It was around three in the morning when I woke up, restless, and saw the glint of metal from my car keys on the windowsill. I heard the neighbor’s dog yapping from somewhere next door, but even after I’d sandwiched my head underneath the weight of my pillow, the sound kept ringing in my ears.
I reached out for my car keys thoughtlessly, dropping the weight from one hand to the other. There was no way I’d be able to fall asleep again; I dropped the keys into the pocket of my sweatpants and headed for the kitchen.
I found a pen sitting on the counter with a pink notepad beside it. The first page read, in my Mom’s tidy cursive, ‘Wheat bread, grapefruits, hamburger buns.’ I tore that off and wrote my goodbye on the next page.
Mom and Dad - I really appreciate all that you’ve done for me, but I need some space to think things over for myself. Please don’t worry about me, I promise to stay safe, and I’ll call you as soon as I can. Love, Stella.
I could have written more, but there wasn’t much left to say. I taped the note on the front of the coffee table, where they’d see it first thing in the morning.
It only took one trip to lug my bags, quietly as possible, into the garage and into the trunk of my beat-up Taurus. Just before I slipped into the driver’s seat, I sat on the hood of the car and memorized the front of the house. I wondered how long it would be until I’d see this again: the perfect paint job, the stain-glass windows, the exotic flowers blooming along the driveway. Maybe if things were different, I could have stayed. I could have grown up to be the ‘it girl,’ the one the neighbors talked of fondly, the one my mother would brag about when she gossiped at the produce market. Maybe, instead of enduring it, I could have enjoyed it. But because this was the real world, I owed myself some dignity. I gave the front porch a two-finger salute before I drove off.
In my opinion, road trips are always better when you’re by yourself. The first two hours were easy, because the sun wasn’t up yet, and I had the whole road to myself. I decided to keep the radio on low volume anyway, just in case - _____________ had a curfew for kids under the age of eighteen, and I still had a few more months to go. Besides, the last thing I needed was to be driven home in a cop car, especially if my parents had already read my note. Every few minutes my eyes would flicker to the clock below the dashboard and I’d picture them standing in the kitchen, wearing bath robes and orthopedic slippers, their mouths in a perfect ‘o’ while they deciphered my hasty handwriting.
Once I escaped the city limits, I started to relax. Nobody was going to come after me - yet. I unloaded the snacks from the backseat and feasted an early breakfast, alternating between Fig Newtons, Oreos, Dr. Pepper, and salt & vinegar-flavored Pringles. I kept the road map balanced on my lap while I ate. I also had the MapQuested version propped beside the gear shift, so I could glance at the directions when I needed them. Most of it was easy to follow, despite the fact that I was in the middle of uncharted territory, but I was sure to keep track of things I’d passed - houses, pay phones, warehouses - as a precaution. I even named a couple of them, certain things that caught my eye, like the Striped Barn or the Man In The Purple Jogging Suit. I waved at whoever I saw on the road, but I couldn’t tell if they were being friendly or if they were just shocked to see a newcomer passing through their deserted hometown. Not that the town even had a name - not one that I could find.
It was nice to see some new faces, to greet people who didn’t know me. In _____, if you told a person hello, they would think, Oh, there’s Stella Massey, Christie’s only child, the one that flunked her biology test. Word got around fast, and if you weren’t in the Inner Circle, you had no way to intercept the rumors from the truth. But out here, with trees and sky and grass, there was nothing to tell. Nobody cared. And why should they? They had their own lives to live.
I found a disposable camera in the glove compartment and stopped every few miles to take pictures of anything and everything: a gas station, a mud puddle, a pine tree, a square of cracked pavement. I even took a picture of a pair of sneakers someone had strung over the wires of an empty intersection, and an abandoned pair of overalls that looked as if they’d been run over by a semi-truck. I tilted the rearview mirror and propped my feet above the steering wheel, just for a moment, to snap that perfect frame. In the background there was a huge expanse of green and blue, and I was smiling, my sunglasses reflecting the window.
By noon, I’d probably scaled half the state. It was only a short drive to Colby, but I wasted most of the day going in circles. Around four o’ clock I pulled into a Marathon for gas and took a quick nap in an A&W parking lot; I woke up when the manager tapped on my car window to yell at me for loitering. I would have ordered a Coke just to calm her down, but the contents of my purse had spilled all over the car floor, and I was too tired to dig around for spare change.
It was a few minutes after that when I pulled into the parking lot of a cheap motel and found my cell phone inside an empty bag of potato chips. It was getting dark outside - my dashboard read 8:32 pm, and I could barely keep my eyes open. It was stupid of me to bring my phone along in the first place. Was it possible to track someone‘s location through their cell phone? I hadn’t called anyone since I’d left home, but…
“You have thirty-two missed calls,” the automatic voice announced as I flipped the cover open. “Four new messages.”
My joy from earlier had vanished in smoke. I took a deep, shaky breath, and pressed 1 to listen.
“First new message.” My hand shook, and I pressed the speaker so hard against my ear that it hurt.
“Stella, where are you?” I recognized my mother’s voice, shaky, and fast approaching a tantrum. “We’re worried about you, honey, we just want to make sure you’re safe. Stella, please - ” There was a click, and her voice ended abruptly.
“Second message.”
“Stella? Stella?” It was Mom, again. “Sweetheart, please come home. We’ll talk this out, okay? We just want to make sure you’re okay. We love you, honey. Call us back, okay? We want you home.”
“Third message.” I closed my eyes. Somewhere from behind, a car door slammed.
“Stella.” It was Dad’s voice this time. “This isn’t funny. Come home right away, and call back as soon as you get this.” He sounded annoyed - I could picture his eyes rolling, even as I listened. As an afterthought, he added, “We love you.”
Click.
“Fourth message.”
“Stella, what are you thinking?” It took me a minute to realize who this voice belonged to. I’d been expecting to hear from my distant relatives, or neighbors, or even a police officer. But it was Carrie’s barking voice that I heard instead, that made me lift the speaker away with a wince.
“This is crazy. You have no idea how upset your parents are, not to mention Rachel. She hasn’t stopped crying since she found out. This is the stupidest stunt you‘ve ever pulled, Ella. When you were talking to us yesterday, after Adam‘s party…” Her tone became suddenly sympathetic, as if she’d just realized how much trouble I’d gotten myself into. “Just hurry home okay? Don’t do anything stupid. And call me.”
I snapped my phone shut, resisting the urge to fling it hard against the gravel. I slipped it into my pocket instead, and pulled up the hood of my jacket as I headed for the entrance of the motel.
My room was tiny, and it smelled like mildew. The wallpaper was peeling, the coffee maker was broken, and the TV set made weird noises, but I was so exhausted that I just didn’t care. I slipped under the bed covers with my socks and shoes on, still wearing the clothes I’d left in, and with the sound of moving cars outside my window.
I couldn’t hold back the feeling that my bravado was beginning to wear off. I couldn’t call it home sickness, because I had no home to return to. ‘Homesickness’ was a word for summer camp girls, not post-graduate runaways. And I wasn’t lonely for the place I’d left - just the people in it. I found myself daydreaming about them: Mom and Dad, frantic; Carrie, hurt and worried; Rachel, in tears; Adam, pissed. I had no doubt about him. If I knew Adam (and unfortunately, I did), he wouldn’t be worrying about my disappearance at all. He’d just be angry that his showgirl had abandoned him. In an odd sort of way, I missed that phase. I missed him calling at midnight to whisper that he was thinking about me, and I missed being carried into his car after school, and I missed watching movies in his basement, eating microwave popcorn while I snuggled in his lap.
But I’d seen both ends of the story. I knew better than to think that Adam missed me in the same way, and that hurt.
Guys, I imagined Carrie scoff. You loosen their leash, and they’ll take a mile.
Carrie. It hurt to think of her, too.
I leaned against the hotel mattress and scrunched myself into fetal position, my face buried into my knees. Even now, I couldn’t bring myself to regret leaving home, but forgetting was harder than I’d thought. By now I should be in Colby, searching for a job. I should be happy.
Instinctively, I reached for my phone. The battery was nearly dead; I punched in the numbers quickly, and waited for the dial tone with my heart pumping in reverse.
“Stella?” Carrie asked. “Is that you?”
I took a deep breath. “Um, yeah. It’s me.”
There was a moment of silence. “Oh, my God,” she hissed. “Stella Massey, you are in big trouble. Do you even know what you’ve put me through over the last - ”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I should have told you when I was leaving, but this is important, and I don’t know what else to do.” My voice nearly broke at the end, and I caught my breath, speaking the last part in a rush. “Are you with Rachel?”
“No,” Carrie said, annoyed, “but I was thinking about inviting her over. What’s your deal, anyway? Didn’t you get my messages?”
“Carrie!” I groaned. “This is important.”
“Well, fine,” she snapped. “But really, what was I supposed to think? And don’t think that I’m letting you off the hook, Ella. You’d better start explaining.”
“Okay. Just listen,” I sighed with relief. I rolled onto my feet and shifted the phone into my other hand. “I’m at a hotel near Brunswick. How fast can you guys get here?”
About six hours later, I woke up to knocking. I practically lunged for the door; I was out of breath by the time Carrie and Rachel walked inside, but after checking my watch, I was surprised.
“How did you get here so soon?”
Carrie raised an eyebrow. “How long did it take you?”
I was about to answer when I saw the look on her face - then I shut my mouth, realizing that she’d meant it as a snub. “Do you realize how long we’ve been waiting for this call?” Carrie continued. “It took us six hours to get here, and I’m guessing it took you even longer. And you never once stopped to say, ‘Hey, maybe I’ll call my friends, just to make they don’t have a heart attack’?”
“Okay,” I sighed. “Okay, Carrie, I get it. I am a terrible friend.”
She shrugged, turning to examine the cheap décor - ratty drapes, hung crooked by the balcony window; stained checkerboard tiles in the “dining area”; a prehistoric radio with two-foot-long antennas; and a Sweeney Todd theatre poster, in a broken frame above the broken microwave.
Rachel bit her lip. “She didn’t mean that.”
“But she was thinking it,” I rushed on. “And she would have been right, if she’d said it. And I understand what I’ve put you through, and I am terribly, irreversibly sorry.” I spoke the last part loudly, to make sure Carrie heard, but she gave an audible yawn from behind. It would take a lot more to earn her forgiveness.
“What do you want me to say?” I begged. “I’m on my knees here, okay? You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, either of you. You’re my last hope. I just…I’m counting on you.”
Rachel was practically in tears by now. Even Carrie, I was relieved to see, had managed to soften her expression somewhat. “Please don’t do this to me,” I groaned, because I could feel the words coming on. “Please don’t make go back.”
“It’s okay, Stella,” Rachel murmured. “You don’t have to go anywhere.”
“Hey, come on, now,” Carrie said loudly. “Look at you, Stella. A couple days ago you were fine, and now what? I’ve never seen you like this. You’re just…drained. And honestly, it’s scaring me.” I watched her pick through my bag of toiletries, digging out a towel and a clean pair of sweatpants. “You need to pull yourself together, for our sake. Now go shower, ‘kay? No offense, but you really look like you could use it.”
I shook my head. “No hot water.”
After a quick phone call to the front desk, however, I did. Carrie also ordered room service - cheese puffs, with chicken Caesar salad and three banana smoothies. I hate bananas, but I said nothing.
I couldn’t tell if they were discussing me while I showered, and I was glad to have the sound of running water block it out. I stayed in the grimy shower stall until I finally heard one of them rap against the bathroom door, and I hastily toweled off and changed into the sweatpants. Carrie had laid out a purple tank top, too, but I didn’t recognize it. It smelled like her - sweet and flowery.
“Okay, Stella,” Rachel said quietly once I joined them on the balcony. I felt defensive, as if I were bracing myself against what I knew she’d have to say. “You can’t stay here forever. You refuse to come home. You’re pinching pennies already - ”
“I can find a job,” I objected.
“ - and your parents are worried sick.”
Carrie gave a solemn nod. “How exactly do you plan to make this work?”
All of a sudden, I was deflated. There was no argument; I had nothing to work with. I was on a trial, two against one, and whatever I said could, and would, be used against me.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Silence.
“Okay,” Carrie pressed. “Well, what was your plan?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I protested. “I need help. Whatever I planned clearly isn’t working out, and I’m tired and hungry and poor, and I do not want to go home!”
I listened to a car alarm going off from outside - a wailing siren-sound that was followed by loud cursing from below. I opened my eyes and glanced over the edge: a red builder’s van, old-fashioned, with a broken tail light. I stretched my fingers over the railing and pressed my cheek against the white-hot metal. I could still feel their glares on me, incredulous, and it made me more defensive.
“I’m not suicidal, or anything, okay? I don’t hate my life. Other than…well, a lot of things, my life was okay. Not perfect, but…okay. And I thought I could handle it. I really did.”
More silence. And then -
“Stella?” Rachel whispered, as if I were a dangerous animal ready to spring at any moment. I felt her hand on my shoulder, and I tensed. “I know this is hard. And we don’t know what to say, exactly. But maybe, you know, if you ever need to just talk, you could. With us. And if you need anything, we’re here.”
“Anything,” Carrie repeated. “We mean it.”
“Thanks, guys. That means a lot to me.” My voice sounded mechanical, as if I’d already rehearsed the lines over and over in my head. And I had.
“Okay. Good.” Rachel nodded. “But, here’s the thing…we’d planned on staying longer, Stella, we really did. But…”
“Your parents are going to wonder where you are,” I finished. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?” Carrie pressed. “We’d rather stay here with you, really. But we haven’t thought of an excuse yet.”
“We’ll be back soon,” Rachel added. “Just call. Anytime.”
“Anytime soon,” Carrie corrected. “We miss you already.”
I nodded and turned back to the window. All three of us watched as the owner of the red builder’s van swept into the parking lot and proceeded to swing his foot, hard, against the hood of the car. The alarm stopped with an abrupt clang, which made his swearing much clearer as he hopped onto his other foot, howling.
“You should go,” I sighed. “Don’t get in trouble because of me, okay? Just…think of an excuse on the way.”
“Stella?” Rachel asked, so softly she was barely audible. “What should we tell your parents? They need to know you’re safe. They’re so worried, Stella…”
“Don’t,” I said quickly. “Don’t tell them anything. I’ll take care of it.”
"Fine," Carrie muttered, clearly disapproving. "I guess we still have enough time to find a restaurant. This hotel food sucks. Olga’s Kitchen, anyone?”
I shook my head. “I’ve looked.”
“No kidding?” she asked, eyes wide. “Wow. I guess we have it pretty good back home.”
“I guess,” I echoed flatly. The red truck owner continued to curse, still massaging his foot one-legged, until he collapsed altogether onto a patch of grass beside the gravel. “There’s a diner down the block, somewhere. Weaver’s Roadhouse.”
“Weaver’s,” Carrie repeated with a snort. “God. Someone needs to introduce these people to Olga Bread.”
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