hurt my eyes. Shoes with heels three inches high. I touched my cheek to a sweater on a padded hanger; cashmere, and lovely beyond anything I’d ever owned. Sarah’s lingerie was gorgeous, too, tiny scraps of lace and silk. It felt weird to wear someone else’s underwear, but I didn’t have much of a choice. My own tended toward cotton, white, and high enough to cover my belly button. From Sarah’s collection I chose one of the few pairs of briefs from the heap of scanty thongs and g-strings. I pulled on the sweater, and a pair of low-rise jeans that barely cleared my hip bones but fit like a second skin.

I did all of this with my brain working overtime.

If Jamie Lumley was dead, who did that make me? Not Sarah Winslow. I had none of her memories. In my mind I was Jamie, my thoughts, emotions and identity as clear and sharp as ever. When I caught my reflection in the full-length bedroom I did a double-take, still; I expected to see my own face, not hers.

So what had happened to Sarah? I could only think she must be gone, dead as she had probably intended when she took those all those pills. Or had she only meant to dull some awful pain, not to die? Either way, there was no trace of her now. If she still lurked in my brain somewhere, she kept silent.

At the moment, though, I couldn’t bring myself to care much about Sarah Winslow – who she’d been, what she’d dreamed of, where she was now. I had only one goal, and that was to get my old life back. True, I didn’t look like myself anymore, but I – the “I” inside, the “I” that counted – hadn’t changed.

There was only one person who would listen to me and know me. My mother would be hysterical, unreasonable, out of her mind. She never coped well with crisis. When I’d fallen off my bike as a kid, cracked my head on the pavement, and bled all over the living room, I’d called 911 myself while she sobbed and clutched at my arm.

No, it was Maria I needed. Maria would help me figure out what to do.

The
iPhone
rang as I snatched Sarah’s wallet and keys from the counter, but I ignored it on my way out
the door. Her keychain said Lexus
and was one of those buttons you pushed to unlock a car door. I wasn’t up to figuring out where she'd parked it, though, and besides, I felt less than confident in my driving abilities. While I’d passed driver’s ed last year, I’d never gotten around to scheduling a test at the DMV. I couldn’t see the point of getting a license with no car in my near future. My mother had once owned a beat-up Nissan, but it had finally broken down beyond repair, and now we both got around on Muni
buses
.

Sarah’s front door led to a hallway and a narrow set of stairs that took me down three floors. Outside I discovered that
she lived in the top flat in a
Victorian house, its front painted pale yellow with purple trim. A far cry from the cramped, shabby box I shared with my mother. A whole different world.

Maria would be in school now, but she’d be home in an hour. I needed to figure out exactly where I was and which bus to catch. Two blocks from Sarah’s building I found a corner store, bought a Muni map, and spread it out on the counter.

“Where you trying to get to?” asked the clerk, as he leaned over the counter toward me. “Maybe I can give you a ride, gorgeous.”

I looked up sharply, thinking he was making fun of me. He stared back at me, a young, good-looking guy with a goatee and a look in his eye I’d never seen before – not aimed in my direction, anyway. He wasn’t making fun; he was hitting on me.

“Here,” I said, pointing to an intersection just off Third Street, in the southeast part of the city.

He laughed. “Oh, no, you don’t. Too dangerous for a girl like you. How about some coffee instead? I’m off in an hour.”

“No, thanks.” I’d seen what I needed to see. I folded up my map and left the store, headed for the nearest bus stop.

I was near Haight Street, in
a neighborhood miles north
west of where I’d lived all my life. Maria and I used to come shopping here sometimes. We’d check out the cool clothes in all the vintage clothes stores, gawk through the windows of the tattoo parlors and head shops, and laugh at the tourists expecting to find the ‘60s all over again, instead of a huge Gap store and overpriced restaurants selling crepes and fancy sandwiches.

I waited ten min
utes for the bus, paid my fare
, and sat fidgeting as it crawled up and down the hills and inched its way toward Maria’s. I couldn’t wait to see her. We were best friends since elementary school, so close we finished each other’s sentences. I figured it would take some work to convince her, but not too much. Deep down I was sure she’d recognize some glint in my eye, some tiny habit of mine, before I even said a word.

The Rodriguez family lived above a Chinese restaurant. As I climbed the back stairs to their door, I actually found the stale smell of grease comforting. This was home. This was where I belonged, despite the stares of the men on the street corners, and the bus driver’s “You sure, lady?” when I pulled the cord to make him stop.

It was after 3 o’clock, plenty of time for Maria to get back from school. I rang the bell and waited impatiently, hoping my friend would come to the door and not her mother or one of her three brothers.

When she opened the door, I was so elated that I barely noticed her red-rimmed eyes, or her suspicious expression. It was good to see her face, so familiar, and her dark, permed hair scraped back in a ponytail. She wore big silver hoops in her ears and wire-rimmed glasses as round as her rosy-cheeked face. “Maria, I have to talk to you,” I blurted. “You’ll never believe in a million years believe --”

"Who the hell are you?” she snarled.

“I’m –-“ I hesitated, then plunged ahead “It’s me, Jamie. You’ve got to help me.”

CHAPTER THREE

She stared at me in disgust. “What are you, some kind of nut?”

I caught the door before she could slam it in my face
. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s me, Jamie
. I’ll prove it.” I took a deep breath. “Your middle name is Theresa. You have a crush on Jimmy Betz in chemistry class, even though right now he’s going out with Alice Leung. In seventh grade we practiced kissing on our arms and gave ourselves big purple hickeys. You like your hotdogs with pickle relish but not mustard. You still have the red and blue friendship bracelet I gave you three years ago, and you keep it in the wooden box you got in Mexico. How else would I know these things, if I weren’t Jamie?”

The color had drained out of her cheeks. She stood looking at me, slowly shaking her head. “You’re sick, you know that? Sick.”

“No, it’s me.” My lips trembled. “You have to believe me, Maria. It’s true. I know – I know everything. Things you never told anyone but me. I know about how last year you got caught stealing tampons at Walgreens because you were too embarrassed to buy them, but you cried and the security guard let you go with a warning. I know that – that after he has a few beers your dad sometimes hits your brothers, but he never touches you, and you almost wish he would because then you wouldn’t feel so guilty standing there and not doing anything to make him stop.”

Maria let out a little gasp, and I wished I could take back those last words. This was a secret she’d told me only late one night when she slept over, a secret spoken only softly and under the cover of darkness. Now I’d spit it out crudely; I’d used her deepest confidence only in desperation, but still I’d cheapened it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but don’t you see? You must know I’m Jamie. If you don’t believe me, no one will. You know what my mom's like, she'll go all to pieces. . . "

Maria blinked, and a single tear trickled down her cheek. “All I know is that my best friend was raped and murdered last night. Do you have any idea how it was, to get called out of class this morning? To have the police asking me questions like did she have a boyfriend, did she sleep around, stuff like that because they don't have a clue who did this? To have all the counselors throw me a pity party, handing me Kleenexes and asking if I wanted to ‘talk about it’ when I still didn’t even believe it was real?” Her voice rose to just below a screech. Her nose was running, and she swiped at it angrily with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “And now, and now, I have to find out the person I loved best is not only dead but she’s been telling my secrets to some wacko. Well, no thanks. I don’t need this. I want you out of here. Right now.”

“Maria, wait. Please, listen to me.”

“No! No! No! Can’t you just leave me alone?” She was yelling now, and I took a step back.

“Maria? Quien es?” Her mother came out of the kitchen to glare at me. “Is this lady bothering you?”

“Please, Maria,” I said.

“Get out,” she answered, her expression icy cold.

“And don’t come back or we’ll call the police on you.” Mrs. Rodriquez put an arm around Maria's shoulders and pulled her back into the apartment. One or the other of them closed the door, but I didn’t see who. I was already running – down the hall, down the stairs, and out onto the street. Tears blinded me. I stumbled on a curb and nearly fell. My head spun. I leaned up against a wall. My throat hurt. My stomach hurt. I thought I might throw up, but when I retched, nothing came.

“Hey, girlie.” A wino staggered toward me. He reached to grab my arm, and I saw Ricky’s face, his leer. For a moment I couldn’t breathe, and then I screamed and lurched away into the street. A car honked and swerved to avoid me as I crossed against the light.

I made it as far as the bus shelter and collapsed on the bench, where I let my face fall into my hands. People nearby edged away, as if my grief might be contagious, but I didn't care. I began to cry in earnest, a great flood of heartbroken tears.

I cried for Maria, and how I’d hurt her just now. I cried for my mother, at home grieving my death. Who would take care of her? How would she manage without me? Last but not least, I cried for myself -- whoever I was now.

What had happened to me the night before wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. Ricky had hurt and violated me. He'd murdered me; that I hadn't died was a fluke. Maybe I should go to the police, but why should they believe me when even Maria didn’t?

Ricky Jones had stolen my life and there was nothing I could do about it.

Nothing.

 

Because I didn’t know what else to do, I dragged myself back to Sarah’s place. On the stairs, my head down, eyes on the carpet, I almost collided with a guy in his early 20s.

“Sarah,” he said, as he took my arm to steady me, “are you okay?”

I must have stared at him with a blank expression. “Matt,” he said. ”Matt McCormick. You know, I l-live right under you?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No problem.” A wry chuckle. “I’ve only been your neighbor for, like, t-two years now.”

A wistful note in his voice made me look closer. Curly brown hair, mild blue eyes, a little chunky. Sweet but awkward. A slight stutter. The kind of guy who’d probably played chess, not football, in high school. From the way he was looking at me I had a feeling he was half in love with Sarah, and that she’d never given him the time of day. But I didn’t have the time or the patience to deal with his crush.

BOOK: Becoming Sarah
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