What I Did...

*This short story is featured in the fiction anthology LIAR LIAR (Mendacity Press)

WHAT I DID... 

By Marie Lamba

"So don't tell anybody you saw me," I say. "Okay?"  

Don't tell anybody. My family motto. Only Sang isn't family. She isn't even my friend anymore.  

Sang draws her brows together. "But, Gina, how can I-" 

"You have to," I say. "I trust you." 

This phrase hangs in the air between us, mingling with the stink of city buses and the harsh zoom of cabs and cars. In the streetlight, Sang's face is cast in shadows, her expression almost fierce. 

"Thanks, Sang," I say, adding, "you're the best." 

Okay, now I'm screwed. Now Sang's going to point out that she's not my best friend or best anything anymore. That I flat-out stopped talking to her and cut her out of my life. That I have crazy nerve to ask anything of her. 

I hook my thumbs under the shoulder straps of my backpack and brace myself. 

But her expression softens. Something inside me softens just a bit too. It seems we'll have this one shared secret between us.  

For one small moment I wish I could tell her everything. 

I give her a nod and cross the street. 

"How can I contact you?" she shouts. 

I just wave, leaving her, leaving everything behind. 

The sidewalk is darker, colder than before. I hurry along, pushing through this Saturday-night crowd. People wrapped in stylish coats bump my shoulder. Force me to zig to the side as they head straight on smiling, laughing, talking with friends. 

I reach the next corner, too aware of my thrumming heart. I take a quick look at the map and at the street sign above me. One more block. Maybe. If I'm going in the right direction. 

The light changes and I cross. There are fewer people. It feels hushed in comparison. Almost creepy. I reach the side street I want. A dark alley. 

I force myself to take one step. And then another. I stop and look back at what now seems like a bustling and well-lit main avenue. 

No. I can't go back. What was the point if all I'm going to do is turn around and go home? 

Home. All full of great smells because Thanksgiving's coming. The kitchen alive with saucepots exhaling steam, the timer screaming, the hot breath of the oven filling the room. And my mom rushing counter to counter in a never-ending race to make everything seem worthy of thanks. 

Right. 

I plunge into the darkness of the alley. I keep my eye on the glowing BANK STREET HOSTEL sign in the distance like I'm one of the Three Wise Men and that's my star. 

The little hairs on my neck tingle. There's someone behind me. I can just sense it. I hurry to the hostel and throw open the door. Light falls over me like a force field and I rush in. When the door slams behind me, a bunch of faces look up from a lounge area off to the side. There are some older kids in an assortment of sweats and jeans and, separate from them, a middle-aged Indian man in a suit taps on his laptop. 

"Hey," I say. The faces turn away. 

A guy in a flannel shirt is sitting behind a linoleum counter reading a ratty sci-fi novel. I stand in front of him. He turns the page, but doesn't look up. So I wait some more, trying to give off an air of aloof coolness, like I do this sort of thing all the time.