by Alynn, K. H.
“Fuck up!” he howls, before slamming the heel of his shoe into my groin—causing me to gasp in pain and clutch what’s left of me. Then he adds, “I’ve had just about enough of you. You know, your mommy was a whole lot more cooperative.”
“I was just talking to her!” I somehow blurt out.
“I’m talking about your real one!”
“Fuck you!”
“Get up!”
“Fuck you!”
“If I have to,” he says as he starts pistol-whipping me, “I’ll cut you up into little pieces and carry them out one at a time.”
Again and again, his gun flies into my head, and there’s not much I can do about it but cover my face with my hands. I’m finished.
Suddenly, Aimee jumps on top of him—and tries to strangle him. But he easily breaks her grip and tosses her into a wall—and turns back to me.
Without knowing how, I’ve gotten to my knees, and I try to grab the man just like I did this morning. However, he steps away prior to kicking me in the face. He kicks me so hard that my head flies back onto the carpeted floor.
“You know what they say,” he utters—“‘fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’”
He afterward again kicks my head, over and over—and I’m feeling the whole world slipping away. And this only stops when I hear a smashing sound, and when the man collapses on top of me.
Right then, I wipe some blood from my eyes and see Aimee holding what’s left of a lamp. She’s also grinning a bit.
WITH AIMEE MENDING my head as best she can, I quickly dress. I also stare at the unconscious man at my feet, and wonder if he really did kill my birth mother.
She stares at him as well, and mutters, “Maybe we should . . .”
“Should what?” I ask.
“He’s just gonna come after us again.”
“I’m not a killer—and neither are you!”
“But—”
“—But nothing!”
“How’d he know we were here?”
“It, it’s probably my fault.”
“What do you mean?”
“That call to my mom—they must’ve traced it. Come on—we’ve got to get out of here.”
“And go where?”
“San Pedro.”
“What’s in San Pedro?”
“You’ll find out. Let’s just go.”
Hurriedly, I finish dressing, and so does she, and we head out the door.
But abruptly she stops.
“What?” I cry out, as she rushes to the Walgreens bag in the corner of the room.
“Just leave it!” I yell.
“We need it!” she yells back—and she grabs the bag and returns, and, after I grab her hand, we run off toward a bus stop about a quarter of a mile down the road.
I’M TIRED. I’M so fucking tired. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired.
All I want to do is collapse onto the side of the road and cease. And I only keep running because Aimee’s holding my hand.
But even that’s not enough, and I start to slow, more and more.
Then, from behind us, I hear sirens—police sirens, and I spin around and see three cop cars enter the motel. Though at least they’re not chasing us.
So, we both come to something of a halt, just as the bus approaches.
“Shit!” I scream—and I rush off as fast as I can, dragging Aimee with me. I also glance at her and see that she looks as tired as me. But she keeps pushing forward somehow, and we’re now just a short distance from the bus, which has stopped to pick up a couple of passengers.
“Wait up!” I holler as loud as I can.
But the driver doesn’t seem to hear—the doors close and the bus begins to move, just as we get there.
Seeing this, I double over, out of everything. But Aimee doesn’t give up. She lets go of my hand and runs up to the vehicle, and she knocks on the back window hard—and the bus comes to a stop.
Which makes me realize something. I realize she’s stronger than me. She’s a lot stronger.
AIMEE SITS ON my lap and presses all the goodness of her body against me—and I’m happy. In spite of everything I’m happy.
“This goes to San Pedro?” she asks as the bus rambles forward.
“Nah,” I tell her while looking out the window at the streets—streets that look exactly the same. “It goes to Metro Center. That’s the hub in downtown. From there we’ll catch a night bus to San Pedro.”
“And what’s in San Pedro?”
“A fight. Hopefully.”
“I don’t want you to fight no more.”
“Me, neither.”
“Then, don’t.”
“Should I become a fashion model instead?”
“Yes,” she says with a big smile, before kissing my neck. “Become a fashion model. You’re beautiful. You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“I was gonna say that to you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But I will.”
I then put my arms around her and softly kiss her head. And I want to tell her how much she means to me. I want to tell her so many things.
But she falls asleep.
Amazingly, she’s now even more beautiful. She looks like an angel. She is an angel. Which makes me realize I can’t keep putting her through this. I just hope I can follow through on what I know I have to do.
chapter nine
Aimee
I WAKE UP, with Mark nudging my arm.
“What?” I mumble.
“We’re here,” he says.
So, I reluctantly get off him, and, after grabbing the Walgreens bag off the bus floor, we head toward the exit arm-in-arm, with Mark’s head snuggled against mine.
He then leads me down the steps onto the sidewalk, right in front of Metro Center, and I see that everything’s real quiet. There are hardly any people around or cars, or any sounds whatsoever. It’s actually a whole lot quieter than I would’ve expected downtown Los Angeles ever got.
Quickly, Mark drags me down the street, while glancing at the signs on top of the bus stops. Eventually we find the right one—on the corner of a dark side street, where nearby stands a solitary man in shadow.
“You don’t happen to know when the San Pedro bus comes?” Mark asks.
“It left about five or ten minutes ago,” the man replies, in a voice sounding oddly familiar.
“Shit. Do, do you have any idea when the next one comes?”
“They usually run about once an hour this time of night.”
“Mark” I interject, while pointing at the big building next to us, “do they have bathrooms in this place?”
WE COME TO a set of restrooms, and Mark points to them as he stops.
“You’re coming with me,” I say to him.
“Why?” he asks, with lots of suspicion.
“There’s something I want to do to you.”
“Aimee.”
“Not that.”
Now, it’s my turn to do the dragging. I drag him right inside the men’s room.
“Anyone here?” I call out.
No one answers, so I start pulling a heavy garbage can toward the door. Or at least I try to pull it.
“How about giving me a hand?” I tell Mark.
“What are you doing?” he growls.
“Just do it.”
Sighing, he effortlessly lifts the garbage can with one arm, and places it in front of the door.
“Now what?” he demands.
I don’t reply. I just walk over to the sink with the Walgreens bag, which I place on the counter. Then, I take out a bunch of items from inside it—specifically the hydrogen peroxide, along with a pair of scissors and some makeup.
“What’s that for?” he says to me.
“I’m gonna make a new you,” I proclaim. “And a new me, too.”
I STARE INTO the mirror above the sink as I apply dark eye shadow to Mark. He looks so different with spiky blond hair and makeup. He looks good.
“I don’t even recognize me,” he utters. “Or you.”
These last words cause me to look at myself in the mirror—at my spiky blonde hair, and my makeup. And I see that I look almost like my mom on her wedding day, and I tell Mark this.
“Your mom?” he gasps.
“She was a punk rocker at my age,” I proudly explain. “She still listens to the music, in fact.”
“She sounds cool.”
“She is.”
“My mom actually listens to Marky Mark.”
“Get out of here.”
“I was even named after him.”
“That is so funny.”
“It wasn’t funny growing up. I caught a lot of shit because of it. That’s how I learned how to fight so good.”
“You know, I meant it on the bus. I don’t want you to fight anymore.”
“That’s all I know how to do.”
“Then learn something else.”
“Outside of fighting, learning has never been something I’ve been too good at.”
Suddenly, someone tries to open the door.
“It’s closed!” Mark howls.
“I need to piss!” a man hollers, while continuing to push the door open.
“Find another bathroom!”
“Fuck you!”
“How about I just take your fucking head off instead?”
Abruptly, the man stops trying to enter, and we hear him rush off.
“We better get out of here,” Mark whispers to me. “The bus will be here soon anyway.”
“What’s so special about these fights in San Pedro?” I ask.
“Nothing’s special about them. They’re the worst. Just penny-ante shit. I’ve never even bothered with them before.”
“Then why are we going?”
“Because they’re the only action right now.”
“Mark—”
“—With any luck I should be able to scrape up a grand.”
“And then what?”
“Then we’re getting your bracelet out of hock and splitting the rest. Then we’re splitting, period.”
“What?”
“There are people trying to kill me, Aimee.”
“I can see that.”
“Not just that gray-haired idiot or the cops—even worse people.”
“They’re after me, too.”
“Not these. And no one is trying to kill you. Take the money. Take the money and go home to your mom.”
“She’s not even in the country.”
“I bet she is.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she loves you.”
“How would you know?”
“I saw it when you were talking about her just now.”
I have no response to this, so I just turn from him and lower my eyes.
“Aimee—” he starts to say.
“—What if you don’t win?” I interrupt.
“What?”
“What if you don’t win tonight?”
“I always win. At least when it matters.”
“But if you don’t?”
“Why are you so negative? Everybody’s so fucking negative!”
“I’m not negative. I just want to know all the contingencies.”
“I won’t leave you high and dry. I promise you I won’t.”
WE GET ON the bus to San Pedro, and I realize these might be my last moments with Mark—and I take his hand.
He grips it tightly, and leads me to an empty seat, and he sits me on his lap—something that feels so natural and right.
We’re right.
“How long do we have?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” he answers. “But it’s a long ride, that’s for sure.”
I know it won’t be long enough, so I wrap my arms around him and rest my head on his big welcoming chest.
“Pretend you love me,” I softly tell him. “Just until we get there.”
He responds by wrapping his own arms around me—and he squeezes me tightly, and he kisses my head. I feel so safe with him. I feel that nothing can hurt me as long as he’s with me.
“You never told me,” he says.
“Told you what?” I reply.
“What happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you on the run?”
“You don’t want to hear about it.”
“I do.”
But I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want to tell anyone about it, not even myself. So, I refuse—I refuse over and over, no matter how hard he pleads.
“Tell me and I’ll stop,” he finally mutters, after a few moments of silence.
“Stop what?” I growl.
“I’ll stop fighting. Tonight will be the last time. I swear it will. But you gotta tell me. You gotta tell me the truth.”
I still don’t want to tell him anything. But then, then I realize I probably won’t have to face him again after tonight. Which makes it easier.
A little.
I NEVER HAD much friends growing up, even after I was adopted. I was always the girl everyone avoided, or ignored. You know, the strange girl—the one who never quite fits in. I guess it was a combination of how I looked and dressed and talked, and that I just never liked the same things other kids liked. I further had a reputation for being cold and angry. Some people even called me a shrew.
Apart from books, I had only one sorta friend in high school. His name was Patrick Booth, and he was perhaps the only person in school weirder than me. One look at him and you knew he was odd, and distant. And dark. He was also tall and pale and morose, and quiet. He was especially quiet. We would have lunch together every day while barely saying a word to one another.
Though whenever things were bad, whenever I thought they were hopeless—whenever I thought life was nothing but shit—he would be there not far away, looking at me—somehow giving me strength.
He was there the day after my mother left for Nigeria, shortly after my 18th birthday. I was really depressed, knowing I’d be without the one person who really understood me for more than a month—but when I got to school that day Patrick was waiting by the doors. He was waiting for me. And I smiled at him.
He nodded at this and walked inside the building, and I wondered how he knew—how he knew I needed him.
Strangely, he wasn’t the only one waiting for me that day. When I got to my homeroom Julian Bauman was waiting outside of it, with a big smile on his face.
Julian was the antithesis of me—he fit in perfectly, even if he did have a reputation for being something of a jerk. He was also slender and handsome, with long brown hair that had just a slight curl to it. He actually reminded me a little of my mother’s late husband.
Barely knowing him, I had no idea he was waiting for me that day—and, even after he said hello as I walked through the door, it didn’t register in my head. I just kept walking.
“Aimee,” he then called out.
Surprised, I turned back to him and mumbled, “What?”
“You didn’t answer my friend request.”
“What are you talking about?”
“On Facebook.”
“Oh. I don’t go there much.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Why, why would you send me a friend request?”
“I just happen to see your profile. I had no idea you were into punk rock. I like it, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Friend me.”
He afterward smiled again, and walked off—and I was skeptical. Very skeptical. Though, after I sat down, I took out my phone and went onto Facebook—and there was his request. I also looked at his profile and was amazed to see he was telling the truth—he really did like punk rock. So, with just a bit of reluctance, I friended him.
Actually, during the course of that day and the ones that followed, I got lots of friend requests, from friends of Julian—
people I didn’t think knew I existed. And I friended all of them—feeling somewhat good about myself, and I felt even better when Julian started sending me messages. Sometimes he would send me links to punk videos on YouTube, and other times he would just ask me how I was doing—and what I was doing. And every single one of these sent me higher.
Though I still had doubts.
Why would someone like him be interested in someone like me? I kept asking myself.
It didn’t make sense. It didn’t seem probable. But I ignored this, concentrating only on what was possible. And I made myself believe it was possible that someone other than my mom had finally seen the real me.
Then, one Friday afternoon—on a cold overcast day—right after I entered the lunchroom with my tray of food Julian called me over to the table where he and his friends sat. At the same time, I saw Patrick sitting by himself where we usually ate, with his head down. And part of me wanted to wave Julian off. But the other part—the one feeling so good of late—wanted to feel even better, and it walked right over to Julian’s table and sat next to him.
Instantly, I saw Patrick staring at me—staring with eyes full of hurt and betrayal. But I ignored it. I ignored it and turned to Julian, and I smiled at him.
“We were just talking about tonight,” he said to me, after returning my smile.
“What about it?” I asked.
“A bunch of us are going to this new bar in Hoboken.”
“Oh.”
“Why don’t you come with us.”
“I, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, to be honest, I don’t have an ID.”
“That’s not a problem at all. Chris here will get you one. Won’t you, bud?”
I responded to this by looking across the table at Chris Gellene—a guy with short auburn hair and dark brown eyes—a guy I knew fairly well as we had lots of classes together over the years. Oddly, right then he looked upset, and I couldn’t understand why.
“Well?” Julian uttered when Chris didn’t respond to him.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Sure you know. You wanna come out with us tonight, don’t you?”
“All right,” he muttered to me. “I’ll get you one.”
“Just meet us after school,” Julian then told me—“in the parking lot. In a big black Lexus SUV. You can’t miss it.”
The truth is I would’ve met him anywhere, as I was so excited that I was almost floating out of my chair. And I was even more excited later that day when the Lexus dropped me off in front of my house—with Michelle Theriault’s new ID clutched in my hand.