I change into my jeans and a sweatshirt, careful of my wrists, not wanting to see the bandages. I leave my scrubs lying on her bed; she earned them. I pack. I take my mother’s box down and set it by the door. I fill my backpack with the rest of my clothes. I fill Cici’s duffle bag with everything else. She owes me at least this, this duffle bag, and we’ll be shut of each other. I leave nothing behind. I slide my arms into the backpack, shoulder the duffle bag, and carry the box in front of me, tottering precariously down the steps. I make it through the living room, trying not to see Cici watching me. When I do catch her eyes, I see the mockery in them. Was I her toy, a cat playing with a mouse? Did she set out to break me? I shift the box to my hip and turn the knob to let myself out into the bright afternoon.
“What are you doing?” She looks from me to Darla, and I see Darla shrug, her lips compressed. But Darla comes and takes the box from me, stepping out into the day in front of me.
I don’t answer and follow Darla down the sidewalk to the parking lot, to my car. I unlock the car and take the box. I see Cici out of the corner of my eye. “Thanks,” I say to Darla, and she leans in to give me a hug.
“What are you doing?” Cici demands again, and I give her a look, a cold, smoldering look, the best I can do. I don’t think I have any words left for her. Darla passes Cici and goes back into the condo, her face lowered.
“So you’re gonna run away?” I hear it, the same taunting that my mother used to have, and I hear her voice in my head: “Aren’t we fancy?” The memory is stark and feels like a punch in the stomach. How did I not see it before? I put the box on the floorboard behind my seat and toss the other two bags in the back seat before turning to face her.
“That was really shitty, what you did.” I say it simply, calmly, remembering that the most effective arguments I ever had with my mother were when I kept my cool.
“Why did you do that?” she asks, putting on a confused, shocked, astonished expression, looking down at the cuffs of my sweatshirt. I roll my eyes.
“You did that.” My voice rips out of me. I rose to her bait and pull myself back, putting my hands up, palms facing her. “You know what? It doesn’t even matter.”
“How was I supposed to know you hadn’t told him? I mean, you were, like, playing the little missus and shit. How was I supposed to know you were lying to him?”
I clench my jaws and give her a look. I am not going to have this conversation with her. Still I say, “Does David know about you? Does he know about your stripping? Does he know you’re a hooker?” I spit my words, needing to hurt her. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. “You did it on purpose,” I add as I slide into the driver’s seat. I slam the door shut.
She stares at me with her mouth open. “I am not a hooker!” she screams, and I roll my window down, enough for her to hear me, but not enough for her to reach inside.
“Give it time.” I turn the key, my foot on the clutch, feeling like all of my muscles are drawn too tight. I refuse to look at her. I move the shifter into reverse and start to release the clutch, when she smacks her hand into the window. She steps back, looking angrier than I’ve ever seen her.
“You can’t leave. You owe me rent.” She sounds like a little girl, petulant, spoiled, whiny.
“I don’t owe you anything. I don’t live here anymore.”
“You can’t leave,” she says, and I think I see tears in her eyes, but she can’t even say she is sorry.
“I can.” I back out and turn toward the road, and she stands in front of the car, her chin puckering. I don’t understand her at all. “Get out of the way,” I yell, and she walks over to my window.
“Don’t go,” she says, and there is something so sad in her face that I almost want to stay.
“You know what, Cici?” I don’t wait for an answer. “I wish I had never met you.” I roll the window up and put the car in first, then second as I hit the road, not even looking for traffic. I swerve out into the street, and a more alert driver honks and swerves past me. I speed into the flow of traffic and head to the interstate.
I don’t know where to go, but I head north when I get to the 101. I pass the exit for Torrey Pines Terrace and gasp when I realize that no matter what else, I will never see Trey or his beautiful family again. What must he think of me now? I will never see Jenny Sue and that makes me saddest of all. She and I had shared some good reading over the months.
The 101 runs along the coast for quite a ways in Southern California. I drive past Del Mar and Solana Beach, past Cardiff by the Sea and Encinitas. I drive until I am tired of driving and all my anger is burnt out and I am only sad.
Go home. A voice in my head says, and I know that it is telling me to go back to Illinois, but I can’t. They all thought I was golden over Thanksgiving, like I had figured out the secret to success. I can’t go back now and say that I blew it.
I have burnt all my bridges. I can’t go back to Illinois. Dylan hates me. I can’t go back to Trey; he doesn’t want me. I can’t model. I don’t want to model. I was supposed to meet Elite Models in San Francisco on the fourth. I’m pretty sure today is the fifth. Burnt that bridge, too.
I see a stretch of open beaches, past Carlsbad, and pull off the highway and park. Leaving my shoes in the car, I dig around for a jacket in the duffle bag. I pull it on and lock the car behind me, heading down to the sand in my bare feet with the sun glistening across the water, rippling.
My mother could never go back to her family, and here I am living her life all over again.
