Traffick (27 page)

papers, a plain-Jane blond (not

hot, not Mandy) tours us around

the well-appointed facility,

where I'll learn to kick some ass.

Has no place in Vegas,

where Mr. Claus plays slots

and elfettes walk the streets

in Santa hats and crotch-short

skirts. You can count me

one

of them—just a sad, skinny

girl hustling a slender living.

Honestly, Christmas wasn't

a whole lot better in Barstow,

but then, for at least a month or

two

I thought I had a chance

at happiness with Ginger.

Stupid me. What I've learned

is yes, some people born into

shit holes can rise from

the cesspool and come to

enjoy

a decent existence, free

from the stink. The rest

of us surrender to sinking

back under, and I've embraced

the view

that it's all a matter of fate.

That's the plan. Gram's driving

over this afternoon and will stay

the night, then pick me up in

the morning. So I've got today

to find Alex. I wake early, despite

the silence in my room. They

moved Miranda last night—both

because they knew she was primed

to run, and also for the safety of all

the House of Hope girls. Security

has been tightened, just in case,

which will make getting out of here

kind of tricky. We're not exactly

on lockdown, but I'll need a good

excuse. At breakfast, I sit beside

Brielle, listening to the buzz,

which is louder than usual this

morning, everyone speculating

about Miranda and why she walked

out of here with her caseworker.

Brielle nudges me.
What happened?

After I explain, she says,
Why don't

they just make an announcement?

The gossip is getting crazy.

Girls and gossip!

They're thinking:

She must be pregnant.

Yeah, but how? In here?

Who could it be? One

of the teachers? A janitor?

Someone she sneaked in?

Hey! Pastor Martin!

“Crazy barely covers it.

Do they really believe

we'd have a security guard

at the front door because

Miranda got pregnant?”

Not like the guy isn't obvious.

He's about the size of a grizzly

bear, and almost as hairy.

“Listen.” Under the table,

I slide my hand into Brielle's.

“You have to help me figure

a way to get out of here after

prayer. I got a text from Alex

last night. She's back on the street.

This will be my last chance to—”

Brielle pushes my hand away.

That's right. Last chance,

and today is our last chance

to be together. Instead, you want

to find your old girlfriend?

Wow. I think this is called

jealousy, something I've never

experienced, at least on

the receiving end. Is love always

jealous? The noise level around

us has dropped. People tuning in.

“Shhh. Listen, Brielle. I'm afraid

for Alex. She's headstrong, and

impulsive, and pretty much lacks

common sense. But she's good

inside. I don't want her to end

up like the girl in the paper.

This takes nothing away from

what I feel for you. I'll always

love Alex as a friend, but there's

nothing left of what we were.”

Brielle softens immediately,

reaches for my hand again.

I'm sorry. I don't mean to be

selfish. It's just . . . Let's go.

To morning prayer, Brielle

and I come up with a plan

for my escape. It's brilliant.

But first we have to suffer

through Pastor Martin's usual

badgering. That's what it is,

and today it's directed toward

me.
I understand one of you

left House of Hope last night,

and that another of you will

be leaving us tomorrow.
His

gaze falls on me.
I pray both

of you girls will continue to

walk in God's light. Go forth

and sin no more, that's what

Jesus would have you do.

I wish circumstances would

allow me to kiss Brielle right

here. But that would cause

a stir and I don't need that kind

of attention right now. Still,

since I won't have to deal with

his condescension anymore,

I feel the need to say something.

But don't wait for him to call

on me. “Excuse me, but I was

wondering if you understand

the reasons why most of us are

here. Because sin implies will,

and if you cared enough

to know our stories, you'd quit

accusing us of it. I appreciate

you worrying about our immortal

souls or whatever, but if there

is an all-knowing God, he must

be aware that we were coerced

into the life. That word is even

written into the definition of child

trafficking, and is why every one

of us has to listen to you remind

us of a past we're struggling

to forget. I doubt any of us wants

to return there. Maybe, through

considered prayer, the Lord would

grant you a bit of compassion

for girls whose childhoods have

been stolen and whose futures

are in doubt. Think about it.”

I stand up to leave,

surrounded by gasps,

yeahs, and one
Holy

shit,
not to mention

an outbreak of laughter.

“I'm sorry,” I mutter,

heading toward the door.

“I didn't mean to interrupt.”

I wink at Brielle, letting

her know it's almost time

to put things in motion.

She'll have to stay until

the good minister invokes

his benediction, but I'll be

ready as soon as the room

clears. I chance a glance at

Pastor Martin, expecting

the evil eye back. Instead,

he looks confused, as if I

was speaking in tongues

or something. And as I

take my leave, I think

I might hear him say,

You're right. Forgive me.

The only thing more surprising

would be if the sky opened up

and belted out thunder, as if

someone-on-high was yelling, “Amen!”

Brielle finds me in my room,

reaches for my hand and slips

a twenty-dollar bill into it.

Cab fare,
she explains.
Unless

you can cover it, and I know

you can't. That there is from

Sonya, by the way. I'll be doing

her algebra for a week.

I don't ask for details. A few

of the girls have managed to

stash a little cash, but most of us

are flat broke. “Thank you. I'll get

it back to you when I can. Kiss

for luck?” Her lips are sticky

with maple-flavored syrup.

Delicious. “Okay. You ready?”

She nods and picks up the thick

government textbook from

my desk.
Be careful. And . . . go!

We decided she'd count to ten

as soon as I'm out of the room.

I'm halfway to the front door

when there's an awful crash of

glass, followed immediately by

Brielle's scream. The security

guy, who's half dozing, jumps

to his feet and hauls balls right

past me. With all the commotion

behind me, no one notices when

I slip out across the threshold,

into the morning. Just in case,

though, I run up the block, smiling

at the scene unfolding inside,

where Brielle is explaining there

was a black spider the size of a

golf ball on the window, at least

till she smashed the book through

it. No sign of Los Sureños outside,

Grizzly Bear Dude will relax

and the on-duty house parents

will be so busy with glass repair

they won't even notice I'm gone

until my English teacher lets them

know I wasn't in class today.

It only took ten minutes

to come up with the plot.

Maybe Brielle should be

an author, too. We could

cocreate amazing books

and live a life of luxury.

Okay, there's a novel.

Lovely fiction. Will I ever

be able to write my own

future? On one hand, it's been

good at House of Hope, where

everything is regimented.

Boring, but safe, because I

wasn't allowed to make

decisions for myself. As of

tomorrow, I'm free to screw

everything up again. How

do I chisel a better path?

Guess I'll figure it out later.

Meanwhile, I need to focus

on Alex. The first thing I do is call

Lydia. Makes sense she'd go back

to her. But when I dial the familiar

number, a generic woman's voice

tells me it's been disconnected.

Huh. I try the Have Ur Cake

business line next. This one

asks me to leave a message. I don't.

I walk a decent distance toward

what looks like a main road.

House of Hope isn't anywhere

near the heart of the city. Not sure

twenty will get me that far in

a cab, but this looks like a bus

route. It is. There's a stop. While

I wait, I consider my next move.

I could call Alex, but I'm sure

she'd just hang up on me. In

fact, I have no idea what to say

if I do find her. All I know is

I have to try. Not sure why,

but I scroll through my contacts,

and when I get to the L's, my

eyes settle on a name. Lenny—

Alex's and my favorite cabbie,

when we were working for Lydia.

Lenny. Yeah. The bus squeals

to a stop, and I board. The trip

downtown costs me four eighty

and takes twenty-five minutes,

plenty of time to give Lenny

a call. His hello sounds sleepy,

and it hits me he used to work

nights. “Uh, sorry to wake you.

It's Ginger. I know it's been a while,

but you used to drive Alex and me—”

Yeah, yeah. I remember you.

I don't have dementia. And it

has
been a while. So now I'm

awake, what can I do for you?

“I'm looking for Alex, actually.

I'm leaving town tomorrow, and

have some of her stuff. Would you

know how I can get hold of her?”

What makes you think I might?

And if you don't know, there's

probably a reason. Now if you'll

excuse me, I'm going back to bed.

Now what? I get off the bus near

the Stratosphere, not far from

the strip club where Alex and I

got busted. This area is ripe for guys

on the hunt, and despite it being

just approaching noon, working

girls in all colors and shapes decorate

the sidewalks. All of them look tired,

and this time of day is the easiest.

Fewer creepers prowl before dark.

Still, as I show some of the ladies

a photo of Alex, ask if they've seen

her, a couple of men inquire about

my rates. One actually dares to touch

me. I wheel and push him backward.

“Fuck off. Do I look like a hooker?”

I'm dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved

crew-necked tee, and my face

is scrubbed. Hardly the wardrobe

of a girl working the sidewalks.

Uh, no . . .
he sputters,
sorry.

I just thought . . . well, looks like

you know these ladies. Happen to

know any younger ones?
Sicko.

“You do realize that paying

for sex with an underage girl

is not only illegal, but also feeds

child sex trafficking operations?”

Eighteen is okay by me.
He thinks

again.
Hey, wait. You a cop?

Then he reconsiders one more time

and laughs.
No, you're too young.

“Yeah, and you're a fucking

pervert. Why don't you go whack

off and call your fist Sweet Little

Miss, you disgusting piece of crap.”

Too far? Usually I can tell how much

is too much, but this guy seemed

like a mouse until he turned into

a badger. I've seen it before, but not

often. He bottles his anger, stuffs

it inside. You can see it in the way

his face blooms red, and his fists

begin a slow clench-unclench.