Free Blue Notes by Carrie Lofty

don’t complain when she wrenches the rubber bands too tight and snags the tangles. I fight tears. I’m terrified, with a stomach made of cold water.
    “Good girl,” Mom says, her face drawn tight, like a skeleton wearing skin that’s too small. She kneels, with both hands on my upper arms. “Are you hungry, baby?”
    I nod.
    “Then you’ll do this. Stand by the side of the road and wait for someone to stop. Lie your fucking ass off.”
    “Lie how?”
    “Just get them to stop.” She glances back at my dad, who’s loading a pistol. “We’ll take care of the rest.”
    “You hungry, Rosie girl?”
    “Yes, Daddy.”
    “Me too. We’ll get some dinner after this is over. When we get to town. You can have anything you want.”
    “Cheeseburger and ice cream,” I say without hesitation.
    “And if you don’t do this proper? What will happen?”
    I shudder. If I make a mistake, there was no telling what would happen. They do a good job of keeping up appearances. They don’t leave bruises people can see.
    “I don’t know.” I’m swallowing the tears now. I heard them say once that I’m a convincing crier. That I pluck heartstrings. I wonder if they think I’m a good con, like them, or if they know how easy it is to wind me up before setting me loose.
    “What’s that bear you like so much?” Dad asks.
    My heart jumps. “Hammie?”
    “Yeah, we’ll have a Hammie bonfire.” He tucks the pistol in the back waistband of his jeans. “And you can forget about dinner.”
    They disappear into the woods. I’m shaking. My shoes are too small—white patent leather with scuffs on the toes. I look at the scuffs as I force my legs to move.
    Standing where headlights will shine on my lace and roses dress, I hop up and down, waving my arms at the traffic. Car after car after semi whizzes past. I couldn’t eat a cheeseburger and ice cream now. I’m too sick with worry.
    Finally a minivan slows down and parks in front of the Buick. There’s a guy driving, and maybe his daughter in the passenger seat. She’s probably a few years older than me. I want to climb in through her open window and hide in the back and tell the guy to floor it.
    Instead, I wipe away what are real tears. “I need help,” I say.
    The man unhooks his seat belt and leans toward the passenger window, angling across the girl. “What happened, honey?”
    “Dad went for a tow truck. It was a long time ago. I was supposed to stay inside the car. But I’m scared something happened to him.”
    “Don’t worry,” the man says. “We’ll get this sorted out. What’s your name?”
    I hesitate. Who am I now? Lila? Sara? I can’t remember. I can’t remember!
    “Um . . .”
    The man takes a good look at me, at the Sunday school dress I’m wearing on a Thursday night. “Where were you going?”
    I hesitate. “Kalamazoo.”
    “Yeah, but where? To see family? Just passing through?”
    I flinch when I hear the cocking of my dad’s gun. He’d crept around the other side of the minivan. The muzzle is flush with the man’s temple. “Out of the van. The girl too.”
    It’s all over in a few minutes. The girl looks as terrified as I feel when my folks make her and her dad lie facedown in the gravel at the side of the road. Dad searches the guy for a cell phone, then steals it and his wallet.
    “Hands behind your back. Don’t move. She’s driving,” Dad says, angling his head toward my mom, “but I’ll have this on you the whole time.”
    Mom transfers our stuff from the LeSabre to the minivan in two trips. She orders me to get in. That’s where I’d imagined taking refuge, but not with my parents at the wheel. My legs are shaking. The toes of my shoes pinch. I want to yank the bows out of my hair.
    Dad backs up slowly, toward the passenger door. He’s got the gun aimed right for the man, whose little girl is crying. I wish I had permission to cry.
    “Where’s that bear?” he calls to Mom.
    “Got it.”
    I’m already strapped in