“You can turn my car around. She’s not in Nowhere, Texas, anymore.”
I say, “Thanks,” trying to sound as if I know what he’s talking about, as if I were already halfway to Nowhere, Texas.
“Word is, guys got there inside of five hours, and they scoured the place.”
“If other guys are looking for her, why am I looking for her?”
His voice goes dark. “You’re doing more than look for her.”
Parked on a side street near Calvin’s house, I surf through all things Nicolette. I find red hair and a blurry face that could be anyone, posted on Facebook by some girl named Piper who goes to Southern Methodist. While I was driving straight through like a madman, this was sitting there online, and forty-three people were commenting.
It’s possible I’m screwing this up big-time.
22
Cat
I stop when I hit the Pacific Ocean.
Union Station in Los Angeles. Cavernous. Beautiful. Crawling with police. I walk out in a parade of ladies trailing wheelie bags into a noon sun so bright, it glints through sunglasses in shade. Rows of palm trees. Sky so blue, it looks fake.
Two miles to the library. I know the exact specifications for where I want to hide out. Four turns on the computer, and I’ve found it and the bus route to get to it.
I sleep at a late-night movie in a mall bordering a commuter college no one I know will ever attend. There are people hanging out at an all-night Mexican place. Every hour until seven a.m., I buy some cheap new thing to keep my table. By morning, there are thousands of students milling around. I’m like Waldo on a two-page spread of ten thousand other Waldos.
If you think I’m going to make the same mistake I made in Galkey, guess again. As if there was just one.
I’m hunkering down until no one can tell that Cat Davis is me.
Not people who saw me once at camp. Not people who grew up down the street from me. Not me when I pass my own reflection in a plate-glass window.
Plus, I’m constantly scared.
Which is good.
In real life, if you’re so scared, you’re debilitated, you’re supposed to suck it up. Go to your happy place. Talk it over with your stepfather, who encourages you to stop hiding in your room and go back to fourth grade even if the back of your skirt did get caught in your panties so everyone saw your butt.
In the new real life, scared is my motto and creed and religion. It makes me nocturnal, cleaning out offices on night shift. I got the job off Craigslist. At sunrise, when I’ve mopped my last floor, the boss hands me a wad of cash.
In the room I’m subletting (also Craigslist, also cash), I do hundreds of crunches. Deep knee bends like a manic jack-in-the-box. Push-ups and headstands and walking on my hands between the closet and the tiny bathroom.
Then I eat a bag of frosted Winchell’s Donuts.
I’m not actually fat. I pass the pinch test for not being morbidly obese. Let’s just say I won’t be climbing to the top of a human pyramid anytime soon.
What used to be empty space between my thighs is filled with slabs of me that rub against each other when I walk. I’m cushioned in a muscled sheet of safety.
I live half a block from three bus lines, a quarter mile to the metro. Be fit. Run. Hitch with whoever gets you off the street fastest.
When the girls who rent the other rooms in the apartment are gone, I sneak into the living room and watch Ultimate Fighting on their cable.
23
Jack
I’m in a crap motel outside Laughlin, where I’ve been sitting since I left Calvin’s house. I paid with Manx cash and signed the register with illegible handwriting. From a hundred miles away, Summerlin feels like ancient history.
It took less than a day for Olivia to download my attachment, a fake contest for tickets to see Taylor Swift live. I might as well be standing right behind her every time she logs on, draped in Monica’s Mermaid Ninjas’ mantle of invisibility. I’m not pleased to be this level of creeper, but at least I’m not turning on her camera remotely and watching her undress—I could, but I wouldn’t. But then, the guy in the cheesy horror movie who chants, “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” probably doesn’t think he’s a freak either.
I keep clicking on Olivia’s screen, refreshing it, waiting for it to update with what I’m looking for. As soon as Nicolette e-mails or Facebook messages or contacts her in any way from a computer, I can find her.
I watch Olivia buy a skirt online and shoes that don’t have much to them except heels. For hours, all she gets is spam and notices from her dad’s church. Her youth group has a Facebook page. She’s bringing lemon bars to their next meeting. This gets eight likes, a “yum,” and a smiley face.
I eat cartons of KFC, Big Macs, and chili cheese fries.
I wait a day, two days, five days.
Don says, “Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one? Speed it up.”
“Do you think I want to draw this out?”
“Don’t make me wish I got somebody else for this.”