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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
Though it feels like we’ve been gone months, we return to our house on the hill five days after we left it. We’ve missed no school; everyone’s still on Thanksgiving break. Nothing has changed, and yet, to me, the world is in color for the first time. I keep checking my driver’s license to make sure it’s real.
I text Sean as Mom pulls the car through the gate:
WE’RE BACK
He responds:
WHEN CAN I SEE YOU?
Smiling, I glance up at my mom in the mirror, at her determined face.
SHE WANTS TO TALK TO US. NOT SURE HOW THIS IS GOING TO GO. WILL CALL YOU AFTER.
Sean texts back:
GOOD LUCK.
“Go drop your stuff in your rooms and meet me in the living room,” Mom says when we’re all inside. “I think it’s time the four of us had a good, long chat.”
Ella, Betsey, and I do as she says. Upstairs, my room looks too boring, too bland. I wish I could go to the mall and buy some more posters, but instead, I have a tongue-lashing to look forward to. I head back downstairs, bracing myself for trouble. But when I step into the living room, there’s a pint of ice cream on the coffee table—not even on a coaster—and bowls and spoons stacked to the side.
“I thought mint chip might make things easier,” Mom says, smiling weakly. I think of all she’s done, and I can’t smile back.
But I do accept the ice cream.
