Song: Hate Me by Eurielle
***
One month later
The Hunted can't run forever, Alexa.
The phrase sticks in my head on repeat, over and over again.
But what does it mean?
Tears drip down my cheeks and I hastily wipe them away, trying to convince myself that it's just the harsh wind making me cry. But in reality, I know it's so much more than that.
My mother is gone. The woman who raised me, loved me like no other, and always supported me is gone forever. I would give anything to just hear her say my name one more time, or to have one more hug.
And now, I have no one to turn to.
As exhaustion begins to settle in, I force myself to keep pedaling. I have to go somewhere, after all. I can't just keep pedaling forever. But I most certainly can't let those CIA creeps catch up to me, either. Everything is just so overwhelming; it doesn't even seem real anymore. It's so surreal that it's like a dream to me.
This is the craziest, most unexpected scenario that I could possibly imagine. I mean, honestly - what are the chances? And why me?
I eventually decide on heading to my best friend Nadia's house. As I pull into her driveway, I realize I'll need to keep my bike out of sight in case anyone comes looking for me. I hop off of my bike, pulling it over to the side of her pale blue house where I secure it behind a large, square shrub.
Practically skipping up the steps to the front door, I frantically knock three times. The porch still looks like new, although I know for a fact that the house can't be less than twenty years old. Everything about Nadia's house is always in tip-top shape, greatly boasting the extreme wealth of her family.
The white door swings inward, and Nadia's face appears. She stares at me strangely, her eyes wide and her mouth ajar. Without hesitating, I push my way inside, shutting the front door behind me.
"Hi," I pant, brushing my hair out of my face. "It's kinda a long story, but to make things short, I need a place to stay for a while," I say, my voice quivering as my eyes gloss over once more. I cross my fingers in hopes that my face isn't too pink.
Nadia shakes her head, as though she's in awe. She doesn't say anything, and just continues to stare at me. It's strange behavior from her, but I suppose that I too am acting rather strange at the moment. So, I decide to elaborate further.
"Okay, look," I continue, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt and beginning to pace. "I came home from school today and there were a bunch of cop cars surrounding my house. I went up to see what had happened and a cop said my mom's been killed," I say, and my voice cracks. No crying, not now. Save your tears for later. I sniffle, wipe my eyes, and continue. "Then these men in suits who were supposedly CIA tried to take me with them and they were going about it very strangely, so I ran." I stop and take a deep breath, choosing to leave out the bit regarding the phrase screamed at me as I was leaving. My eyes begin to water again, but I quickly wipe them away with my wrist.
Nadia's eyes widen impossibly further, and she fidgets with her curly hair. "Oh my God, Ally, I-"
"And if they come looking for me, I know it's not gonna be pretty. I have no where to go, and I really just need a place to stay. Please," I beg her, desperate at this point. A tear slips down my cheek and neck, and this time I don't bother to wipe it away.
Nadia's face falls, and I know immediately that the answer is "no". She sighs and says, "Ally, on any other day I wouldn't hesitate. But just take a look at this." I silently curse her in my head, but quickly remind myself that she must have her reasons. She gently takes my hand and leads me into the living room, seating me in front of her television.
Nadia turns a playback of very recent news on, and a young man is in the middle of reporting at a crime scene. At my house. "The suspect is the young woman pictured, and the CIA believes she is one of the leaders of the notorious gang committing all of these worldwide murders over the past few months. The CIA will not release the girl's name, however. The CIA has also informed us that the girl is armed and extremely dangerous. She was last seen on a red bicycle heading due north, wearing a blue sweater and jeans. If you see her, do not hesitate to contact local authorities and distance yourself from her. The CIA will be rewarding her captor five hundred thousand dollars, dead or alive. To put it simply, folks, this is most likely the girl responsible for over forty-five hundred deaths over the-"
Nadia clicks the television off and turns to me, a concerned look on her face. But I don't turn to her; instead, I stare at the blank television screen in shock and horror. Why would they do this to me, I wonder. Why is it so important that they "get" me, dead or alive? What have I done to deserve this?
I can't even form the words I want to say. Instead, I settle for, "I haven't killed anyone, Nadia." My voice shakes as I speak, and I finally turn to look at my best friend.
"I know. I trust you," she mumbles, to my surprise. "Why would they make this up? Why would they frame you? And if they're framing you, that means they know who's really responsible," she adds. "They only aired the report on this one one station, and only in our area, so nobody out of our state saw it. I went to play it back and they already deleted the entire report. Lucky thing I recorded it, I guess. Obviously, somebody didn't want it aired. Now all the TV stations are just saying that 'a gang leader responsible for thousands of murders' is on the loose."
I shrug, albeit thankful that my best friend trusts me. "I guess they're mad at me for running away. I'm glad not a lot of people saw the report, though. But I mean, the gang leader responsible for all of the mass murders? That's pretty harsh punishment," I say with a weak chuckle. "I've always suspected that the government has something to do with all of the recent murders, and this must be my confirmation."
Nadia nods. "Yeah I guess." She inhales sharply. "But whatever it is, you need to go. You need to hide. If one thing's for sure, when the government is looking to kill you, you're not safe in any house. Even if they don't know what to look for."
"What am I supposed to do, then?" I groan, frustrated and terribly upset. All I want to do is cry, but I resist the urge and force myself to stay strong. I tug on a strand of my blonde hair, wrapping it around my finger.
This isn't my fault. None of it is. As selfish as it sounds, I haven't done anything to deserve this. And yet, here I am, seeking refuge in my best friend's house for crimes I haven't committed.
Nadia grabs both of my shoulders. "You, Alexa Brennan, are going to be the girl who disappears."
"What do you mean?" I ask nervously.
"Well, you certainly can't stay here; my parents will turn you in the first chance they get. But if I can't keep you, I'm gonna help you," she smiles limply, leading me back to her bedroom. Her bedroom is huge and glamorous, with a ginormous window letting in all of the glorious afternoon sunlight. She runs up to her enormous closet, throwing the doors open. "If you want to keep from being recognized, first thing you need is a makeover."
I roll my eyes. "Nadia, this is serious-"
"I know, and I'm being serious," she interjects, holding up a pair of scissors as she throws a navy, silk bathrobe onto her bed. "Now sit down and slip this on. Oh, and I hope you aren't too attached to your hair."
At that, I stand back up, the robe halfway over my shoulders. "Oh hell no, you're not cutting my hair," I insist. Nadia makes a pouting face, snipping the scissors animatedly. "Ugh, fine," I groan and sit down. "But don't make it look terrible."
"I won't, I promise," she says, and begins snipping. I cringe every time I hear the scissors clip together, and shut my eyes to avoid watching my hair fall to the floor. After just a few minutes, she shoves a handheld mirror in my face. "What do you think?" she asks.
My hair is now longer at the front and shorter at the back. It falls over my forehead in one effortless wave. "Not bad," I say, fighting off a grin despite the seriousness. "Should we dye it?"
Nadia nods giddily. "Of course. But it'll have to be brown, 'cause that's all I've got," she says with a shrug, flipping her brown curls away from her face.
"Works for me," I say.
***
After what feels like several hours, Nadia has given me a full face of make up plus a tutorial, a new hairstyle, and a new hair color. I look like an entirely different person.
And with how long it's been, I'm surprised we haven't had any "visitors" yet.
I admire my new physique in Nadia's bathroom mirror. "I'll be honest, I kinda like it," I quip, turning this way and that to get a better view of myself.
Nadia smiles. "Great. Now all you need is a new name since, obviously, Alexa Brennan is no good anymore. You can bet every cop in the country has your name," she chortles, rolling her eyes.
I bite my lip. "Chloe?" I suggest, but immediately dismiss it with a wave of my hand. "Nah." Then, Nadia and I take turns rambling off names.
She starts with, "Alaina?"
I shake my head and suggest, "Emma?"
"Hannah?"
"Cailey?"
"Brooklyn?"
I whip around to face Nadia. "Yes! Brooklyn is perfect!" I exclaim. "It just. . . fits. With the hair and everything."
"Now you just need a last name," Nadia says, biting her fingernail. "Something simple, understated."
"Like Smith?" I say, raising my eyebrows.
Nadia shakes her head. "Nah, I'm thinking something more like Bell. It has a nice ring to it, after all. Brooklyn Bell. You're now Brooklyn Bell, unofficially eighteen years old, and a city girl."
Brooklyn Bell, I say to myself, until it becomes familiar. Brooklyn Bell. "Yeah, I like that," I say.
This will never work, I think to myself, sighing inwardly.
"Great. Well, Brooklyn, I think you're just about ready," Nadia says, running back to her closet.
I furrow my brow. "Ready for what?"
From the closet, she hollers, "To leave, of course."
"Oh," I mutter. "Right." In all of the girlish fun of the situation, I have managed to forget the utter gravity of it all.
That's when the big question hits me full force. I had been avoiding it until now, until I really had to face it:
Where am I supposed to go, and how on earth am I supposed to survive on my own?
Nadia throws a full outfit on the bed. "Change into this while I pack a few things for you," she says, and I scoop up the outfit and head into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.
I exhale deeply as I take in my reflection. I hardly even recognize myself; my hair is dark as is my make up, giving me an overall dramatic flair. The outfit Nadia gave me is also entirely darker shades: a pair of burgundy athletic leggings, and a black t-shirt. I quickly slip the outfit on and head out of the bathroom.
As soon as I exit, Nadia shoves a backpack in my arms. "I loaded this with money, food, and clothes. Go somewhere, get yourself a job; you'll be fine," she says quickly, as though she's being rushed.
"Nadia, you didn't have to-"
She hushes me, then suddenly grabs my phone and steps on it.
"Hey! What was that for?" I exclaim.
"They can track you through your phone." Nadia shakes her head. "There's no time, I heard my neighbors calling the police while you were changing. They probably saw you when you got here, so you need to go," she says, motioning to an open window in her living room. Then, she tosses me her car keys, which I just barely manage to catch between my thin fingers. "And take my car. I'll just break down in front of my parents and tell them I got teased for it being 'too old school' and trashed it. They always buy that, I've done it twice before," she says with a giggle. She immediately pulls me into a tight hug. "I'm gonna miss you, Ally. Good luck," she says with a sad smile.
I squeeze her back, fighting off more tears. "I'm gonna miss you too. Thank you so much for you help, I don't think I'll ever be able to repay you," I whimper.
She thumps me on the back. "Don't mention it. Now get out of here."
I say nothing as I race out the door, heading for her car.
***