San Francisco Run

My throbbing feet tell me I’ve been standing still, staring at the Departures screen too long. It’s decision time. Savannah or San Francisco? That’s the question. I should join the girls, but the City by the Bay keeps flashing at me—each blinding letter a lightsaber piercing my heart. I could go to the ticket counter, pay the change penalty and show up on his doorstep, ending this story -telling nonsense for good. If necessary, I could tolerate the pain of rejection. 

I stall instead, scour the gate area for a seat, open my laptop, and read.

#

Chapter 22—ORION and SONG. I prefer letters over numbers, but lately, my life can be summed up by the latter—one hundred eighty absent school days, twenty-two hockey games missed, seven nights in the Pine Grove Psych ward, and ninety-six days at Robin’s Nest Memorial.

Finally, I’m home, but little has changed. I’m the same miserable kid I’ve been since the bathroom incident a year and a half ago, and my parents are still desperate for a cure. They’ll never find one because I’m not really sick. I feel fine. As long as I don’t have to go anywhere, see, or talk to anyone, I’m absolutely, perfectly fine.

#

According to Ms. Rhona Spiegelman, overpriced education consultant extraordinaire, The Red Earth Therapeutic Boarding School in Nowhereville, Utah, has a spot for me. I considered it, imagined a hell so much worse than the one I'm living in, and refused to go. I'd rather die, and I made this clear in the garage last night. I sat in the front seat of Mom's minivan with the engine running, and although I was afraid, I was also filled with anticipation for the end. Now I'm just afraid.

Two testosterone-saturated silhouettes are standing in my bedroom.

"Good morning, Orion," says the first shadow. 

"We're here to help you," says the second, and I piss myself.

"Orion." It's Dad. He’s there in the darkness. "These men are going to escort you to your new school. They'll keep you safe."

I've heard about this. It's called Transport. Before the break of day, hired thugs come into homes and take kids away. I never thought they'd come for me. 

Thugs One and Two let me change out of my pajamas, but the smell of urine remains on my skin. They each take hold of an elbow, one on my right and the other on my left. Then they walk me, prisoner style, out of our house. Mom and Dad say goodbye to my back. Eazy and Nance don't. 

Sandwiched in the backseat between my captors, I feel numb. They look straight ahead as a uniformed driver accelerates out of our driveway and onto the street. Thug One slips me a blue pill at the first intersection. 

"To help you relax," he says.

It's a command, not a suggestion. So I take it, but it has no effect.

#

The air is thick with gray fog when the car stops in front of a woman. She’s dressed in a military uniform and a stern expression. The driver opens the door, and we get out. 

“Another one with no gear?” she grunts.

Then she throws camouflage print clothing and combat boots in my direction. 

“Wear these,” she says, “it’s hunting season.” 

The thugs fade into the background, and twenty teenagers arrive at the scene. They are covered from head to toe in camo, and each has a shotgun. All I have is a bow and arrow. The woman, a sergeant of sorts, starts yelling. 

“Y’all are good for nothing! It’s time you learned to take care of yourselves. Today, you’re gonna learn to hunt for your food. If you FAIL, then you’ll STARVE. Do not shoot each other or yourselves. That would be a waste of bullets. Now go! And don’t come back till your carcass is butchered and prepared for roasting.”

The kids are running in every direction. I hear gunshots. I run into the woods with my bow and arrow flopping noisily against my butt. I hide, frozen and barely breathing among the trees until I hear the click of a trigger engaging. Someone is aiming at me. I fumble for my bow and arrow, position my weapon, and take a shot in the direction of the sound. Instantly, I am in agony, my ear ablaze with fire. The arrow clipped my right lobe, leaving a throbbing bloody pulp behind.

The car jerks to a stop, waking me from my nightmare, but my ear still burns with pain. The seatbelt has pinched it into a folded crease. I rub, gently kneading the hurt away, while my sense of doom lingers.

#

At the airport, the thugs resume their vice-like grip on my elbows as we inch closer to the security checkpoint. I scan the terminal for someone to help me, but the situation looks grim. Behind us, there's a family immersed in cyberspace and a man in a business suit who's invading his colleague's personal space. In front of us, a couple bickers. The woman wins the argument, and the man stares at his feet in silent surrender. He shuffles along the switchbacking cue, and our threesome follows him. 

Suddenly, the reality that I'm being brought to a school for psycho kids gets stuck in my windpipe, and I can't breathe. I'm choking on my immediate future, and the lack of oxygen makes me dizzy. Streams of sweat run down my temples, and my whole body trembles. I'm about to collapse in a heap when another option comes to me—I won’t go. I'll make a run for it.

I tug against One's hold, and he tightens his grasp without even a glance in my direction. Then I yank against Two's grip with all my strength, and my arm slips free. He doesn't flinch. To my surprise, neither of them react at all. I see why. A ghostly version of my right elbow remains clutched in Two's hand. I stare at it, then blink, expecting it to disappear, but it doesn't.

I look at the businessman, the cyber junkies, and the couple. They don't notice me. Nobody around me sees the magic. I twist and turn, claiming my left arm and wrenching my body free. Then I lunge forward and run. I duck under five security line dividers to get out of the scanning cue and make it to a waiting area before I stop to look back. What I see is incredible—I see, Me. A transparent version of myself is trapped in the line and transitioning to opaque. 

"Orion!" I whisper-shout. 

He looks straight ahead. 

"Orion!" I call him again, but he doesn't acknowledge me at all.

I can't leave him. I backtrack as fast as I can until the sight of his changing body slows me down. He's fading as I approach him. I stop short when I can see through him and start to retreat. Me taking three steps in reverse causes his density to increase. I back up to the waiting area, and he's almost solid again. 

If I go to him, he'll disappear, and I will be in his place. If I don't, I will be free. I pause in confusion. He passes through the scanner and materializes on the other side, as real as me.

#

“Eeew! Naked boy!” A tween-age girl is shrieking in my direction.

Shit! I assumed that my clothes were duplicating too, but they weren’t. Now I’m not only visible, but I’m also totally exposed. I cover what’s important with my hands and run for it. I take the down escalator three steps at a time. I spot the baggage carousel and dive for the conveyor belt just before it disappears into the hidden baggage handling space. Clothes, I need clothes fast! I tear open a suitcase—baby rattles, diapers, onesies, and a mobile with rainbow-colored ladybugs on it. The next two luggage bags are locked. I rip the zipper on a soft, brown plaid bag straight off—toilet paper, medications, and an abundance of toothpaste. I pray the next one, a large valise with a perfectly placed leather identification tag, will contain what I want. Inside are six pairs of high-heeled sandals, a cosmetics case, three bikinis, a shorty wetsuit with a fluorescent pink zipper down the front, and women’s, size nine, bedazzled flip flops. The contents are not exactly what I hoped for, but they’ll do.

#

Around me, throngs of travelers and airport employees make a commotion. The clamor of traffic wafts in through the sliding doors. Noise is everywhere, competing for attention with the sound of my heart beating in my ears. The chaos conforms to my right, where people are funneling down a hallway. The organized flow draws me in, and I follow the masses onto an AirTrain.

I regret my decision immediately. The crowd is dense, aggressive, and agitated. A horrible boy with a tennis racket case slung around his shoulder glances, first at my feet and then at my face. The smoke from his vape makes me sweat. I turn toward a man in a tracksuit. Earbuds peep out from under his white cap. He leers, and a gold tooth that matches the emblem on his hat tries to snatch me. I tighten my white knuckle grip around the handhold. The train stops, the doors open, and a smell enters. It’s a stroller, and people are backing away from it. A rounded woman wearing pink lipstick holds its handle. She spreads her feet wide, taking advantage of the space that has freed up around her.

I ride near the stench to the end of the line and follow it toward a turnstile. Hoards of people line up to rotate through the spokes, but I have nothing; no phone, money, or MetroCard. The stroller bypasses the turnstile and goes through a buzzing door. I slither through behind it, and we get on another train together. 

There’s not enough room for me. Hair and shoulders are filling my personal space. A purse shoves me against a coat. The coat shrugs, and I brace myself for ridicule, but there is none. There are only smartphone-hugging busy people who have no interest in me. I am safe until the masses unload into a dark tunnel that exits under the starry sky of Grand Central Station. Groups of kids everywhere want to drag me under and bury me in insults. The grand staircase invites me to escape them, and I’m up the steps and out the door in seconds.

The noise in my head explodes on the streets of New York. I hear sirens and horns. I hear a whistle blow and a car’s sudden screech. I start to run, and the sound of my flip-flops slapping along the sidewalk is a constant that cuts through the mayhem of the city until a geyser of coffee sprays the woman I crash into and me. I didn’t see her coming out of the shop I was passing, and now her leopard pattern faux fur is dripping in latte.

“God dammit, child,” she hisses, ignoring her coat and looking down at her splashed stilettos.

I wipe my face and hold back the tears inside me. I dodge her giant shopping bags and forge onward toward the safety of my room. I don’t stop until I get to the trees. 

When the leafy branches give way to the water, the swans in the boat pond let me know where I am, and the familiarity slows me down. I’ve been here before with Eazy and Nance. I collapse onto a bench and suck The Rambles into my heaving lungs. When I catch my breath, I turn my attention to my throbbing feet where red, puffy skin is bubbling up at the flip-flop’s rhinestone margins. The constrictive neoprene edges of the wetsuit are ringing my thighs like sausages, and the pink zipper is digging into my chest. I want to be sitting on my bed in my clothes at home. Despondent, I drop my head into my hands and squeeze.

When I raise it, I see two identical-looking swans waddle their way out of the water and think of my double. He will have to endure worse, and this realization makes me gather my strength. I stand up, point my gaudy feet West and head toward the Hudson River. Then I turn right and go North for hours.

#

I slam my laptop closed, then freeze, attempting to absorb the agony of defeat without attracting the attention of my fellow passengers. They don't know I spent three years writing a novel I can't bring to fruition, and they shouldn't have to tolerate my blubbering. It's not their fault I'm an unknown debut author—an imposter in the truest sense of the word. 

The crushing sensation in my chest leaves me breathless before I feel the burn. Then heat races through my veins, raising my blood to a boil. My neck, face, and ears simmer until rage lights a fire under my ass, making me jump to a stand. What a waste of time! Sweat, tears, and stupid carpel tunnel syndrome. For what? I'm a mad fool. No. I AM FURIOUS. I grab my purse, planning to go to San Francisco. Only I can't because my pocketbook is stuck, clenched in the hand of my materializing double. 

I recoil at the image of my faded fingers wrapped around the leather and becoming opaque fast. The irony is almost more than I can bear. Instead of finishing Orion's story, I've written mine, and now I'm the one who has to run.