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“Oh my god, it’s really you!” the woman says, grasping the kid by the shoulders. “My son told me it was, you know, he kept saying it was you, but it didn’t believe it.”
It’s always the kids.
They’re intuitive.
No matter how much you disguise yourself, kids can sense it.
“Can I have an autograph?” she asks, holding out a comic book as she digs for something to write with. “Please?”
“Uh, sure,” I mumble, taking the marker from her and scribbling my name, my eyes on the kid. He looks to be about Madison’s age, the same look of reverence on his face that she had this morning. He, too, is wearing a Breezeo costume, but his is homemade... a lot of time went into it. It’s strange, after everything I’ve done, having kids look at me like I’m some hero. “You want a picture, little man?”
He nods enthusiastically, like he’s speechless, so I kneel down beside him, posing, letting his mother snap a quick photo.
“Take care of yourself,” I tell him. “Make sure you always look out for your mother.”
I stand up, grabbing Madison’s hand and leading her to the car before anyone else spots me.
The drive back home feels like it takes forever. It’s dark when we arrive, and Madison is fast asleep. I try to wake her, but she’s not budging, so I pull her out of the booster seat and carry her. She grumbles, not waking up, arms wrapped around my neck. I drag the standee along under my arm as I head for the front door, prepared to knock, but it pulls open before I can.
Kennedy stands in the doorway, looking relieved to see us, still wearing her work uniform. She steps out of the way for me to come in.
I drop the standee right inside the apartment. Kennedy stares down at it before shooting me a peculiar look.
“I know,” I mutter. “It’s probably the last thing you want to have to look at, but she wouldn’t leave without it.”
Kennedy shakes her head, closing the front door as she says, “You can tuck her in bed, if you want.”
As the students at Fulton Edge Academy take their finals, you’re driving through the Midwest, on your way to California. The girl, she sits beside you, in the passenger seat of your blue Porsche, writing her heart out in her notebook.
It’s one of the few things she brought along.
She slipped back into the house as you sobered up, filling her school backpack with clothes, packing her Breezeo comics and grabbing her cell phone before writing a note to her parents.
Mom & Dad,
I know you’re gonna be upset when you realize I’m gone, but please don’t worry too much. I’m okay. I’m with Jonathan.
Love you both,
Kennedy
Needless to say, over twenty-four hours later, they’re pretty freaking worried. She’s only seventeen. They’ve already called the police. She’s officially a teenage runaway. Her phone started going off not long after you got on the road, bombarding her with messages, begging her to come home.
The phone died after a few hours.
She forgot to bring her charger.
You? You’ve got your phone, with nearly a full charge. The only person who has called you is your sister, to warn you that someone leaked the Fulton Edge Academy security footage. Your fight with your father is all over the news, playing on a loop. It’s a political nightmare, Speaker Cunningham assaulting his own child. They’re calling for his resignation.
Time keeps ticking away.
The miles between you and New York continue to grow as California edges closer. You offer to turn around for her. You don’t want her to have any regrets. She tells you to shut up and keep driving west.
A few days later, you cross into the city limits of Los Angeles. The day you should’ve graduated. You find a small hotel that’ll rent a room to an eighteen-year-old, just until you can get set up somewhere permanently.
“Let’s go out,” you say.
“Where to?” she asks.
“Somewhere nice. We’re here. We made it. We should celebrate.”
So you do just that. You take her out. She wears her graduation dress, the one her mother helped pick out—sleeveless, royal blue. She has to wear her everyday flats, because she forgot to pack extra shoes. It’s simple. She feels so plain.
You tell her she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.
Dinner is at a fancy steakhouse, the kind where portions are small and the bill is massive, but people don’t complain because it’s all about the atmosphere. Afterward, the two of you hit Hollywood Boulevard, seeing the handprints immortalized in cement before strolling along the Walk of Fame, looking at the celebrity stars as you hold hands.
“Someday, you’ll be here,” she tells you, smiling, as you pause and pull her to you. “You’ll have your name on one of these stars.”
“Yeah? You think I’m as talented as…” You glance down, to the nearest star by your feet, reading the name on it. “…Kermit the Frog?”
