Free And Now You Can Go by Vendela Vida

happened. I don't need to turn in papers for their classes, they write, not until I feel like it. The wording in both their letters is so similar I know they've discussed the matter.

    Someone's left a broken candy cane in my folder. I pocket it, knowing I'll probably find it there, in my coat, next year.

    On my way out of the building I say hi to a few people I know drinking coffee at a table and move on. After I've left the table, I turn back and see their heads have huddled together in unison, like those of synchronized swimmers. There's no question in my mind they're discussing the incident in the park. There's always someone who hasn't heard, someone who wants more details, someone who wants to blame me.

    Was what happened in the park a big deal or not? Big deal, not a big deal. Big deal, not a big deal , I say in my head over and over, like a girl plucking off petals from a daisy. I'm saying not a big deal when I hear someone call out behind me.

    "Hey, Ellis," the voice says.

    I turn. It's Tom. He's coming from the pool. He's wearing the hat he wears after swimming, and the pieces of hair that are poking out underneath have frozen together into small icicles.

    I don't know what comes over me, but I start to run. My bag thumps against my thigh as I curve around students, sprinting.

    "Ellis," he calls again. I turn back and see he's running after me. I take steps as big as I can risk, avoiding ice patches. I make the green light across Broadway and run without turning back to see if he's still on my tail.

    When I enter the lobby of my building, I'm coughing. The cold air is still inside my throat, tickling. Danny's on duty. I see he's been drinking again. There's no sign of a bottle, but I
    spy an open can of Coke and a coffee thermos. I picture him fun-neling his rum into the thermos, thinking no one will ever know. He's a big child. I can't help liking him.

    "I've been looking for you," he says. He looks like he might have been handsome once; now there's a black hair curling out of his nostril. "Louis thinks he's seen your man."

    Louis is another doorman, the one who works until three in the afternoon.

    "My man?" The running and sweating has made my head itch under my wool hat. I take the hat off.

    "The man from the park." "Where?"
    "He's been walking around here during the day, right out there on Riverside." "Oh God," I say.
    "He didn't want to tell you," Danny says, "because he wasn't sure. He's never seen the guy. But this fellow has red hair and wears a leather jacket."

    I think about calling the female police officer who gave me her card. But what would I say? Someone who hasn't seen the guy, who has no idea what he looks like, thinks he recognizes him?

    "Don't worry," Danny says, doing his best not to slur. "I'll keep good watch over you."

    "Thanks," I say, and look toward the glass door. Tom would have been at the door by now, if he was coming.

    Up in my room, I get out the rug tape someone once suggested I use when having a party, and tape down the fake Oriental in my bedroom. I get up on the bed and jump down onto the rug. I turn on my CD player and insert a Guns N' Roses CD someone gave me as, I think, a joke. I put "Paradise City" on repeat and dance. The first time it plays I dance the way I dance now. The next time it comes on I dance the way I did in college. Then late high school. Then early high school. I get down on the rug, on my back, and spin around and around. The rug tape keeps the Oriental in place perfectly.

    . . .

    I have to get away. I'm going back to San Francisco for Christmas, but not for three more days, and it's six hundred dollars to change my ticket. I call the 800 number and ask an
    owner-representative, "How can it be six hundred dollars to change my ticket when it only cost three seventy-nine to begin with?"

    She can't explain.

    "Are there discounts for deaths in the family?" I ask.

    "Yes," she says, her cheerful voice now lowered an octave with compassion.

    "What