My Many Unsuccessful Attempts at Self-Kidnapping

Dear Diary,

I’ve decided to get taken. Yes, taken, as in: stolen, kidnapped. No, this is not what Mom would have wanted, but Mom’s not here, as you know from our previous grief-stricken 48 pages together. Yes, she taught me all the ways to stay safe: carry pepper spray, make sure someone always knows where you’re going, don’t walk alone at night, keep your head on a swivel.

Well, Mom accidentally gave me all the tools I need to make this happen:

1: Toss pepper spray.

2: Tell no one of plan.

3: Sneak out of house at night and walk alone.

4: Keep head straight, maybe even occasionally close eyes.

Will report back.

Dear Diary,

A few successes and a few crucial mistakes last night.

Mistake: I couldn’t bear to toss the pepper spray because it was a gift from Mom. The cute J initial was taunting me—her initial and mine. I threw it in the trash—twice—but snatched it back out and, before tucking it safely into my pocket, apologized to it (might be losing my mind—is this a stage of grief?).

Success: I kept the plan under wraps—only you know. That’s mostly because it’s summer and, since Dad said I can’t have a phone until I’m fourteen, I haven’t talked to my friends since the funeral. They probably think I’m dead, or worse: that all I do is lie around and cry (which is not totally wrong).

Success: Speaking of dead, I nailed the sneak out because once Dad starts snoring, he’s dead to the world.

Mistake: I was trying so hard to keep my head straight that my neck rioted! It twisted and turned like a freakin’ ballerina. I don’t know what that was about, you know I’m not athletic. Saw two airplanes, though. And spent some time studying the stars. Almost walked right into a STOP sign while trying to decide which star was Mom.

Dear Diana,

Well, I guess that’s your name now. I got too heavy-handed with the “r” and since I’m writing in my favorite purple pen—and “Diany” is not a name—I went with it.

Anyway, my second attempt was a failure (obviously, because I’m writing this?). I think I know the root of the problem: invisibility. As it turns out, it’s dark at night. I’m invisible to the perpetrators! I can’t go walking alone during the day because a) it’s hot and sweating is not my favorite; b) Dad would know and start asking questions, or worse, try to come with me. So, I snuck Dad’s laptop (he doesn’t even have a password!) and made a same-day order for—you guessed it—reflective wristbands. Just have to get the package off the porch this evening before Dad sees it. Will report back.

Dear Diana,

The reflective wristbands backfired. My glowing wrists must have screamed, “Danger! Stay Away!” In other news, my neck obeyed this time. I kept my eyes mostly forward and I even tried walking with them closed. Only tripped twice.

Dear Di,

Can I call you Di? I’m still here. I had to stay in last night. Dad asked me to watch a movie with him (some old movie, A Beautiful Mind). He cried, didn’t even try to hide it. That’s the last thing I remember before we both fell asleep on the couch.

Dear Di,

I feel summer’s clock ticking. Not sure why that matters. Maybe because when school starts, I’ll be too distracted or too tired to carry out this plan. Or maybe because during summer, it takes longer for people to notice you’ve been taken. Which helps, in my case.

I understand if you judge me. But my ideal perpetrator is not what you think. Ideally, it’s a mom in a minivan with three young kids and room for one more. I would claim to be an orphan. She would realize I’m old enough to babysit and offer me a hot meal. Beef stroganoff is my favorite I would say as I climbed into the passenger seat and adjusted the radio to a station which would become the soundtrack to my new life. 

Dear Di,

Tonight’s the night. I feel good about it. Bad about it? Sick to my stomach. In a good way. If you don’t hear from me again, you’ll know I’ve succeeded.

Dear Di,

Please don’t think of me as a failure. Trust me, I was being as unsafe as possible. I even lost my pepper spray somewhere along the route! Then I started panicking about being unarmed and taken until I remembered that was the whole point (maybe losing my mind is a stage of grief, jury is still out). Anyway, it was devastating.

Until a flash of light caught my eye. Diana, I know you won’t believe me, but it was a shooting star. I SWEAR. I was scared, sad, seriously losing hope and then that happened? Mom might as well have set off fireworks.

I stood on a curb in the dark maybe three blocks from home and suddenly I understood. My plan could never work with Mom as my guardian. She wouldn’t allow it.

That’s not even the craziest thing that happened. I came straight home and who was waiting for me on the porch but Dad. Heavy-snoring, wouldn’t-wake-up-if-a-car-drove-through-the-house Dad. And I was scared for my life, but only for a second. Instead of scolding me he flew down the front steps, wrapped me in his arms and sobbed into my shoulder.

My heart cracked a little then because I realized that my friends might not know right away if I were taken but Dad would. And he would be all alone. I wanted to ask if he had seen the shooting star, but my throat got stuck. Maybe that could be just mine and Mom’s thing.

He didn’t ask where I went or why. Just hugged me for an eternity. I told him I lost my pepper spray. He never even knew I had one to begin with.

Dear Di,

You will never believe this! When I went to get my bowl for cereal this morning, there was my pepper spray. Right on the counter! A few scuffs but the J was unharmed. Dad walked all around the neighborhood last night until he found it. I never heard him leave, guess I was dead to the world. We’ve got to get a louder front door.

Dear Di,

Guess what Dad said we’re doing today? Buying me a phone! Three months early! I know what you’re thinking, but I promise to keep this going, Di. You can’t get rid of me that easily.

Dear Di,

I typed Mom’s original safety list into my new phone. First note! And I copied over all of Dad’s photos of Mom and me. I spent hours looking through them. She always told me I have her smile. I see it now.

Dad’s cooking beef stroganoff tonight. He said I could pick the movie, but I haven’t decided which. Will report back.