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“I have the best idea ever,” I say confidently. “We just need to stall Mason for a few hours. And find a drugstore, stat.”
After we attack the beauty aisle of the local drugstore and the teen section of the discount clothing store, Sean and I hang back at a coffee shop while Betsey and Ella check one more place. We’re just sitting down at a table when his cell rings; he frowns and answers it. I listen to his side of the conversation; when he hangs up, he doesn’t look happy.
“My mom wants me to come home,” he says.
“Today?” I ask, feeling my heart sink.
“Yeah,” he says. “She’s been cool up to this point, but now that you’re safe…”
“I get it,” I say. “I’m surprised she didn’t make you turn around and come home two days ago.”
“She knew you needed me, and she trusts me,” he says. “But I missed Thanksgiving and… you know. Moms.” I don’t really know, but I don’t say that.
“You should drop us off at Mason’s and get on the road,” I say, every part of me wanting to inhale those words back into my mouth.
“How will you get home?” he asks. I consider it for a moment.
“I guess we’ll fly,” I say. “We’ll have to get our mom to buy the tickets, but I’m sure she’ll have no problem doing that if it means we’re coming back to San Diego.” I take a sip of my latte. “I mean, we’ll have our own IDs; we might as well test them out.”
My stomach flips over at the thought.
Sean and I don’t make a big thing of saying goodbye—everyone is watching—but I feel the tug of him when his car rounds the corner and disappears. I can’t help it: I text him.
I’LL SEE YOU IN THREE DAYS, TOPS.
He writes back,
HOPING 4 2
Knowing he’s driving, I don’t respond.
A few hours later, an unruffled Mason takes our pictures, calls Mom about the plane tickets, and leaves us in the living room with the remote and a free pass to eat anything in the fridge while he goes to work on the business of fabricating our identities. Ella, Betsey, and I don’t talk much that afternoon or evening—we just sit together, show-hopping and being. We go to bed early, and in the morning, we pack up and wait for the cab that Mason prepaid to take us to the Oakland airport.
In the entryway, Mason hands each of us a yellow envelope with a clasp on the top. I peer into mine and find my new driver’s license, passport, birth certificate, transcripts, medical history, and Social Security card. Like a true wizard, Mason basically just handed me a new life.
“Thank you,” I say, looking at him sincerely.
“You’re welcome,” he says. “And don’t forget to hold on to my number.”
“We won’t,” I say.
Ella echoes my thank-you, but Betsey actually hugs Mason, which seems to surprise but not repel him. He half smiles when he realizes what’s happening, then hugs her back. The others step onto the porch when the cab pulls up, but I claim to have forgotten something upstairs. I run up to the girl’s room and grab the chalk from a tray on her nightstand. In small print near the edge of the space, I write a short note.
I love your room. Hope to meet you someday.—Lizzie Best
I’m not sure why, but I feel a connection with the girl. Maybe it’s as simple as liking her stuff and wanting to make a new friend now that I can. Or maybe it’s the fact that we both have totally weird parents: We’re the same, in a way.
I join the others in the cab, and in less than twenty minutes, we’re standing in the airport security line. It moves quicker than I’m ready for, but when the agent checks my ID against my boarding pass, then glances at my face, all he does is stamp the document and hand everything back to me.
Mom’s waiting for us at baggage claim. I hold my chin high as we approach, hyperaware of what we look like and Mom’s face as she notices the differences.
Betsey’s long dress flows behind her in the breeze from moving, as does her newly dyed fire-red mane. Ella is preppy chic in a cardigan with a cute collar underneath, skinnies, and flats; the way Bet cut Ella’s naturally curly bob shows off her defined cheekbones. As for me, I walk tall in a short skirt, a black long-sleeved T-shirt, and lace-up boots with thick, patterned tights. Bet really showed off her hairstyling skills when she chemically stick-straightened my hair, then made it perfect with a royal-blue stripe down the front.
We walk across the expanse, feeling as different on the outsides as we are on the insides. I can see in Mom’s eyes that she gets it: That she finally sees us. I can see in her eyes that she knows we’ll never be the same. That she knows that no matter how much she may want to try to brush things under the rug and make us live like we were, no amount of coaxing or forcing will help.
Permanent dye is our insurance policy.
thirty
