Free Becoming Sarah by Miranda Simon

to class. I missed those occasional class discussions where that light bulb went off above my head, like “Oh, yeah, I get it”, and when I raised my hand and spoke the teacher smiled like I’d just made her year. I missed grades, too. Weird, but true. I used to love the feeling of getting a test back with an “A” on it, that big letter like a pat on the back. School was the one thing I was good at, the one thing I found easy.
    I missed the structure and routine, too, but after few days I found new ones. If I wasn’t shopping or partying or at the gym, I could always go and get my nails done, or my hair, or get my legs waxed. Sarah had a whole set of beauty appointments in her day planner, and I obediently carried them out. It felt totally bizarre to have strangers doing these intimate things, pampering me in ways I’d never experienced, but good, too. For once in my life I wasn’t taking care of anybody. They were taking care of me.
    Sarah's mother called every few days; she sounded more and more worried, but I couldn't bring myself to answer . I screened my cell phone calls and let her leave messages. Sarah's psychiatrist called twice and then gave up. Men called, too; apparently Sarah liked to give out her number at bars. I let them go to voicemail, too.
    So for a while life was easy, and at the same time it wasn’t.
    When I finished shopping or getting my hair done or whatever, I’d drive Sarah’s car all the way down Third Street to my old neighborhood. I’d park just down the road from my old high school. I wore a scarf around my hair and a huge pair of dark glasses, and I just sat in the car and waited.
    Sooner or later school would let out. I’d watch everybody stream by, toward the bus stop or their cars or the burger place around the corner. Usually I’d see a couple of people I knew. Sometimes I thought -- from a distance -- that I saw Ricky Jones. I'd duck down in my seat, fear pounding through me. It was never him. Part of me wanted to hunt him down and confront him with what he'd done to me. Maybe it would help me put the dreams and memories behind me. But I was terrified. Even thinking about him made me hyperventilate. My mouth went dry; I felt so dizzy I worried I might pass ou t. These attacks frightened me.
    Some days, I’d see Maria. Once she walked with some girls from our homeroom. Mostly she was alone. She always had her big old black backpack on her back, loaded down with books, so heavy it made her shoulders ache. She walked with her head down, her eyes on the sidewalk. We used to always take Muni home from school together, and then sit in the kitchen at my house to do homework. Sometimes we’d make snacks and watch talk shows. We liked to make fun of all the losers on Jerry Springer, or flip through magazines to find hairstyles and catch up on celebrity goss ip. .
    Other days I parked by the clinic where my mom worked. I never saw her, though. Her schedule changed from week to week, so maybe my timing was bad. Maybe she was just taking some time off. Maybe she was drinking again. This last possibility froze my blood in my veins.
    I knew her patterns the way I knew my own face – or had known it, before.
    Mom would be okay for a few years and then it would start. First she’d have a drink with friends and come home pleasantly buzzed, whistling and jolly and full of grand plans. Then she’d start staying out later and later, with friends and then with strangers at the bars she preferred. Sometimes she brought men home and let them stay the night.
    After a while, though, she wouldn’t need to go out at all. She would bring her bottles home from the liquor store and drink in front of the TV. Now she wasn’t jolly; now she’d get sad, then sink into silence. Finally I’d find her passed out on the couch every the morning, and in spite of my pleas she wouldn’t get up for work anymore.
    A few weeks like this and our savings would dwindle and disappear; I’d have to find churches