quieter than I expect it to be. The wind picks up, icy against my bare legs, and I shiver in my thin T-shirt. I hug my arms close to my body. “Happy birthday,” I whisper in the darkness.
Above me, the dark, moonless expanse is thick with stars. I can’t remember the last time I noticed the night sky. When I was younger, I was enthralled by it, awed by its scale and mystery. On clear nights, I’d sit out here for hours, connecting the dots with my fingers, bringing animals and objects to life in my mind, while my dad sat beside me, sketching out my creations in his notebook, describing the exact location of each so none would be lost or forgotten. My creatures are up there now, right where I left them. Letting my head fall back, I trace their outlines with my fingertips, wishing I knew the real constellations.
My vision blurs as I stare, unblinking, at the starry sky. And then, out of nowhere, a strange sense of purpose overtakes me. Like a thunderclap, the words THIS IS IT reverberate in my brain. I blink—hard—and the sky comes into sharp focus. I blink again, trying to make sense of what I’m feeling. What is it? But the stars aren’t giving anything away.
3
HERE
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 2009
(my eighteenth birthday)
My heart is pounding so violently that my ribs ache.
I whip my head to the right and see a twin-size bed a few feet away, pushed up against another white wall, this one decorated with a framed black-and-white photograph of the Seattle Space Needle. The bed is unmade and its flowered sheets look slept in, and the clock on the windowsill next to it is blinking 12:00. There is no sign of the bed’s owner.
Where am I?
I scan the rest of the small room: two identical desks, two identical dressers, two closed doors. I wonder briefly if I could be in prison before deciding that flowered sheets and arty photographs probably aren’t government-issue. My mind careens through a parade of other horrible possibilities. Maybe those two doors are locked. Maybe I was drugged and kidnapped, and this is where my captors have been holding me. I think back to last night. Did I remember to dead-bolt my door? The flannel pants and gray Brookside Cross-Country T-shirt I’m wearing are mine, but I don’t remember having brought them to L.A. with me, and I definitely wasn’t wearing them last night. I never changed out of my pajama-dress. What the hell is going on?
There are voices outside. People talking. Someone laughing. I get out of bed and move toward the window, which, to my relief, is not barred or locked but halfway open and clearly the source of both the sunlight and the icy air. I push the glass all the way up and stick my head out.
The window is on the second story of a U-shaped brick building, overlooking an enclosed courtyard. The voices I hear belong to a group of students, laden with backpacks and messenger bags, gathered around a wooden bench. The room, the building, the kids outside. This has to be a college campus. But where? This doesn’t look anything like the pictures I’ve seen of UCLA or USC. And besides, the air feels much too cool for this to be Southern California. My fear turns into panic. I have to get out of here.
I walk to one of the doors, say a quick prayer that it’s not locked, and open it. It’s a closet. As I survey its contents, my forearms prickle with goose bumps. The clothes inside are mine.
On the other side of the other door is a short hallway leading to a small common room. I see the end of a green couch and the edge of a coffee table. An out-of-commission fireplace that’s doubling as a pantry, stocked with a box of organic oatmeal, two bags of cinnamon soy crisps, and a jar of almond butter. A fancy-looking espresso machine on the floor. Purple Nikes by the door. And an ankle.
The ankle—attached to a small, delicate-looking, bare female foot—is suspended in the air, parallel to the ground, as if its owner is balancing on one leg. I take a step closer,
Above me, the dark, moonless expanse is thick with stars. I can’t remember the last time I noticed the night sky. When I was younger, I was enthralled by it, awed by its scale and mystery. On clear nights, I’d sit out here for hours, connecting the dots with my fingers, bringing animals and objects to life in my mind, while my dad sat beside me, sketching out my creations in his notebook, describing the exact location of each so none would be lost or forgotten. My creatures are up there now, right where I left them. Letting my head fall back, I trace their outlines with my fingertips, wishing I knew the real constellations.
My vision blurs as I stare, unblinking, at the starry sky. And then, out of nowhere, a strange sense of purpose overtakes me. Like a thunderclap, the words THIS IS IT reverberate in my brain. I blink—hard—and the sky comes into sharp focus. I blink again, trying to make sense of what I’m feeling. What is it? But the stars aren’t giving anything away.
3
HERE
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 2009
(my eighteenth birthday)
My heart is pounding so violently that my ribs ache.
I whip my head to the right and see a twin-size bed a few feet away, pushed up against another white wall, this one decorated with a framed black-and-white photograph of the Seattle Space Needle. The bed is unmade and its flowered sheets look slept in, and the clock on the windowsill next to it is blinking 12:00. There is no sign of the bed’s owner.
Where am I?
I scan the rest of the small room: two identical desks, two identical dressers, two closed doors. I wonder briefly if I could be in prison before deciding that flowered sheets and arty photographs probably aren’t government-issue. My mind careens through a parade of other horrible possibilities. Maybe those two doors are locked. Maybe I was drugged and kidnapped, and this is where my captors have been holding me. I think back to last night. Did I remember to dead-bolt my door? The flannel pants and gray Brookside Cross-Country T-shirt I’m wearing are mine, but I don’t remember having brought them to L.A. with me, and I definitely wasn’t wearing them last night. I never changed out of my pajama-dress. What the hell is going on?
There are voices outside. People talking. Someone laughing. I get out of bed and move toward the window, which, to my relief, is not barred or locked but halfway open and clearly the source of both the sunlight and the icy air. I push the glass all the way up and stick my head out.
The window is on the second story of a U-shaped brick building, overlooking an enclosed courtyard. The voices I hear belong to a group of students, laden with backpacks and messenger bags, gathered around a wooden bench. The room, the building, the kids outside. This has to be a college campus. But where? This doesn’t look anything like the pictures I’ve seen of UCLA or USC. And besides, the air feels much too cool for this to be Southern California. My fear turns into panic. I have to get out of here.
I walk to one of the doors, say a quick prayer that it’s not locked, and open it. It’s a closet. As I survey its contents, my forearms prickle with goose bumps. The clothes inside are mine.
On the other side of the other door is a short hallway leading to a small common room. I see the end of a green couch and the edge of a coffee table. An out-of-commission fireplace that’s doubling as a pantry, stocked with a box of organic oatmeal, two bags of cinnamon soy crisps, and a jar of almond butter. A fancy-looking espresso machine on the floor. Purple Nikes by the door. And an ankle.
The ankle—attached to a small, delicate-looking, bare female foot—is suspended in the air, parallel to the ground, as if its owner is balancing on one leg. I take a step closer,
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