Don't You Trust Me?

by Patrice Kindl

  I considered this question for a long moment. If there is one thing I pride myself on, it’s making up a good story. Oh, how tempting it was at that moment to open my mouth and see what came out! It would be a sad story, for sure, one that would get Brooke entirely on my side. An exciting story, one that would make those blue eyes bug out with amazement, a tale of thwarted lovers, cruel parents, unjust accusations, and violent deeds. If I could count on not staying long with Brooke’s family, it didn’t have to be entirely believable either. I sighed regretfully. It would have been great, but . . .

  See, I’d had time to think on the plane ride. That’s why, even though I had said I would disappear as soon as I got to Albany, I’d changed my plans.

  I’d been so pleased by my own cleverness in switching places with Janelle that I hadn’t thought much about the future. My old weakness, I admit. On a sudden impulse I will launch out over thin ice, improvising brilliantly, skating faster and faster until I’ve reached the other side of the pond. The problem was that this time the pond was more like an ocean and I could see some pretty big cracks forming under my feet.

  I wasn’t too worried about my own family figuring out where I was. The people at New Beginnings were bound to notice when I didn’t show up, and they’d tell my parents. They’d check the passenger manifest and see I hadn’t gotten on the plane. Knowing I didn’t have the money for another plane ticket, everybody would assume I had taken off from the LA airport, hitchhiking or whatever. Nobody would guess in a million years where I was; I was safe from them at the moment.

  But if I wasn’t going to go to school at New Beginnings, where was I going to spend the next two or three years? And how was I going to go about getting into my elite college, with no high school transcript or fixed address to offer? And then there was money. I’m smart, all right, but my grades weren’t of that stellar quality that provides a totally free ride at an upper-echelon school. My parents were irritatingly lower-middle-class. They didn’t earn anywhere near enough to make paying tuition at a good school easy, but they did earn a bit too much to get me in on a needs-based scholarship. Frankly, they must have been desperate to get rid of me, to have forked over the money for New Beginnings.

  Come to think of it, any money they might have saved for my college education would have gone down the drain of New Beginnings. They had nothing to offer me now, so no point in sticking around.

  Oh well. I gave myself a vigorous mental shake, like a dog after a bath. I would worry about those details later. But for the moment I needed to tone down my natural flamboyance and tell a story these people would believe. This was not the time to indulge in theatrics. I needed to hang on to the free room and board this family offered.

  Still, I couldn’t help but add a little spice. . . .

  “It’s not a nice story,” I said. “My parents— Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t know you well enough to go into the details. I mean, your mother and my father are brother and sister. I can’t risk it.”

  “Oh. Um, you mean your mother and my father, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, okay, whatever. It’s just, my father can get ugly. If he knew I’d told—”

  “Oh! Wow, really? Uncle John? I never would have thought— But you know him better, of course—”

  “Maybe later,” I said, casting a somber look in her direction, signaling my willingness to divulge all sorts of sordid details, once we had gotten to know each other.

  She nodded solemnly. “Whenever you feel you can talk about it, I’ll be honored to listen. I’m only sorry I asked, when it’s such a sensitive subject! Gee— Eek!” In her anxiety to express her contrition she hadn’t been paying attention to her driving, and she swerved out of the way of an ice cream truck. “Golly, I’m sorry!”

  Golly? I mean, I had long ago broken myself of the habit of swearing—it just draws unfavorable attention from people in authority and isn’t worth the release it offers—but, “golly”? Who was she, Nancy Drew, girl detective?

  As things developed, yeah, that’s pretty much who she was. Her dad owned a chain of car dealerships—Brooke pointed one out as we drove by—and he clearly doted on his daughter. The mother was a nonentity. She had some kind of job outside the house, I guess, but she was so stupendously boring to talk to that I couldn’t seem to concentrate on what she was saying for more than five minutes at a time, so I didn’t catch what her job was, and anyway, of course they thought I already knew, so they didn’t exactly spell it out.

  They didn’t spell out any of the things I needed to know. None of them, except Brooke, had the courtesy to introduce themselves, so I had to guess at their names. I mean, it was no help for Brooke to explain them away as “my mom and my dad.” I kinda figured that’s who the man and woman having drinks in the living room of her house must be. But I could hardly call them that, could I? In a pinch I supposed I could just say “Uncle” and “Aunt,” but I was going to have to go through the trash looking for old envelopes if I didn’t find out pretty soon.

  The house was supernice. The car dealerships were apparently doing okay, or there was family money; something was funding this kind of lavishness. Looking around at the layout, I found myself nodding slowly and thinking, Yes, there could have been much, much worse places to land. Dumb ol’ Janelle, to trade this in for a fishing cabin with Ashton!

  The neighborhood I’d grown up in was nothing like this. One thing I noticed—hardly any chain-link fences. At home in LA every teeny little house had its teeny little yard surrounded with chain-link. Here, if there were any fences, they were decorative and cost serious money. Mostly the huge, green lawn from one house blended in with the huge, green lawn of the neighboring house. It was like they didn’t even care if you treated their yard as a public park. Back where I come from, they’d kill you for looking at their stupid ten blades of grass.

  On the other hand, at home you could get into the car and drive through neighborhoods where people were a hundred times richer than this, where movie stars and billionaires lived. Well, you could so long as they didn’t live in gated communities, anyway. Around here, this was probably as rich as people got. In any case, it was a fancier place than I’d ever lived in.

  I’d never known anybody with a swimming pool, indoor hot tub, and a sauna before, that’s for sure. Big-screen televisions everywhere you looked, every bedroom with an attached bath, a four-car garage—and there were only three people in the household!

  My bedroom was the size of the living room at home, and I could have swum a few laps in the bathtub. And, I know it’s girly of me, but I’ve always wanted a canopied bed. There were golden tassels twined around the posts, and the duvet was printed with Early-American-type cherries. On the big walnut desk I found one of those computers that can be a laptop or a tablet. All for me!

  Dinner was four courses, none of which appeared to have ever been near a microwave. The food had sauces and contrasting flavors and was arranged artfully on my plate. Could there have been a professional chef out there in the kitchen? At home we mostly had frozen pizza and Lean Cuisine.

  Brooke’s mom asked if I was feeling homesick.

  “No, not at all,” I said, forking up the last tiny bit of cheesecake with raspberries.

  “Oh, well, I’m going to call your parents in a few minutes to let them know you arrived safely. I’m sure you’d like to talk to them.”

  “Nope. Thanks anyway,” I said. I leaned back in my chair, lovingly digesting each dish of that memorable meal.

  The adults exchanged looks.

  “Janelle—I mean Morgan is still kind of mad at her parents,” Brooke whispered.

  “We understand . . . er, Morgan,” said the dad. “I think we understand about your new name too. It’s not a bad idea—a new name, a new life, a new identity. We’re going to do everything we can to help you forget this past, difficult year, and in this new home you can create a whole new self that is stronger and happier in every way than the old one. Do you think you can work with us on that?
”

  I looked around the table at my new family—handsome, successful-looking dad, a little flushed with wine; anxious, dumpy mom; and blond, plump Brooke.

  “Thanks,” I said. I smiled at them, a wavering, thin, courageous smile. “Actually, yes, with your help, I think I can.”

  4

  “OH, JA—ER, MORGAN, THE AIRLINES called. They say they have your bag there.” It was the following morning, and my new aunt (I was calling her Auntie X to myself) was pouring herself another cup of coffee before leaving for her whatever-it-was job, while I breakfasted on yogurt, granola, fresh fruit, and orange juice. Hand-squeezed orange juice!

  Brooke looked up from her own meal and said, “Hey, I thought you said you only had that one carry-on bag.”

  Oops. Probably it was Janelle’s luggage, checked through from LA with a phone number right on the tag, and those busybodies at the airport had to go and call me on it. I hadn’t thought about that. Well, poop. I’d been looking forward to the promised shopping expedition. When in doubt, spread the blame around, and lay most of it on somebody who’s not actually in the room.

  “The airline lost it,” I lied. “I did try to tell you, but . . .” I trailed off and shot Auntie X a rueful little look.

  Auntie X picked up her cue. “Brooke, really! I suppose the poor girl was trying to squeeze a few words in edgewise and you talked right over her. Why don’t you two run back and pick it up after breakfast? You can take J—Morgan on a tour of the town, show her the school and so on.”

  I supposed I was going to have to get used to being called “J—Morgan,” at least for a while.

  “Okay,” said Brooke slowly. “But we never even checked the luggage return carousel. How did you know they lost it?”

  “The flight attendant told me,” I said, taking another swallow of fresh-squeezed goodness. “Don’t know how she knew,” I added, forestalling any further inquiry. “I kind of thought it must have been rerouted to Timbuktu and that was the last I’d ever see of it.” Thinking quickly, I added, “I wasn’t that sorry, either. None of those clothes fit me very well anymore.”

  Brooke’s eyes rounded. “Oh, you mean, like that shirt you were wearing yesterday? I thought it was a little baggy on you.”

  “Brooke!”

  “Well, Mom, I’m just saying it looked like Morgan lost some weight recently.”

  “Personal remarks are never either wise or polite,” Auntie X said sternly.

  I bestowed a sunny smile on Auntie X and Brooke. “Oh, I don’t mind! I think I look better this way.” Janelle was a bit too voluptuous. In my opinion my more slender, toned body was much more attractive.

  “Your mother didn’t mention that you were on a diet,” Auntie X said. “You don’t need to lose any more, certainly.”

  My expression flipped from sunshine to gloom. “My mother didn’t mention it because I wasn’t on a diet. She knows perfectly well why I lost that weight. So naturally she didn’t mention it.”

  “Oh?” she said. “Stress, you mean?” She eyed my plate, which had been all but licked clean. “Well, I’m glad to see that your appetite has picked up.”

  “Yeah, I feel a lot happier here,” I said. “Safer, you know. Thanks for having me. And,” I added as an afterthought, “of course you aren’t doing that Tough Love thing with the food restrictions.”

  “What? Food restrictions?” Auntie X stared at me, blinking her pink rabbit eyes. “Jackie said nothing about— Insofar as I know, the Tough Love program does not advocate withholding food!”

  I made my face crumple with dismay and covered my mouth with my hands. “Oh no! Oh, I am so sorry—I didn’t mean to say that! I promised my parents— Please forget I ever said anything.” I shook my head and made earnest eye contact. “It’s not true. My parents didn’t withhold food from me, honest they didn’t.”

  Auntie X and Brooke looked at me doubtfully. Then they looked at each other. When their gazes shifted back to me again, there was concern and sympathy in their eyes.

  “I see,” said Auntie X.

  “Gee whiz,” said Brooke.

  Wow. I was so good at this.

  By the time Auntie X had departed for work and Brooke and I had cleared our plates (there was a cook in the kitchen, but “We try to help Mrs. Barnes out as much as we can,” explained Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes Brooke), I was beginning to believe my own story. I could almost remember the dreadful weeks before I was sent away, locked in my room on a steady diet of water and Wheat Thins. Who could blame me for not wanting to see or speak to parents who would do an awful thing like that? Would it be possible to spin out these cushy lodgings for my final two years of high school with no one the wiser? Then Janelle’s parents would be the ones coughing up the money for my college tuition, instead of my semi-impoverished real parents. Serve them right too, the child abusers!

  I found myself sincerely hoping that Janelle and Ashton would find true happiness together. Because if she went running home to Mommy and Daddy, everybody might subsequently get to wondering who I was.

  I had great faith in my ability to improvise on the spur of the moment, but trying to explain the existence of two Janelles, one on each side of the continent, might be hard even for me. However, no need to fuss over it now. My immediate future was rosy.

  It had clouded up and looked like rain, so Brooke didn’t want the top down. Irritating, as with the top up the ride wasn’t half as much fun. I pointed out a number of patches of blue overhead, but the stubborn girl refused to reconsider, claiming that rain would damage her leather upholstery.

  She wasn’t quite as chatty as she had been yesterday on the way back from the airport. She seemed to be thinking. I didn’t mind. I sat and watched the scenery go by.

  “I heard your mom and dad confiscated your cell phone,” she said at last. “That must be awful. I can’t imagine living without my phone.”

  I opened my mouth to ask her what she was talking about, and then realized that yeah, Janelle’s parents probably had taken her cell away to keep her from contacting Ashton—in fact, she’d even told me so. It was therefore going to be necessary to hide my own miserable little phone—the cheapest model my tightfisted parents could find.

  I thought about this. Actually, I probably should get rid of it. Couldn’t they track your location through your cell, even if it didn’t have a GPS? New Beginnings had for sure already informed my family that I hadn’t arrived, and they’d know by now that my plane ticket hadn’t been used. I wanted them to think I had left LAX on foot or by car and was therefore still in California. If my cell showed that I was suddenly in New York . . .

  “I suppose I could get one of those pay-as-you-go phones,” I said. “You know, like, from Walmart?”

  “You could,” admitted Brooke. “I—I won’t mention it to my parents, if you’d rather I didn’t,” she offered. I had to stifle a laugh; that was a generous offer from a prissy-pants like Brooke.

  “Only,” she said, darting a little look at me, “maybe it would be better if you didn’t call your boyfriend, since your parents don’t want you to?”

  “I wasn’t planning to call Ashton,” I said, which was a fact, since I didn’t know his number. “If I did, what would we talk about? Weep on each other’s shoulders because we can’t be together? Somehow . . . he and the rest of my friends seem like strangers to me.” Again, I was speaking nothing but the truth. “In fact,” I mused aloud, “who would I call if I had a phone? Nobody. What’s the point? I guess I won’t bother.” I heaved a leaden sigh and stared out at the horizon.

  “Morgan, I’m so sorry. You are having a tough year. I wish there was something I could do to cheer you up,” said Brooke.

  “We-e-e-l-l,” I said, “you could put the top down. And if it did start to rain, I could put it up again at a red light.”

  “Oh, Morgan,” she said with a laugh.

  But she pulled over the next chance she got, and we put the top down. The sun came out from behind the clouds and the wind w
hipped through our hair, and everybody we passed stared after us enviously.

  Yeah, I could get used to this life. . . .

  Janelle’s clothes were definitely too big on me, especially in the bust. However, they were a lot more expensive than the ones I used to wear, so I spent some time in my room trying them on and seeing which ones could be adapted for my figure. There were lots of things, like scarves and jewelry and even shoes, that I could use, and I enjoyed my exploration of the suitcase. Janelle would be getting pretty sick of wearing the same outfit soon, though maybe you didn’t need too many clothes on your honeymoon.

  Tap, tap, tap! It was Brooke knocking on my bedroom door.

  “Um . . . Morgan, there’s something funny. . . . Could you come and look at this?”

  Obediently I followed her into her room. Hmm. Definitely bigger than mine, and crammed with goodies. Brooke’s laptop was showing a Facebook feed page. Her finger pointed out a post. I sat down at her desk and looked at it.

  That stupid Janelle!

  She was supposed to be incommunicado in the wilderness, lying low in order to evade detection, yet here she was on Facebook, posting a GIF animation of herself embracing Ashton in front of a muddy-looking body of water. Over and over and over again she bent to kiss him, in a never-ending loop.

  I uttered a hiss of fury. Brooke looked at me, wide-eyed.

  “Who is that?” she asked. “Somebody is posting under your name. It’s your account—remember? We became Facebook friends a week before you came.” She studied the image for a moment. “She kind of looks like you.”

  “She does not,” I said coldly, eying the little roll of fat on Janelle’s stomach. “She’s got to be thirty pounds heavier than I am, and trust me, that hair is dyed.”

  “But who is she?”

  “Mary Ellen Lipinski,” I said, conjuring this name up out of nowhere. “My ex-friend. And that”—I pointed an accusing finger at Ashton’s self-satisfied face—“is my ex-boyfriend. How could they? I haven’t even been gone for twenty-four hours.”