Blackbird (2 page)

When the sky turns from pink to black you crawl out from under the bush and dump the contents of the pack on the scorched grass, sorting them quickly in a straight line. There are a few plastic zip ties. There’s a map with a star marked in black pen. Foil bags, the T-shirt, the notepad and pocketknife, the blanket, and a red vial of mace.

You dig into the last pockets of the bag, double-checking the lining to make sure there’s nothing hidden inside. In a pocket on the knapsack’s front you find a wad of money held together by a rubber band. You thumb through it, your hands unsteady. It’s one thousand dollars.

You open the notepad to a fresh page, smooth down the paper, and write:

       
Things I know are true:

       
- I am in Los Angeles

       
- I woke up on the train tracks at the Vermont/Sunset Station

       
- I am a girl

       
- I have long black hair

       
- I have a bird tattoo on the inside of my right wrist (FNV02198)

     
- I am a runner

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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THE NEXT MORNING
, you leave through a break in the back fence. After ten minutes winding down and around the narrow roads, the neighborhood turns to flat streets, sun-scorched front lawns, and the occasional store. A main strip reveals a supermarket with a pay phone outside. You pull the notepad from your pack and flip to the first page, prying off the quarter.

It falls through the slot but there’s no dial tone. You set the handset down and scan the street, hoping there’s another pay phone within a block or two. But all you see is the police cruiser pulling into the far entrance. You’re still close to the subway station, and you wonder if they’re looking for you. Their scanners have probably rattled with more important information, robberies and car accidents, but you don’t want to risk it. You head inside, holding your arm to the front of your shirt to hide the bloodstain.

The electric doors slide back in greeting. The first thing you notice is the air, cold and damp and smelling of mint. It’s a relief from the heat. To your left, beyond a cluster of tables, is a bathroom door. You keep your head down as you move toward it, trying to avoid attention.

The door swings open, the edge of it catching your arm. A boy steps forward, his shoulder knocking you hard in the nose. You stumble and he grabs you, his hands cupping your elbows as he pulls you to him, steadying you.

Behind him, another kid slips out of the bathroom, tucking something into his pocket. Within a few seconds he’s gone.

Your nose is throbbing from where he knocked into you, the pain so intense your eyes squeeze shut. “It’s okay,” you say, head down.

He doesn’t let go of you. He moves your right hand away from your stomach, the gesture so tender you don’t resist. He studies the stain on your shirt and the gash in your forearm, which has dried a deep cherry black.

“You’re hurt,” he says.

His brown hair is a mess, the curls hiding the tops of his ears. The sun has turned his skin tan and freckly. He watches you, his gray eyes scanning your face like he’s reading a book.

“I just need to wash up, that’s all.” You pull your arm away and slip inside the bathroom.

You can’t relax until the door clicks shut behind you, the lock turned in place. When you look in the mirror you see what he sees. The dirt caked in your hairline, the bits of dried leaves caught there. The stain on your shirt is a putrid brown. You study your reflection for the first time. Your large, deep-set eyes are so dark they’re almost black. You have high cheekbones and a small, heart-shaped mouth. Your features are unfamiliar to you, the face of a girl you’ve never seen before.

You turn to the side, and that’s when you notice the scar stretching from under your right ear to the nape of your neck, the skin puckered and red. You trace your fingers to where it disappears behind the collar of your shirt. It’s still tender in places, the wound twisting in a strange, uneven line. You turn away, not wanting to think about how or when you got it. It’s not from the train, you know that. When did it happen? How?

It takes only a few minutes to scrub the dirt from under your fingernails, to change into the fresh T-shirt and pick bits of leaves from your hair. When you’re done you look better, passable even. You pull your hair over your shoulder so it covers the scar.

Outside, you scan the supermarket for the boy. Part of you hopes he’s gone, but part of you is glad when he’s there, just a few feet away, walking through the greeting-card section. He turns when the door falls closed, a small smile forming on his lips. You look around, wondering if the cop came inside.

You take a hard left down the first aisle. No one’s there. You pull a water bottle from the shelf, unscrewing the cap. You’ve drank half the bottle when you notice the boy beside you. His eyes move from the water, back to you, then to the empty space on the shelf.

“You look a lot better.”

“Like I said, I just needed to clean up.”

You step away from him, moving farther down the aisle, but he trails a few feet behind. He looks at your arm, the toilet paper pressed to the wound, now speckled red.

“What happened? You okay?”

“It looks worse than it is. I’m fine, really.”

He doesn’t turn away. “It looked pretty bad.”

“My arm is the least of my problems. . . .”

You scan the front of the store, looking again for the cop. You’ve lost sight of him. The other boy from the bathroom is gone. “What did you sell him?” you ask.

“What do you mean?”

“In the bathroom . . . you sold that kid something. Pot? Pills? What?”

The boy passes a basket between his hands, two sad apples rolling around beside a six-pack of Coke. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” It was obvious, the way he held whatever was in his pocket, as if you might see it or take it away. “I just saw a cop outside. You should at least be smart about it.”

“What do you know about that?” The boy inches closer, looking at you with new interest. There’s something friendlier in him now, as if he underestimated you.

“Mind if I use your phone a second?” You nod to the phone in his front pocket, the rectangle pressing against the cloth.

“Yeah, I guess.” He passes it to you. “You don’t have one?”

“If I had one do you think I’d be asking?”

You take a few steps from him before pulling the notepad from your bag, opening it to the page with the number. The nervousness hits as you wait, listening to the silence before the first ring. You can’t help but hate the person on the other line, whoever they are, for knowing more about your life than you do.

Three rings, then a man’s voice. “I was wondering if you’d call.”

The boy is less than ten feet away, pretending to look at some boxes of cereal. You lower your voice when you speak. “Who is this?”

“Just meet me at my office. It’s the building marked on that map. Come alone.”

You’re trying to read into his words, to decipher some meaning beyond what’s said, but then he hangs up and there is only the time. Eighteen seconds and he’s gone.

The boy is listening, so you talk into nothingness, offering good-byes and thanks. Scrolling through the phone, you move quickly to the call history to delete the number.
Mom
,
Mom
,
Mom
, reads the list below it. As you hand the phone back the boy narrows his eyes. “What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing,” you say, and you are already taking a step back. “Thanks for that. I have to run.”

But when you turn, you spot the police officer at the end of the aisle. He’s in profile, his fingers grazing a rack of chips. He glances up, noticing you notice him.

You turn back to the boy. “Unless . . . Can you give me a ride somewhere?”

He sets the basket on the floor, the Coke now buried under two boxes of Cap’n Crunch. “Where do you need to go?”

“Downtown.”

He nods toward the exit, urging you off. You walk beside him, your shoulders nearly touching, and it takes all you have not to turn around, not to look one last time at the officer at the back of the store. When you get to the register the boy empties the basket onto the conveyor belt, the apples rolling in opposite directions.

“I’m Ben, by the way.”

The mention of his name makes you nervous, and you wonder why you didn’t think of it before.
People
and
Us Weekly
are crammed into a rack in front of you, a magazine called
Sunset
right beside them. It seems as good a name as any. It seems real.

“I’m Sunny,” you lie.

Then you glance back one last time, just to be certain the officer isn’t there.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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THE JEEP SPEEDS
past dusty buildings and empty parking lots, an alley with ripped tarp tents. You watch the world outside pass, certain you have done something wrong. Stolen something, ran away from somewhere—school? Home? There’s no other reason why you’d be warned not to contact the police, why you’d be waiting for a stranger to tell you who you are. Why were you so intent to get away, why was your instinct to run? Why can’t you remember anything from before?

Just the thought of it makes you wince. You were someone before this. And if there is a line between good and bad, you were probably on the wrong side of it. You were the one escaping, the one running, the one trying not to get caught. The scar on your neck might be something you deserved.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Ben says, “but it’s not that bad. I have a prescription pot card. I just do it for extra cash.”

“I wasn’t thinking about that,” you say.

“I don’t even smoke it,” Ben goes on. “I quit a while ago.”

“Seriously . . .” you say, looking out the window as block after block flies past. “I’m not going to tell anyone. Don’t worry.”

Ben makes a left turn on Broadway, nearly sideswiping a Fiat parked at the corner. “My history teacher says it’s senioritis. That none of us care. We’re all just waiting to graduate, so we’re doing stupid things. He wasn’t talking about drugs; it was more . . . everything. I’m only in class seventy percent of the time.”

“Where are you the other thirty?”

“Hanging out at home.”

“Don’t your parents care?”

“My mom’s not around much.”

“Why?”

“She’s been sick.” Ben slows the car. He scans the few blocks up ahead, close to where you told him you were going. In that pause he says everything:
Leave it alone, no more questions, just something I told you and I’m hoping you’ll ignore.

“Come on, you have to at least tell me where I’m taking you.”

“I’m going here.” You point to the curb half a block up. You tried to keep the conversation neutral during the twenty-minute ride, making fun of the Red Bull cans strewn about the car floor, listening to Ben describe Marshall High School, the public school he’s been going to for the last few years, since he got kicked out of a private. But every now and then Ben asked about your arm or what happened this morning, why your jeans were ripped and dirty. You only pulled the map out once and you tried not to let him see, but he kept glancing over, his eyes narrowing at the star scribbled in pen.

Ben pulls up next to a metal fence. Across an empty lot, two men sit under a lean-to, sharing a cigarette. There are gang tags on the brick wall. “You want me to drop you off here?”

“This is perfect.”

“Perfect?”
When Ben says it, his voice rises, the word giving way to laughter. The building on the map is five blocks away, but you won’t risk having him bring you there.

The Jeep has just pulled to a stop when you open the door, stepping down onto the sidewalk. Ben rifles through his glove compartment, scavenges the center console and floor. When he finds a pen he scribbles on the back of a crumpled receipt, then hands it to you. It’s a phone number.

“In case of emergency?” you ask.

“In case it’s not perfect. Or if you need anything. Whatever.”

You fold the receipt into a square and tuck it in the front pocket of your jeans. “Thanks for the ride.”

The door is closed. The engine is still running, both his hands on the steering wheel as he looks at the buildings across the street, trying to figure out where it is you’re headed. Two breaths. He gives you a half smile, then finally shifts the car into drive.

When he’s gone you start past the empty lot, past a building labeled
CLUB STARLIGHT
, its awning faded to gray. The streets are practically deserted. You pass the Orpheum Theatre, the banner advertising some band you’ve never heard of. Then, within a few more steps, you see the curved entranceway jutting out over the sidewalk.

The lobby is empty. The doorman’s post is abandoned, not even a guest book or pen left on top of the podium. You look into the far corner of the room, where a security camera is perched like a bird. You turn your head away, bringing your hand to your temple to block your profile, hoping the angle wasn’t right, that it didn’t catch you straight on.

A plastic directory on the wall lists the companies, but all of the names are unfamiliar. You scan through the numbers instead. Past finance companies and therapist offices you find
GARNER CONSULTING, SUITE 909, 818-555-1748
. It’s the same number from your notebook.

You take the elevator to the ninth floor. When the doors open the hallway is empty, the carpet stitched with a strange arrow pattern that points you forward. Somewhere a loud copier is spitting out pages. You pause at the suite marked 909, listening to the quiet beyond the door. There are no footsteps, no voices, no shuffling of papers.

No one answers when you knock. You knock again, louder this time, but no one comes. You sit against the wall, your knapsack between your legs, when an idea comes, unbidden. You draw the pocketknife from your backpack and flip it open, the blade catching the light. You wedge the blade between the lock and the doorframe, angling the tip so it puts pressure on the mechanism. After a few seconds of maneuvering, it pops, the door springing open.