But she could do this. She could, and she would.
She pressed the pen to the paper and scrawled the best of the words that came to her.
I know that none of you believe in me, but I believe in myself. Dad, you said I needed to move forward, to let go of the past and take charge of my future. So that’s what I’m going to do. But I need to figure this out on my own. I can’t do it here, can I? All I can do here is wallow.
I called Aunt Eden, and she said I could stay with her for as long as I want, so I’m heading to Savannah. I know you thinkthis is me being dramatic, but honestly, I just need space. Please let me have it.
Love,
Willow
She set down the pen and nodded, pleased. Savannah was far enough to be plausible but close enough to keep her parents from panicking. As an added bonus, Aunt Eden was technically Willow’s great-aunt, the ninety-year-old sister of Willow’s father’s mother. She was notorious for not answering her phone, even on the rare occasions when she heard it ring.
She folded the note in half and propped it like a tent on her pillow. She slung her backpack over her shoulders. She heard the muffled hum of conversation from downstairs, everyone carrying on as if nothing had changed. Let them.
She gave Cricket a final cuddle and kiss, then crept down the back staircase and through the old butler’s pantry. No one saw her slipping past. At the side door, she hesitated just long enough to feel the weight of the choice. Then she pressed the latch and stepped into the night.
CHAPTER FIVE
MOST OF THE stores at Peachtree Battle Shopping Center were closed. It was nine o’clock on a Saturday night, after all. But Blockbuster was still open, its blue and yellow sign tempting moths with its neon glow, and so was Peaches, the record store where Willow picked up the occasional shift.
Willow pushed through the glass door and was immediately hit with the sweet relief of air-conditioning. It was late. The sun had set. But it was the South, and temperatures in Atlanta didn’t change much when nighttime rolled around. And the humidity? Yeah, no, the humidity never dropped. Atlanta’s humidity was more constant than her parents.
Also, Willow had walked to Peaches rather than take her car, a golf-ball-yellow Beemer given to her on her sweet sixteenth. Cars had license plates. Plates could be tracked. Willow—just Willow, without any microchips, cochlear implants, or prosthetic wings—could not.
“Willow! Hey, hey!” called James from the back of the store. He was sorting records. Maybe. Probably just admiring the cover art. “What’s up, girl?”
“Not much,” Willow said. She leaned against the front counter. “Grabbed dinner at Jalisco’s with some friends, but they’re off to see a movie, and I wasn’t feeling it. Can I use the phone to call a cab?”
“Sure,” James said. He checked his watch. “Or you can keep me company for another hour. I can give you a ride home when I’m off.”
Willow smiled and scrunched her nose, employing the “cute” face she used when she had to let a boy down. It was such a tedious dance. This for that, tit for tat, and girls never had the power. Guys assumed they did because, after all, wasn’t it the girl’s choice whether to offer up her lips, her hips, her body, her soul?
Baby, you’re giving me blue balls. C’mon, bitch, you know you want it. Don’t be a prick tease.
“That’d be fun, but I’m beat,” she said. She yawned and covered her mouth with the back of her hand, another gift of cuteness. Then she stepped behind the counter, lifted the phone from the cradle, and punched in the number for Yellow Cab, which was printed on a sticky note taped beneath the cash register.
James abandoned the records in theY-through-Zsection and joined Willow at the front of the store, hovering awkwardly while she talked to the dispatcher and arranged for a ride. When she hung up, there James was, standing too close and smelling too strongly of Aqua Velva.
“Maybe another time?” he said hopefully.
Willow frowned. Maybe another time... he could give her a ride home? Okay, James. Whatever, James.
But she felt generous, knowing there wouldn’t be another time. “Sure.”
He grinned. “All right, yeah. Cool.”
“Cool.” Willow glanced over her shoulder at the mostly vacant parking lot and was thrilled to see a boxy yellow sedan pull in, its suspension groaning and one of its rear hubcaps hanging on for dear life. She turned back to James, hiked thestraps of her backpack into a more comfortable position, and said, “Well, James, it’s time to blow this taco stand. See ya!”
Willow’s taxi driver was a square-jawed man who smelled like smoke and had a wibble-wobble hula dancer affixed to the center of the dashboard. Her tiny waist swayed hypnotically with every turn, and her miniature breasts bounced in perky rhythm, barely concealed by a few plastic petals. Why, oh why, were men so gross?
At least he wasn’t a talker. She gave him Miriam’s address, he grunted, and that was that.
The city lights fell away as they crossed into Roswell, replaced by stretches of dark road and towering trees that pressed in from both sides. Streetlamps grew sparse. The houses, when they appeared, sat back from the road like they were hiding—big lots, long driveways, too much space between everything. It felt more like a forest with houses than a neighborhood.
Half a mile or so from their destination, they’d passed a Greyhound station—a squat, windowless structure with flickering lights and a handful of people sitting outside on a long bench. Willow had craned her neck to stare. She’d never seen a bus station up close. It’d struck her as sad and foreign, like something from a movie about runaways.
Then she’d remembered thatshewas a runaway. At that, she’d felt a surge of adrenaline and had decided that the bus station held a certain gritty allure. Not for her, necessarily, but for the kind of girl who lived on cigarettes and eyeliner.
