Read Online The Girl She Used to Be by David Cristofano - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Cristofano
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eye.
“Meet me out front in five minutes,” he says, staring at the floor, his voice weakened. “And be alone.” He heads for the door.
“Wait! Should I bring my stuff?”
Jonathan scoffs. “
What
stuff?”
He grabs the door and pulls it behind him and though I expect a slam, he closes it so gently that I never hear the click of
the latch.
If you ever find yourself getting ready to go on the run—or in WITSEC, even—the best advice I can give you is to go to the
bathroom first. Between nerves and unplanned fluid consumption, you’ll wish you had taken the requisite thirty seconds to
do your business.
This leaves me four and a half minutes.
I have nothing to take. Again. No photos or memorabilia. No clothes, except the pee-stained and sweat-soaked clothes from
yesterday, which will not be making the journey. So this is everything about who I am: a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, a bra,
a pair of panties, and a pair of abused sandals.
Nothing but the Clothes on My Back: A Memoir
.
I have three minutes and for some reason I’m playing with my hair—and not from nervousness; who knows why, but I’m trying
to make it look good.
I am officially losing my mind.
I have two minutes and out of some real fear and last-second panic, I bolt from my room and start banging on Sean’s door.
I get no answer but I can hear him coughing and retching somewhere deeper inside.
I have thirty seconds left and Sean, apparently, will not be saving the day. And here’s the kicker: I don’t try any harder
to give him the opportunity. I know that behind this motel door resides the same answer, the same solution, the same level
of commitment and concern for my welfare that I’ve been using as a feckless crutch for almost my entire life.
I stop knocking.
I loosen my fist and drop my hand to my side and lumber up to the front of the motel, where I find Jonathan sitting in the
driver’s seat of a cherry red, late-model Audi S4 convertible. With the top down.
I slow my pace.
He smiles, and though he’s wearing sunglasses, I’m pretty sure he just winked at me.
I stare at him and say, “Why not just paint a target on the back?”
He waves me over to the car. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning I cannot think of a more conspicuous way for you to get me out of here.”
“What do I care? I’ve committed no crime, at least none that would concern the pukemeister back there. And besides, I’m not
holding a gun to your head or a knife to your throat. You’re coming willingly.”
“Wh—are you kidding? The gun or knife is implied, Jonathan.”
“I specifically told you I would not hurt you.”
“And I specifically told you I perceive you to be a liar.” I take a few steps closer and touch the car. It is hot from the
sun and the smell of the warm leather keeps me still. “Besides you
did
have a knife to my throat not too long ago, remember?”
He laughs. “You mean this?” He reaches in his jacket and pulls out a Montblanc pen. “Hop in.”
I bite my lip and gaze over my shoulder, back toward the motel, looking for a sign from Sean, for a reason to stay, for any
notion that this time, this relocation, this persona, will be different.
I get nothing more than a cool, salty breeze.
I gulp as I open the car door and slowly ease my way down on the seat. It fits like a glove.
“I’m not really dressed for riding with the top down,” I say. “I mean, you’ve got a jacket and sweater on and I—”
“Wait.” He reaches behind his seat and grabs a mangled shopping bag and hands it to me. “I crossed over that monstrous bridge-tunnel
thing last night and picked up some clothes for you. I figured you weren’t going to have much.” He turns away and swallows.
“I hope these are your style. I was guessing you were about a six?”
I almost correct him. “You… bought me clothes?”
“Yeah, Norfolk’s not even an hour from here. I did a little power-shopping last night.”
I reach into
“Meet me out front in five minutes,” he says, staring at the floor, his voice weakened. “And be alone.” He heads for the door.
“Wait! Should I bring my stuff?”
Jonathan scoffs. “
What
stuff?”
He grabs the door and pulls it behind him and though I expect a slam, he closes it so gently that I never hear the click of
the latch.
If you ever find yourself getting ready to go on the run—or in WITSEC, even—the best advice I can give you is to go to the
bathroom first. Between nerves and unplanned fluid consumption, you’ll wish you had taken the requisite thirty seconds to
do your business.
This leaves me four and a half minutes.
I have nothing to take. Again. No photos or memorabilia. No clothes, except the pee-stained and sweat-soaked clothes from
yesterday, which will not be making the journey. So this is everything about who I am: a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, a bra,
a pair of panties, and a pair of abused sandals.
Nothing but the Clothes on My Back: A Memoir
.
I have three minutes and for some reason I’m playing with my hair—and not from nervousness; who knows why, but I’m trying
to make it look good.
I am officially losing my mind.
I have two minutes and out of some real fear and last-second panic, I bolt from my room and start banging on Sean’s door.
I get no answer but I can hear him coughing and retching somewhere deeper inside.
I have thirty seconds left and Sean, apparently, will not be saving the day. And here’s the kicker: I don’t try any harder
to give him the opportunity. I know that behind this motel door resides the same answer, the same solution, the same level
of commitment and concern for my welfare that I’ve been using as a feckless crutch for almost my entire life.
I stop knocking.
I loosen my fist and drop my hand to my side and lumber up to the front of the motel, where I find Jonathan sitting in the
driver’s seat of a cherry red, late-model Audi S4 convertible. With the top down.
I slow my pace.
He smiles, and though he’s wearing sunglasses, I’m pretty sure he just winked at me.
I stare at him and say, “Why not just paint a target on the back?”
He waves me over to the car. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning I cannot think of a more conspicuous way for you to get me out of here.”
“What do I care? I’ve committed no crime, at least none that would concern the pukemeister back there. And besides, I’m not
holding a gun to your head or a knife to your throat. You’re coming willingly.”
“Wh—are you kidding? The gun or knife is implied, Jonathan.”
“I specifically told you I would not hurt you.”
“And I specifically told you I perceive you to be a liar.” I take a few steps closer and touch the car. It is hot from the
sun and the smell of the warm leather keeps me still. “Besides you
did
have a knife to my throat not too long ago, remember?”
He laughs. “You mean this?” He reaches in his jacket and pulls out a Montblanc pen. “Hop in.”
I bite my lip and gaze over my shoulder, back toward the motel, looking for a sign from Sean, for a reason to stay, for any
notion that this time, this relocation, this persona, will be different.
I get nothing more than a cool, salty breeze.
I gulp as I open the car door and slowly ease my way down on the seat. It fits like a glove.
“I’m not really dressed for riding with the top down,” I say. “I mean, you’ve got a jacket and sweater on and I—”
“Wait.” He reaches behind his seat and grabs a mangled shopping bag and hands it to me. “I crossed over that monstrous bridge-tunnel
thing last night and picked up some clothes for you. I figured you weren’t going to have much.” He turns away and swallows.
“I hope these are your style. I was guessing you were about a six?”
I almost correct him. “You… bought me clothes?”
“Yeah, Norfolk’s not even an hour from here. I did a little power-shopping last night.”
I reach into
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