Chapter 3 Journey to the Unknown

Oma," Tasha started, her voice shaking, reaching a hand out toward me. "How long have you been standing there?" she asked.

I ignored her question, and instead I looked down at her hand-the hand that had painted my nails before prom, the hand that had offered me shelter and promised me friendship and protection, and I saw nothing but a poisonous snake. I didn't yell, neither did I cry. The only thing I knew was that something inside me, the soft part of me that still believed in friendship, had just died.

"You won a pool, Tasha?" I asked, my voice sounding completely unacquainted, flat and dead. "Five hundred dollars? That's what my life is worth to you. That is how cheap you rated me? Thank you for ruining my life, and my entire future, just for Five Hundred dollars."

"It was just a joke, Oma! We were drunk, and believe me, it wasn't supposed to go this far!" Tasha's defense was dumb and pitiful. Franklin, on the other hand, wandered behind her, looking down at the floor.

"You fed me drinks, and you pushed me toward some stranger; so, you two could... what? Hook up behind my back? You could have done that without ruining me like this." I looked straight at Franklin, "You were supposed to be my boyfriend, and what did you do? You betrayed me."

"Come on Oma! We were barely a thing. Chill out, and don't play the victim here," Franklin mumbled.

"Oh, am I playing the victim? Have you realized the damage your joke has done to me?" I asked, my voice rising in what could be described as anger or frustration.

The betrayal was so total, it was almost illuminating. The fog of sadness lifted, and was instantly replaced by a cold, hard rod of fury in my spine. I am not safe here, and from all indications, I have never been safe with you two. It's better for me to leave, I said and walked away.

"Don't be dramatic, Oma, where are you going?" Tasha panted, crossing her arms and trying to regain control from the initial shock of being found out. "Your dad hates you at the moment, and you don't have friends anywhere. You need us, you better stay."

I would rather sleep under a bridge than spend another second in this house with you, Tasha, I replied, feeling drowned with the weight of their betrayal.

I marched to the guest room, threw my few belongings, the ones I'd managed to save from my dad's house into my duffel bag. I crammed everything into the canvas sack in a hurry, and didn't fold anything. I just needed to get out of that house and the entire environment that had suddenly become very hostile to me.

I walked out, hurrying past them without another word. I heard Mrs. Davis calling from the kitchen, asking what the noise was about, but I was already out through the front door and no longer cared what transpired between them.

I wanted to go somewhere, anywhere was better than staying with them. I went straight to the bus station. It was a shabby, grey building that smelled like diesel fumes and desperation. I bought a ticket to the biggest city on the route map. Capital City, San Diego. A place where millions of people lived, and not one of them knew Oma Johnson.

I sat on the hard-plastic bench, waiting for the 11:00 PM Greyhound, but I had absolutely no plan. With little amount of money, no friends, and a baby growing inside me, the future was terrifying, but for the first time since I saw those two pink lines, I felt awake to the current reality of my life and was determined to face it.

The bus hissed to a stop in front of me, its doors opening like the maw of a giant beast. As I stepped up to board, a hand clamped down hard on my shoulder, spinning me around.

I impulsively whipped around, ready to swing my duffel bag as a weapon, only to discover that it was just the ticket inspector, a grumpy man with nicotine-stained fingers. "Your ticket girly, move it along," he said, stretching his hand.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I handed over the ticket to him and climbed onto the bus. I searched for a seat and finally sank into a window seat near the back, pulling my hood up.

The six-hour ride was pure misery for me. The bus rocked over every pothole, sending shockwaves through my sensitive stomach. I drifted in and out of disturbed sleep, dreaming of my father's angry face transforming into Christine's scornful one.

We arrived in the Capital City just as the dawn was breaking. It wasn't the beautiful sunrise you see in movies. It was grey light revealing grimy skyscrapers, wet streets, and an overwhelming sense of bigness.

As I stepped off the bus, I was hit by the noise. Honking horns, shouting vendors, the rumble of subway trains beneath the grille I stood on. It was a sensory overload, while I looked just like another piece of debris blowing down the walkway.

I walked aimlessly for hours, without knowing where I was going. One thing I knew was that I couldn't stop moving, or the reality of my situation would crush me. I was hungry, and my feet were blistering in my cheap sneakers.

By midday, I found myself in the financial district. The atmosphere was different, the sidewalks were cleaner, and the people walked faster and wore suits that cost more than my dad's car. Glass towers stretched up into the clouds, reflecting the cold sky.

I felt painfully conspicuous in my faded jeans and oversized hoodie. I paused near a sleek, black marble fountain outside a massive corporate high-rise, just to rest my feet for a second. I was dizzy because I hadn't eaten anything since yesterday's lunch at Tasha's house.

I closed my eyes, swaying slightly.

"Careful."

The voice was deep, smooth, and startlingly close.

I opened my eyes and jerked back, losing my balance completely, and stumbled right into a man exiting the building. I grasped at his arm like a lifeboat, to steady myself, my fingers digging into the immaculate, charcoal-grey wool suit fabric.

I looked up feeling embarrassed. The man was tall, easily six-foot-three, with sharp features and eyes the color of frozen espresso. He didn't look irritated, but looked intensely focused, analyzing me like a complex contract. He didn't pull away from my grip either. Instead, his other hand came up to steady my elbow with a firm grip.

"You're about to pass out," he stated, not as a question, but a fact.