A vehicle pulled in and I sighed in relief. I thought Mom was home. He never touched me when Mom was home—except in the middle of the night, sometimes.
I was expecting Mom to walk in all smiles and rosy cheeks and cluelessness, but instead, someone on the other side knocked.
So I opened the door.
Two men stood there, white guys. They didn’t say anything for a second, but they looked at me in a way that felt weird. And then they looked at each other and grinned, and I got chills and didn’t know why.
They asked if my dad was home, said he was expecting them. But before I could point the way, stepdaddydearest bellowed, “Back here, guys. You too, Priscilla.
I don’t know how to explain this in words, but it was like my feet were glued to the floor. I felt like I was gonna throw up. The men started back, but I stayed where I was with my hand on the still-open door. I couldn’t seem to close it. There was something bubbling, something like,Get out of here. Get out of here right now, but I couldn’t figure out why. I couldn’t ignore it, though. I didn’t really even think about it until later, when I had the time, finally, to sit still and write all this down. It was just like…I had to leave. I couldn’t not leave. It was weird like that.
I looked around, feeling panic bubble up for no reason. And I noticed the rack beside the wood stove with only two logs in it, and I said loudly that Dad would kick my ass if I didn’t get some firewood in here.
Then I was out the front door. I didn’t go to the woodpile but straight past it to my bike. I almost took off right then. But I was still arguing with myself for this sudden urge to piss off my old man in a way that was bound to have consequences I wouldn’t like. And I was curious, I guess.
Miz O’Connor, my English teacher, says I have an inquisitive mind. My French teacher wants to send me to France next year as a foreign exchange student, but all Mom said when I told her was that the school must think parents are made of money and then asked what the hell I’d do in France.
Dad said what Dad always says. “No.”
I hate him so much.
I pushed my bike around behind the house to that always-open window and laid it down real quiet in in the grass, then I went closer but stayed down low out of sight, and I listened.
One of the strangers asked how old I was, and Dad said fourteen, and then the other guy asked if I was a virgin. Dad said, “Fuck if I know,” and the stranger said a number. Two thousand.
I gasped, then clapped my hand over my mouth and froze—I was so sure they’d heard me in there.
Dad haggled, asked for five, and said he was gonna have to go to all the trouble of convincing Mom I ran away, and that alone was worth five. And the other guy said he couldn’t go higher than four and Dad said okay.
My blood felt like it had frozen. I shivered, but besides that, I was paralyzed.
Dad bellowed for me to get my ass in there, and I finally managed to move again.
I grabbed my bike and pedaled through the next three backyards fast as I could. I felt like I was being chased the whole time. I couldn’t stop shivering, but I wasn’t cold.
I veered into the little woodlot with the shortcut path everyone always takes to school. But I didn’t stop at school either. I just kept pedaling and thinking my stepdad had just tried to sell me. To sell me! I don’t even know what for. But I had to get away, as far away as I could go. I knew that for sure. Mom would never believe me if I told her. Nobody would.
After an hour of pedaling, I’d made it to the truck stop out near the highway exit. I don’t know how many miles from home, but a ways. There were lots of rigs, big and small, filling the parking lot, coming and going non-stop. The smells coming from the deep fryer pulled me in that direction and my stomach growled. I had enough money to eat, but I was still too close tohome to be seen or to even stop riding. Or at least to stop for very long. My old man would be out looking for me. So would Mom.
Poor Mom.
I pedaled into the parking lot. I didn’t think I could ride my bike on the highway without getting caught, once everyone was out looking for me, and I had no idea where I was going. I wanted a map. And some of those fries that smelled so darn good.
But I didn’t get either. I came upon a small truck with a bed full of cargo entirely covered by a blue tarp. The truck had Texas plates. I was in Binghamton, New York. Texas seemed like it would be far enough.
It was dark, and the closest parking lot light was busted out. So I got off my bike, rolled it closer, and took a look underneath the tarp. Just boxes, mostly cardboard, some wooden, all sealed. “Murray Sporting Goods” was stamped on some of them, and there was room in between. Two men were walking out of the diner, heading for their rigs. Another handful had just arrived, and the sound of big rig air brakes gusted as another one pulled in, his headlights spilling over me.
I crouched and pretended to fiddle with my bike chain until the parking lot was quiet again. Then I picked up my bike and shoved it underneath the tarp. I climbed in behind it, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it. I pulled the tarp back down and found a more or less comfortable spot to curl up and wait, then tried to move some of the boxes in front of me in case the driver looked. I couldn’t hide the bike, though.
It didn’t take long before I heard the truck’s door open and felt it sink with the driver’s weight as he got in. The door slammed, the engine cranked, and a few minutes later, the truck was pulling out onto the highway and picking up speed.And I got my diary out of my backpack, so I could write all this down.
My life kind of ended tonight, I think.
Priscilla Marie Bishop is dead.
From now on I’m Cilla Travail, born in the back of a truck in Broome County, New York, fully grown at fourteen and three-quarters years old.
Wolf
