by Meg Elison
The second is of Andy.
“This is Andrew Fisher Bailey, my little brother. He was taken into captivity two days ago by people he had never seen before. I don’t know his whereabouts, but I hope he’s safe. If you see him, remember he is friendly but skittish. He is better off in captivity than in the wild.”
The last one is my most recent report card, accessed on the school website by inputting the username and password I created for my mom last year.
“This is me, Layla Louise Bailey. I was born in the wild and cannot be domesticated. However, I’m not yet fully capable of caring for myself, either. I have no money and not enough skills. What I have is a 4.0 and really low standards. I’ll do chores. I’ll be quiet. If you’ve got a garage or a laundry room I could sleep in, I am mostly housebroken. I just want to finish school, adopt my little brother, and go to college.”
I type my phone number, email, and Twitter handle over a still frame of the mushrooms I filmed in Andy’s dresser. I don’t know how long my phone will work, but I can use the computers at the library to check email and Twitter. They can contact me, but not find me. Unlike Andy, I’m free.
It turns out Jane Chase’s Instagram isn’t just about me. I’m on there, mostly close-up pictures of my hair or my clothes with a tag cloud underneath them that I can barely stand to read. There are also pics of a girl with scars from cutting herself, a teacher from our school who has a really bad stutter, and a girl who just started dressing like a girl this year. It’s kind of comforting to know Jane’s mean to everyone.
The best thing is that anyone can comment and she has a huge number of followers. I’m hoping it’s mostly people from our school. That could really help.
The worst feeling here is that I’m not the scientist. I’m the subject. Jane’s observations on her Instagram and Bette’s decisions about my habitat will determine my fate. Someone else will get to name me and define me. I don’t want their pity, and I can’t stand the way life just keeps happening to me and I have no control. I am not an experiment. I’m not one of the chimps. I’m Dr. Jane fucking Goodall. And this is the only way I can prove it.
I upload the video and copy and paste the tag cloud she usually puts on stuff about me. Then I tweet the video off of YouTube and tag Jane, Mackenzie, Kristi, Ryan, Amber, and the school’s official Twitter account until I hit the character limit.
It’s time to leave. I shut down Kristi’s Mac and set it on her dressing table instead of the floor. I write her a short thank-you note on her pretty pink paper and leave it next to her computer. I ask her to thank her mom for me, too.
I walk down the stairs slowly. I hope that I’ll find somewhere to live so that I can keep going to the same school, and maybe keep Kristi as my best friend. I still don’t know why we’re best friends, but I’d rather have her than nobody.
But like I said, it’s hard to know when it’s my last day. So I take a final look around. I’ve always loved this place. Even if it wasn’t mine to love.
When I’m done doing that, I head for the door. Just as I’m about to leave, Bette walks in.
2:00 p.m.
She looks shocked, but I don’t blame her. She puts down her grocery bags and comes toward me with her hands out.
“Layla! Where have you been? People are looking for you! How did you get in here?” Her plucked eyebrows are coming together and she’s reaching for my hands. I sidestep her a little.
“Hi, Bette. I’m sorry, I let myself in. I just needed to borrow something from Kristi. I’m leaving right now. I’m sorry.”
She steps back to block me from going out the door.
“No, Layla. It’s okay, you’re allowed in this house anytime. But you can’t leave. I can’t let you.”
“Why not?”
“Layla.” She swallows and looks around a little. “Layla, where have you been? CPS came to your house and didn’t find you. They took your brother into foster care. They’re still looking for you . . . and for your mother. Do you know where she might be? Did you leave home with her?”
“No.”
“Come sit down. Come talk to me. Will you please do that?”
I’m watching her pretty carefully. “You can’t call anyone. I’m not getting taken away like Andy did.”
“Honey, these people are trying to do what’s right for you. They want to help.”
“I mean it. Don’t call. Don’t touch your phone.” I try to tell her with my tone that I’m not kidding.
She stares me down. “Fine. Come sit for a minute, at least.”
I sit on the sofa across from her favorite chair, where I know she’ll sit.
“Layla. I knew you were in trouble, but I didn’t realize how bad it was. I’m sorry. I should have found a way to help sooner.”
“Okay.” I’m looking at the arm of her chair, to the side of her hand. I don’t have to look at anything.
“Your mother . . . I don’t even know what to say. I just always assumed she was a busy woman. But your grades were so good I thought she must have done something right.”
“I do my own schoolwork. My grades have nothing to do with her.” Amazing how much fire there is in that one assumption. That she should get any kind of credit.
“That’s not really how it works, honey. Kids . . . most students perform based on the kind of support they receive at home. In a way, it would have been better if you were doing poorly. Then someone might have known before now.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” The venomous octopus is with me again, arms wrapping around my throat from the inside, where no one can see. But I’m sure Bette can hear it. I’m strangling.
“That’s not what . . . look. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know where you’re going to go. Is there any chance your father . . . ? Where is he? I’ve never heard you mention him.” I haven’t even thought about my dad in years. Couldn’t picture his face if I tried.
“I don’t have to go to a foster home. Not if I can make a deal with somebody.”
“What?”
“I can take care of myself. Earn my keep somewhere.”
Her voice goes from gentle to patronizing. “Sweetie, you’re fourteen. That’s not how it works.”
“Almost fifteen.”
“Even so. You’re still a minor. CPS will have to find a place for you.” Quick glance at her face and there it is: concern like always, but something else underneath. Pity.
I don’t want any of that. Not even a little bit. I’d rather live in a box.
Bette is trying to say something, but her phone is ringing. She frowns at it before picking up.
“Kristi? Why are you calling me during class? Are you okay?”
She’s silent for a minute, but her eyes rise to mine.
“What video?” It’s not just confusion in her voice. It’s something like panic. What did Kristi tell her?
I get up and walk to the door. Feels like I’m moving very slowly, like in a nightmare where you can’t run.
“Layla! Layla, wait.”
I look back and realize she can’t actually stop me. She won’t handcuff me to her nice furniture. She won’t physically hold me down. I can just walk out of here.
So I wave goodbye to her while she talks into her phone, and I go straight through the door.
Midnight
I wish there were more blankets in this RV.
I walked to the school and labeled all of my homework for each teacher, with a note that said to put it in their boxes. The school was all locked down, but I stuck it behind the bars that cover the registrar’s window. They’ll see it when they open on Monday, plus they won’t know when I was there. I folded it in half and stuck it tight between the bars and the glass. Then I found some rocks and carefully weighted it down. It should still be there when they open.
Walking back was so cold. It hardly ever rains here, and there’s no wind at all tonight. Just a perfectly crisp, cold, clear night with a tiny sliver of a moon. I’m wearing two shirts, but I don’t
have a coat. Not even a hoodie. I pull my arms inside my shirts, but that makes my backpack start to slip. I trade off arms the whole walk back, but I’m shaking by the time I get inside.
There’s nothing useful in this RV. Boxes of old magazines and junk car parts. Just the one blanket, and it’s pretty thin. I pull all my clothes out of my bag and lay them on top of the blanket. It helps a little.
I finally just have to shut my phone off. It vibrated without stopping for almost two hours after I walked out on Bette. I figured she might try to follow me in her car, so I ended up jumping the fences in her neighborhood to head toward the crappier parts of town.
Some of the calls were from Kristi and Bette, but lots weren’t. I started seeing LA area codes and others I couldn’t even place. I’d wanted someone to respond to my video, but I didn’t plan how I would deal with it if they did. I watched the little green screen, trying to figure out what to say.
Nothing came to me.
It’s quiet over here. The lights are off in the house that this RV belongs to, and even the street light is burned out. It’s safe and dark, and all I have to do is figure out how I’m going to eat.
Saturday Morning
I slept past dawn, and I can’t figure out what time it is. I wanted to get started earlier, but whatever.
Nobody’s outside. The whole block is quiet. After I’ve slipped out, I can see kids watching cartoons through their closed windows. Saturday seems like the best day to do this.
It’s only a few minutes’ walk back home, but it seems to take forever. I avoid the main roads, and I keep looking over my shoulder. I’m sure no one is following me. But still.
Mom’s office has had the same lock code since her very first day. She sent me over dozens of times, to get something she forgot or to check something for her.
The chair is empty, but it feels like she’s there. As I sit down, I wobble the glass ashtray and a few butts overflow onto the desktop. Jiggle the mouse and her computer wakes up, tabs still open.
She looked at a lot of ways to get out of town. There are tabs open looking at trains and buses and a couple of posts from people looking to share a ride.
Her email is still open. There are two emails from CPS. One looks like a form letter, but the other one seems like it came from a real person. It doesn’t tell me anything new, though.
I dial into her office voicemail and listen to two complaints about broken mailboxes and one person looking for an apartment. Then the calls from CPS start.
“Ms. Thompson, this is Anne Cox with Child Protective Services. Please give me a call . . .” She rattles off a phone number and that’s that.
“Ms. Thompson, this is Julius Evans with Child Protective Services. I’m here at Brookhurst Junior High, attempting to interview your daughter . . . uh . . . Layla. They’ve informed me she did not attend class today. I’d like to speak with both of you. Please call me back at . . .”
I wonder who he talked to at my school. Raleigh? That old-lady registrar who always yells at me when I’ve been absent?
“Mrs. Bailey—Ms. Thompson, I mean, this is Mona Monroe at Maxfield Elementary. Your son, Andrew, has just been signed out by two officers of the court who are attempting to reach you. Please call me at . . .”
“Darlene, this is Bette. I know that today has probably been pretty hard, but please try to understand that we’re all trying to help you. And your kids. Okay? Just let us help you. Okay. Bye.”
The next voice is deep, almost booming. “Mrs. Bailey, this is Officer Benson with the Anaheim Police Department . . .”
The hair stands up on the back of my neck. A real actual cop.
“Please contact me regarding your appearance in court.”
His number follows. Holy shit.
“Ms. Thompson, this is Anne Cox again, calling regarding your son, Andrew. He’s been placed in emergency foster care until your hearing on Monday. You are entitled to visitation with him. Please contact me for the information on where he is and how to proceed.”
I open tabs for Facebook, my email, and Twitter. I don’t log in. I think.
If I called and pretended to be Mom, they would tell me where Andy was. I couldn’t show up there, or I’d get busted. I would know where he was, but it wouldn’t matter. I could find out when the hearing was, but I couldn’t show up to that, either. They might be able to tell that the call came from this office, and then I couldn’t ever come back here.
I start logging in to my stuff, but I’m overwhelmed on every page. I have hundreds of DMs on Twitter, and thousands of mentions. I’ve gained nearly two thousand followers. I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing. My ears are ringing.
I have over a hundred new emails. I see some from teachers, from Kristi and other kids I know. I have emails from people I’ve never met.
I have Facebook friend requests from reporters. I have messages from people I don’t know, and I’ve been tagged in hundreds of posts and photos. I hear a sound in my ears like there are beehives in my head. I tap one of these tags at random and see that it’s my video.
But it was posted by some local news team.
I find it again, posted by Elite Daily. And BuzzFeed. And ViralNova. It’s everywhere.
On Twitter, there are links to Jane Chase’s Instagram, and pictures of my face photoshopped onto “wanted” posters and milk cartons. My hands shake so bad that Google has to guess that I meant YouTube and not “youoyutubrube.”
The exact number of views on my biome video is 602,124. That number feels impossible, made up. If everyone I’d ever met had watched it, it still wouldn’t be this many.
I slip out of the chair and under the desk. I press myself into the little cubicle underneath the wooden top. This seems like a good place.
I can’t breathe right, and I decide I’m going to stay down here for a while. Nobody can see me, and the electronic lock is still on. I should be safe.
I’m never going to be safe again.
I think about people I know watching this video. I think about Bette and Raleigh and Valenti and their terrible pity. I think of Ryan Audubon laughing, and Amber Rodin tweeting it to her friends. It feels like that dream where I go to school naked, except I’m naked forever on the internet and I can’t wake up.
I thought this would make me the scientist. I should have known that the thing that slides out of the petri dish never gets to speak for itself. I know there’s no happy ending, but I thought maybe this video could bring me better results. However, I’d have needed a stronger hypothesis. And I didn’t know what I was doing, or really why. I just had to do it.
And maybe it will still yield a meaningful finding, but before that I have to live through this feeling of being the thing under the microscope and everybody taking a look, saying my Latin name, guessing at my taxonomy.
I need to hide. I need to answer some of these messages. No, I shouldn’t answer anybody. I wonder how hard it would be to pass as Mom on the phone.
Someone is hitting buttons on the door keypad.
The bees are loud. They might be wasps. Apis mellifera. Pepsis grossa. I don’t know. They both sting. I’m sweating and it’s not even hot. I hold my breath and pull my knees up under my chin.
Whoever it is, they’re riffling through papers on the desk over my head. I want to shut my eyes but I can’t. I see feet come around to behind the desk. It’s Mom.
“Where the hell is it?”
If she sees what’s on her computer screen, the world will just explode. I’ll burst into flames. I’ll drop dead. Or she will. Or everyone will.
I mash the glowing button on the surge protector with one sweaty palm.
There’s a minute of silence so deep I could drown in it. With everything shut off, not even the hum of the running electronics separates us. It’s H. sapiens and the silence.
We’re in this tiny room together, smaller than the bedroom I used to share with Andy. There’s only one way out. Whatever she’s going to say, I’ll hear it. She could just
speak.
She could just say goodbye.
There’s the sound of paper one more time and the muffled noise of something being pushed into her pocket. Then the door opens again and she’s standing there, waiting.
“Mom?”
I hear something. A sigh, maybe.
She heard me.
I’m like a shaken soda with the cap blown off. What bubbles out of me when she’s gone isn’t like being angry or ashamed or any of the hot terrible things I’ve kept crammed inside me for as long as I can remember. It’s as sharp and as solid as a scorpion stinger—and even with the way I feel right now, I can still remember its name, it’s Leiurus quinquestriatus—and the sound of the pain it causes comes out of me like a scream, like when a whistle blows loud and high right in your ear, like the screech of a big owl swooping through the night.
It goes on for a long time. When it’s over, I’m empty and tired. I wish she had watched the video and the world had died. I wish a scorpion had stung me for real. I wish I had something to show people, like here’s the scar where my mom used to be.
I have nothing. That’s life.
I play back the voicemail again, and I call the number for Anne Cox. I am going to get my brother.
Saturday Afternoon
I hang up on Ms. Cox’s voicemail. That was never going to work.
I dial the number for Officer Benson, and he picks right up.
“This is Benson.”
“Hi, Officer Benson. My name is Amber, and I’m doing a school project on Child Protective Services.”
There’s a little silence before he answers. “Okay, hi, Amber. How did you get my number?”
“My dad works at the courthouse, and he gave me your card.”
“Oh . . . okay. Okay. I only have a minute. Can I answer a quick question for you?”
He can hear me smiling. Everybody says you can hear that over the phone. So I smile real big. “Where does a kid go once CPS takes them away? Is there like an office or what?”
He clears his throat a little. I haven’t really put him at ease. “Well, that depends on the age of the child. Older kids generally go to one of the big group homes, but little kids go into temporary foster care until we can get them back home.”