Pre-Approved Identity Theft

by Nellie K Neves

  “She’s a nice girl,” Caraline adds as if it’s occurred to her that I might have received a bad impression of her daughter. “But she loves to party and tends to think her mother should bail her out.”

  Her phone slips back into her purse and she smiles at me. It’s not the tight-lipped smile I’m used to. The smiles that always told me I was being judged for whatever I was about to say. No, this is a real smile, the kind that not only shows her white teeth but lights up her mischievous brown eyes as well.

  “Now then,” Caraline says, “why on earth would you run off from a wedding?”

  It’s not meant to hurt me, or trap me. She’s genuinely curious. And who wouldn’t be? It’s not every day someone meets a runaway bride.

  “Caraline,” Jerry says with a hand on her arm to stop her, “I’m sure Harper doesn’t want to talk about it right now.”

  “No,” I say before I can think about whether he’s right or not, “it’s okay. It’s pretty simple, really. I didn’t love him, and he didn’t love me. Marriage would have been a mistake.”

  “Well I’ve been through enough divorces to know what a mistake that would be.” She winks at me and my giggles burble below the surface. Not because it’s funny, but because I don’t know how to react.

  Plates slide across the table and my stomach nearly seizes in on itself. I’m not sure I’ve ever smelled something so amazing in my life. No, that’s not it. I have tasted food from some of the greatest chefs in the country, but this simple steak that still sizzles on my plate is better than anything the Michelin starred chefs have made in our kitchen.

  Because it’s real. No crazy technique. No extra sauce. A perfectly seared slab of beef, with steamed vegetables coated in butter, and mashed potatoes with enough garlic to boost my immune system for the next year.

  I know what my mother would say. She’d tell me, “Garlic will spoil any chance at romance and label you as trash. Only the plain and simple eat garlic and onions, certainly not anyone that plans to make it in life.”

  My spoon sinks beneath the density of the fluffed potatoes and I barely taste the garlic with the overpowering flavor of defiance bouncing off my taste buds. The last thought in my mind is getting a man, so what do I care if my breath can repel vampires?

  “Harper dear,” Caraline says as she’s fishing around inside her purse, “Hazel is a little hesitant. She says she needs to see a picture of you.” She extends the lipstick she’s found from the bottom of her bag. On the base I read the name, “Tangerine Harlot” and I shake my head to decline her thoughtful offer.

  “Sorry,” she continues as she lines up my nervous expression within the frame of her camera phone, “the last two people she let board with her were real shifty. Once she sees how clean cut you are, I’m sure she’ll say yes.”

  “Okay,” I say, because as usual I don’t know how to respond.

  One quick snap of the camera and then the pink glitter bomb drops right back into the depths of her purse and Caraline wastes no time in getting back to her food.

  The environment is surreal here, the dive of a diner, my estranged uncle watching me for any sense of what I might become, Caraline and her silver hair that tips back and forth as she dances through every delightful bite of her lunch. I can smell a pie somewhere on the wind, berry, I think.

  Sugar.

  When was the last time I had sugar?

  It all has me wanting to run again. Run and devour the pie. Run, and find my own way. Run, and tuck myself back into my bed at the estate because underneath all my bravery, Jerry is right and I’m not so sure I can do this after all.

  Caraline’s phone tinkles a little tune and she snatches it from her purse. “Oh, would you look at that. I thought we’d have to wait a bit. Hazel says one hundred dollars a week for the couch. What do you say, Harper?”

  I have $200 jammed in my back pocket. Half my money will have to go to a week’s worth of rent, and then there’s food, and how will I get a job? Can I get a job? Reg’s father obviously has connections in law enforcement. How long before they call in a few favors to find me? If I use my own name, I’ll light up like a flare.

  “Yes,” I hear myself say, and I’m glad my subconscious is far braver than my conscious mind could ever hope to be. “Yes, that should be fine.”

  Jerry’s stare is hard to ignore, as if he’s trying to see into my thoughts. Likely he’s wondering how far I’m going to take this, how well I’m going to survive, and if he could see into my mind, he would know that I’m wondering the exact same thing.

  Chapter 4

  “You need to get a cell phone,” Jerry says to me. Cars rush by on the street outside Caraline’s diner. She’s still inside. One of the customers complained about a chocolate cake and she has to smooth it over.

  I stopped myself before I offered to eat the cake for them.

  But it was a close one.

  “I will,” I say, but I don’t know how. It’s the same mess all over again. Money. Identity. Being found. When I ran that morning I’d moved faster than the panic, but like the hare in the fable, I’d grown tired. Panic, the tortoise, is sneaking up on the finish line.

  “They have cells without plans. Pay as you go. No name. They’re cheap. Get one.”

  Maybe he can see panic creeping up behind me and that’s why he’s doling out all this advice while we wait for Hazel to pick me up. Because he doesn’t want me to fail. It’s similar to the way my mother has always watched me. Anticipating my next move, looking to see where I might fall apart and setting me up before those moments, but the end game is different for Jerry. Where my mother set the path and built barriers on either side, Jerry has set my feet to a hundred paths and has given me a shove to find where I might want to go.

  Panic is nipping at my heels.

  “A job is next,” he says, “even if you have to get something short term to get by, that’s okay.”

  “Okay,” I say but it’s robotic. I’ve never held a job. I went to college. I have a bachelor’s degree in communications, but again, how can I use it when I can’t use my name? Maybe I can work under the table for a little while? Just until my confidence rises and I know I can do this.

  “You need a job,” Jerry says again as if I might not understand the severity. “That’s your first priority, okay?”

  His brown eyes are trained on me and for a second I see my mother in his face, behind the overgrown scruff. It’s there in the roundness of his eyes, the height of his cheekbones, the gentle curve of his jaw, and that one moment of seeing her is almost enough to break me.

  “I can’t,” I whisper. It’s a gasp’s worth of volume, but I know he can hear me because his hands grip my shoulders so tight it almost hurts.

  “You can,” Jerry says. The conviction in his voice drowns out the nearby freeway, the man who is shouting about his dry cake, and even the hammering sound of panic as it catches my heart. He ducks a little lower to catch my eye and he says it with more force. “You can and you will, Max.”

  My name. The name of the real me. The real me who climbed trees as a kid, who didn’t care when popsicles melted all over my hands and stained my fingers pink. The girl who spent a couple weeks of the summer relaxed at her uncle’s house in El Paso catching bugs, lounging by the above ground pool, and counting stars at night.

  Max.

  Max can do this.

  “Oh good,” Caraline says as she steps from the diner, “Hazel is here.” She whistles and waves with that same disregard for human protocol that I know I must expect from Caraline. “Hazel! Come get your new roommate!”

  My strength shatters at the thought and Jerry keeps a hold of my shoulders to steady me. I won’t look at him because I might see doubt written all over his face. If I see that, it’s over. I’ll call my father, he’ll arrange the flight, and by this time next week I’ll be living out my life as Reg’s trophy wife.

  “I’ll be in town next week.” Jerry lets one shoulder go to tuck a card in my shirt pocket. “You�
��ll have a job. You’ll have a phone, and we’ll have steak, okay?”

  I nod because that’s what he expects of me. I always do what’s expected. At least I had until this morning.

  “Harper.” Caraline returns with her daughter. “Harper, this is Hazel.”

  They’re still a little ways off, but of course, none of that bothers Caraline. She raises her voice to let it carry over anything in her path. “Hazel, this is Harper.”

  I should correct her and call myself Max, but it’s not really my name and so I keep my mouth shut about it and extend my hand instead. Hazel’s nails are painted black. I notice because she doesn’t extend her hand to me and I go looking for it to make sure she has one.

  Once more I feel as though I’m in a foreign country. Is there some other west coast traditional greeting I don’t know? Or is this all too formal for them? Mother always said they were a bunch of free-loving hippies. But Hazel is staring at me as if I’m the center attraction at a freak show. It’s as if she’s trying to figure out if we’ve met before, but that’s crazy because there’s no way we could have.

  “Hazel,” Caraline scolds and she juts her elbow out far enough to jab her daughter’s hand forward.

  It jolts her free of whatever trance she was lost in. “Uncanny,” Hazel whispers as her hand meets mine. It’s limp like a fish flopped over on a counter. When I pull my hand away it falls to her side and dies there. I can’t even imagine if our roles had been reversed and my father had witnessed the display. He’s never beaten me a day in my life, but after that he might take up the habit.

  Hazel’s hair is red, but not a red that occurs naturally in genetics, but closer to the orange of a late fall sunset. Her beanie is black, and it’s spring, so I’m not sure why she’s wearing it. Wearing it is an exaggeration anyway. It’s carefully balanced at the apex of her head with half the oversized yarn slipping away as if it might fall at any second and yet does not.

  “You ready?” Hazel asks, and immediately the panic has me once more.

  No. That’s my real answer. I’m not ready. Not even close to ready because I have no idea what I’m doing or what comes next. I catch Uncle Jerry’s eye and though his nod is slight, I feel it inside me. Maybe I’m not ready, but I’m going anyway.

  Chapter 5

  The car is silent, okay, not silent, but void of conversation. She’s listening to a podcast about neoclassical guitar and how it’s revolutionized modern heavy metal. I don’t recognize a single band. How much of the world have I missed out on while living on the family estate?

  Yes, I went to a university, but it was to the university, then straight home. Occasionally, I had time with Reg, but it was always Reg’s friends, not mine. I didn’t have friends outside of him. I always thought that was strange, but mother assured me it was the way it ought to be.

  “It paves the road to the top, my dear,” she would say.

  It might have been paved, but it’d been horribly lonely, and now I doubt my ability to make friends at all.

  “We’re going to swing by a party really quick,” Hazel says as we merge with yet another long line of traffic. “It’s not a bad idea for you to go. It’s a networking party. Indigo throws them. It’s how I landed my job. I was headed there when my mom messaged me.”

  I look at my borrowed jeans and shirt that’s two sizes too big. The only person that might consider talking to me is a mechanic, and no way I’ll get hired for that.

  “You’re new in the city. It’s a good place to meet people, get involved, you know, connect.”

  My mouth goes dry because I ran out on a wedding today and traveled across the country and figured my excitement was over, but now she’s telling me that we’re going out, after dark, into the city.

  I can do new things.

  At least I think I can.

  I’ve never tried.

  “Is her name really Indigo?”

  “Yeah,” Hazel turns another corner, “her parents were total baby boomer hippy types. She’s fully embraced it too, all about the free love and whatever, if you get my drift.”

  I don’t really and I’m not about to have her explain it to me. Instead I stare out at the looming buildings and wonder how sheltered my life has been.

  “We’ll have to do something about your outfit, and your makeup,” her nose scrunches as she watches me, “and your hair. You’ll never get numbers looking like that.”

  My hands come up to the defensive. “I’m not looking to get in a relationship.”

  “Yeah, mom filled me in on that. Rough gig climbing out the window and everything. But I don’t necessarily mean a guy. I mean, a girl’s gotta eat, so I take dates where I can, but really you can meet a potential employer tonight, and these people pay a heck of a lot more than some retail job. What do you do, anyway? Do you have a degree?”

  “Yes,” I answer even though I have no work experience to back it up. “I went to University of North Carolina, majored in business management.”

  “Good enough, around here you’ll probably start as a secretary no matter what, or mail room. Either way, you need to look good. I’m sure I have something in the back seat.”

  It’s an invitation, but it takes me a few seconds to realize it. Hazel’s backseat is a collection of take-out containers, miscellaneous trash, and discarded clothes. It’s from the latter that I pull some items that might work. Knowing she won’t slow down, or turn her head, I start changing in the front seat the best I can.

  My strip act doesn’t even faze her, and she continues thinking out loud.

  “I could try to get you in at the farm, but you really should know something about horticulture. You any good with plants?”

  My father hired a gardener, well a landscaping team, but, I don’t say that, because normal people don’t have those.

  “No, I don’t know anything,” I admit, but she’s perked my attention. “You work on a farm? Where do they put a farm in this city?”

  Hazel smirks as if I’ve made another joke. “Vertically, and indoors. I’m the lead horticultural technician at Aeroculture. We simulate outside air, sun, and perfect growing conditions for plants. It’s a way of getting fresh produce into the city.”

  “You grow them inside?” I ask and I hate that I sound so backward.

  “Sure, someone orders a half pound of strawberries online, my team picks them, packs them, and a drone drops them on that person’s doorstep within an hour. Nothing fresher than that I’d wager, at least not here in the city.”

  I can’t help but be skeptical. “How does it taste?”

  “Better than the under ripe or half moldy stuff they sell in the stores, that’s for sure.”

  Her car makes the final turn and jerks to a stop along the street. Indigo lives in the heart of the city, at least it feels that way to me. Towering buildings surround me on every side as I trail behind Hazel.

  “Indigo is super connected,” she says over her shoulder. “She knows everyone in the city, I swear. She’s the reason I got on with the farm.”

  “What does she do?” We pass a fountain in the center courtyard. “She obviously does it well.”

  “Marketing,” Hazel adjusts the beanie she insisted on wearing. I‘m pleased to see that occasionally it still slips off. “That’s why she knows everyone too, they’ve all come to her firm at some point in time and then she has these mixers and I never miss one because you never know who you might meet.”

  Her apartment is in the second building on the third floor. The building is one of the shortest in the area, but I can tell even in the dark that it’s upscale.

  Hazel seems to know what I’m thinking because she adds, “She’s pretty loaded. Her firm did well last year and she got a massive raise. This is her new place.”

  Sounds of the party reach us before we finish climbing the stairs. When I heard business mixer, I assumed soft music and exchanging of business cards. What I hear is more like teenagers on the rampage. The bass thumps in my chest, rattling like a drum.
People are outside on the balcony, packed inside the apartment, and overflowing from the open door. Hazel wasn’t exaggerating when she told me Indigo was connected. Hazel squeals and disappears into the sea of people. I’m alone with strangers, though it’s not that different from being alone with Hazel.

  I’m on the outside even while I’m on the inside. Conversations hum around me, but nothing I could try to distinguish. For some reason it’s strange to me that all these people have had lives while I’ve been on the east coast. While my life was completely mapped out, they’d already picked their paths, and now here I am starting to try to do the same. Like showing up for a marathon four days too late.

  “Hey, what’s your name gorgeous?” A middle-aged man pops up into my immediate space like a whack-a-mole from my childhood. He’s not all together horrible looking, but the sweat on his forehead tells me he’s been trying too hard for too long.

  “I’m Greg.” Sweat glistens in the low lighting as he extends a clammy hand toward me.

  “Harper.” I shake his hand once and yank it free.

  “What’d you say?” he asks and moves closer.

  “Harper,” I say with more volume.

  “I’m sorry,” he moves closer and sets his hand to my hip. “I can only hear the pretty girls when I’m nearly on top of them.”

  I jerk away and my face collapses into disgust as he snickers at his own pick up line. I can’t put distance between us fast enough. He’s still calling after me as I arrive at the kitchen counter strewn with bottles of alcohol. I know that’s my worst decision if there are more Greg types at this mixer. I spot soda behind the counter and pour a cupful. Likely it’s for mixing cocktails, but I don’t care, I’m not about to let my guard down in a place I’ve never been.

  “You come with Hazel?” a female voice to my right asks. She’s dressed in a black leather skirt, dark brunette hair, slender nose, high cheekbones, and blue eyes that remind me of summer sky. They have to be contacts. I’m pretty sure she’s had work done.