come.”
One of his buddies snorts, and Kerwin smacks him on the back of the head.
“Are you gonna be there?” he asks, suddenly all smiles again. I nod. “Then definitely. What time?”
“We’re meeting at noon.”
“All right.” His accent drags out the word. “Look, I know the area, but not well. I might get lost. Give me your number just in case.”
“I don’t know the area either.” I smile. “I’m new too.”
He laughs. “Right. I’m transfer-new and you’re kidnap-new.”
“Something like that. Here, this is”—I take a marker out and motion for him to give me his hand. I scribble Merril’s number on the back of it—“Merril’s number. She’ll be with me, and she knows the town like the back of her hand.”
I look up. In our new position, his eyes are riveted into the top of my blouse. I pull away and clear my throat.
“So, I’ll see you then?”
“Yeah. Brilliant.” He struggles to form words. “Thanks for this.”
His friends whistle as I leave. Violet wants to snap at them to cut it out. Erica wants to ignore them. I mumble threats under my breath—a happy middle ground.
When I tell Mrs. Silverman I’m going bowling, she beams. There are tears there, just barely hidden beneath a veneer of wine and eye-dabs with a napkin.
“I’m so happy for you, Erica. You’re making friends so fast.”
“I had friends before.” That’s a lie. Violet’s never had friends—what kind of con artist has friends? “So it’s not like I never had them.”
“I know.” She smiles. “I’m glad you’re making them here. That I get to see you make them.”
I pick at my broccoli.
Her voice is small. “Do you miss them? Your old friends?”
The friends I’ve never had, you mean? “Yeah. I miss everything. But everything back there was a lie. So I shouldn’t miss it.”
Mrs. Silverman doesn’t say anything. Marie comes in with tea and a plate of fruit for dessert. I pick at a peach slice when she starts talking again.
“There will always be two parts of you, Erica. There will be the one who had the life with your kidnappers—however good or bad a life it was. And there will be your life with me, and I intend to make it the best life I can for you. Those two sides don’t have to be at war. Both of them are important. Both of them make up the whole that is you.”
Violet sneers. Erica chews peach silently. The precipice between the two grows larger with Mrs. Silverman’s words.
A flower dangles, roots clinging to both sides as the fissure widens.
Sal covertly writes a Dear Abby–ish love advice column in a queer magazine under the pseudonym of Ms. Maple, and it’s how we communicate. The magazine is nothing graphic—mostly articles on the gay community, notices about events and art showings. Sal’s third column response is usually encoded with a message for me. Before I left, he gave me a phrase I use as a substitution cipher—SEEING RED AND BLUE—that strips away the unneeded letters and leaves his words for me. I submit seemingly innocent romantic questions to Ms. Maple via the Internet, and they contain my coded message using the same cipher. It’s a Cold War system that, while convoluted, keeps anyone off our trail.
I buy the magazine from a bookstore. Mrs. Silverman handed me two hundred dollars and dropped me off at the mall to buy something nice to wear to Cassie’s bowling party on Saturday. I barely kept my eyes from bugging out at the sight of two hundreds just for me. Not for food or rent or to pay someone off to keep them quiet. For frilly, frivolous clothes.
The mall. To Violet, it’s a place of infinite opportunity. I have to stop her from leaning over and picking the pockets of unsuspecting families or taking advantage of the security guard’s turned back to sneak items into my oversize purse. To Erica, this is a place of endless temptation—pretzels, cinnamon buns, greasy fast food that looks as good as it smells. Her thin waist growls. Her
One of his buddies snorts, and Kerwin smacks him on the back of the head.
“Are you gonna be there?” he asks, suddenly all smiles again. I nod. “Then definitely. What time?”
“We’re meeting at noon.”
“All right.” His accent drags out the word. “Look, I know the area, but not well. I might get lost. Give me your number just in case.”
“I don’t know the area either.” I smile. “I’m new too.”
He laughs. “Right. I’m transfer-new and you’re kidnap-new.”
“Something like that. Here, this is”—I take a marker out and motion for him to give me his hand. I scribble Merril’s number on the back of it—“Merril’s number. She’ll be with me, and she knows the town like the back of her hand.”
I look up. In our new position, his eyes are riveted into the top of my blouse. I pull away and clear my throat.
“So, I’ll see you then?”
“Yeah. Brilliant.” He struggles to form words. “Thanks for this.”
His friends whistle as I leave. Violet wants to snap at them to cut it out. Erica wants to ignore them. I mumble threats under my breath—a happy middle ground.
When I tell Mrs. Silverman I’m going bowling, she beams. There are tears there, just barely hidden beneath a veneer of wine and eye-dabs with a napkin.
“I’m so happy for you, Erica. You’re making friends so fast.”
“I had friends before.” That’s a lie. Violet’s never had friends—what kind of con artist has friends? “So it’s not like I never had them.”
“I know.” She smiles. “I’m glad you’re making them here. That I get to see you make them.”
I pick at my broccoli.
Her voice is small. “Do you miss them? Your old friends?”
The friends I’ve never had, you mean? “Yeah. I miss everything. But everything back there was a lie. So I shouldn’t miss it.”
Mrs. Silverman doesn’t say anything. Marie comes in with tea and a plate of fruit for dessert. I pick at a peach slice when she starts talking again.
“There will always be two parts of you, Erica. There will be the one who had the life with your kidnappers—however good or bad a life it was. And there will be your life with me, and I intend to make it the best life I can for you. Those two sides don’t have to be at war. Both of them are important. Both of them make up the whole that is you.”
Violet sneers. Erica chews peach silently. The precipice between the two grows larger with Mrs. Silverman’s words.
A flower dangles, roots clinging to both sides as the fissure widens.
Sal covertly writes a Dear Abby–ish love advice column in a queer magazine under the pseudonym of Ms. Maple, and it’s how we communicate. The magazine is nothing graphic—mostly articles on the gay community, notices about events and art showings. Sal’s third column response is usually encoded with a message for me. Before I left, he gave me a phrase I use as a substitution cipher—SEEING RED AND BLUE—that strips away the unneeded letters and leaves his words for me. I submit seemingly innocent romantic questions to Ms. Maple via the Internet, and they contain my coded message using the same cipher. It’s a Cold War system that, while convoluted, keeps anyone off our trail.
I buy the magazine from a bookstore. Mrs. Silverman handed me two hundred dollars and dropped me off at the mall to buy something nice to wear to Cassie’s bowling party on Saturday. I barely kept my eyes from bugging out at the sight of two hundreds just for me. Not for food or rent or to pay someone off to keep them quiet. For frilly, frivolous clothes.
The mall. To Violet, it’s a place of infinite opportunity. I have to stop her from leaning over and picking the pockets of unsuspecting families or taking advantage of the security guard’s turned back to sneak items into my oversize purse. To Erica, this is a place of endless temptation—pretzels, cinnamon buns, greasy fast food that looks as good as it smells. Her thin waist growls. Her
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