Hailey

“Now departing, northeast regional train 171 southbound to Lynchburg. All aboard!”

When you’re in a hurry, especially if that hurry has anything to do with you shooting your dad, you don’t pay attention to much. Point A, point B, simple. I could handle things like morning traffic, bulky suitcases, and steep flights of stairs without too many problems.

Summer trips to Charlottesville were second nature so navigating the station landscape was simple enough. Amtrak carts, morning stragglers—no problem. But broken glass bottles were a different story. Especially the clear kind.

Five steps shy of boarding my train, I impaled myself. Right-through-the-arc-impaled. The shock of slicing my foot open sent me tumbling face first towards the grimy, glittering concrete.

       “Hold the train!”

The voice of a perfectly placed hero buzzed through my cheekbones. In a show of grace, I'd face planted directly into his chest and used his sternum to cushion my fall.

       “You alright?” he asked, notably amused by my lack of coordination.

I lifted my head from the crater I’d made in his t-shirt and hid behind my Ray-Bans to steal a glance at his face. He was the modern image of a boyish brunette James Dean; cheeks tinged with natural blush, slightly grey baby blues, and a sense of style reminiscent of East of Eden.

       “I’m fine. I just lost—”

       “Your shoes or your senses?”

He extended a hand, lifted me to my feet, and for a half a second I swear I was flying. Well, maybe not flying, but semi-gracefully falling up. Cute boys made miracles happen. He was two for two, and I looked like a freak—a barefoot, barefaced, freak with the coordination of a cheap drunk.

But he smiled at me, smiled and stared, and his teeth were so perfect it felt like if I looked at them too long I’d go blind. Even though he’d sent me spiraling into controlled chaos, I played it cool while secretly scouring his face for one humanizing flaw to counter that sun-storm smile. I found it in a tiny scar above his eyebrow—albeit a cute one.

       “Thank you—”

       “Caleb.”

His handshake came with the kind of charm the devil would envy. I switched back to being selectively mute, dodged his stormy blues, and took up a staring contest with the floor.

      “You got a name?” he asked.

       “It’s Hailey.”

       “Have you always been the shy and clumsy type, Hailey?”

He grinned like a conman.

        “No, I’m just uncomfortable around strange people.”

        “That’s one way to mutually end a conversation,” he said.

        “I’m sorry, it’s just, if I keep talking to you I'm gonna miss—“

My train left. Amtrak didn’t care that I’d nearly killed myself trying to make it on time; they had schedules to keep and people to strand so they chugged their merry way out of the station.

        “Son of a beach ball!”

Three or four passersby stopped their staring contests with the tracks and diverted their attention to me. The stares I deserved.  A shouting, frustrated, frazzle-haired girl on an otherwise quiet platform was begging to be stared at. But being laughed at was a different story. Caleb couldn’t stop himself.

       “If it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one who missed a train this morning. Misery loves company. ”

There was that smirk again.

       “And two’s a crowd," I said.

Despite my efforts, he didn't seem to mind my crabapple jabs at him so I jabbed harder.

       "Look, I'd really appreciate it if you’d just leave," I said.

And he did. He grabbed my bags and darted back towards the station. Lickity-split. Being robbed felt a little like watching a magic trick, except magicians are liars, and burglars are experts at making things actually disappear. I’d willed this upon myself, or maybe the universe willed it on me.

Whatever the case, the cosmos tipped the scales in my dad’s favor. While his million-dollar house remained unscathed, a cute boy made off with my suitcases in broad daylight. Justice prevails.

Anxiety set a flurry of pins and needles tingling up my legs, and I plopped down into pile of self-pity on the platform.

       “Perfect! Stranded and mugged. At this rate I’ll make tomorrow’s headlines, ‘Hailey Anderson, 18, Dies of Gangrene Infection on Train Platform. Mother Devastated, Father Refuses to Attend Memorial Service. Her Belongings Were Never Found’.”

Crying never fixed anything, but it felt good. About a minute or so into it, I felt okay until I noticed Caleb, who’d returned from God knows where, staring down at me like he’d discovered a new species of crazy at the Washington zoo.

        “I won’t ask,” he said as he wheeled a gum-covered luggage cart over with my bags in tow.

        “I wouldn’t have answered. Thanks for the cart, but I think I can handle it from here.”

I stood up as straight as believably possible, and pushed the bag buggy back to the station. Limping wasn’t conducive to much progress, and the further I walked the more noticeable it got.

Caleb's eyes had a fifty-foot creep zone, and the electric buzz of him watching me struggle down the platform sent shockwaves down my spine. The verdict was still out on whether his puppy dog interest was something to be flattered or frightened by.

But curiosity almost led to too many questions, and too many questions led to trouble, so I shifted my focus away from my blue-eyed shadow and back to my injuries.

In my attempt to walk away with my dignity, I’d painted the concrete red. Staring down at bloody footprints turned my insides to JELL-O. Not freshly made JELL-O but the kind that’s halfway between solid and still oozy.

The world went wobbly to the point where the floor and the ceiling melted together, and I leaned into the nearest concrete pillar to keep from falling.  Somewhere between vomiting and vertigo I toppled over backwards, and he caught me.

He actually caught me, and I swooned a little because I kind of felt like Ginger Rodgers for a second.

Maybe I'd hit the handsome-stranger jackpot. Maybe he was into girls with questionable sanity. But maybes aside, he carried me back to the cart and sat me down on my luggage like I didn’t weigh a thing. I was kind of into that.

      “This is a little unorthodox,” I said. He winked, eyes star-spangled.

      “Me wheeling you around on a cart is pretty normal compared to running through the city without any shoes on.”

He plopped down by my foot and pulled out a piece of glass the size of a pea—a disaster of a pea.

       “I took the bus most of the way here, the shoeless thing was just me being forgetful,” I said.

       “You’re a mass transit girl? You don’t look it.”

       “Not at all, my dad’s driver usually takes me everywhere.”

He rolled his eyes. I wanted to smack him for it. He had a knack for making me feel like an ignorant priss. Maybe I was—but I'd never admit it. 

       “Well, ‘la-di-da’. Is your chauffeur on strike today or just taking the weekend off?”

    “I’m on strike, actually. If you haven’t heard, I’m the newly self-elected president of the anti-senator’s league.”

        “That’s a strange thing to have in common. What’s your beef?”

        “I walked in on my dad screwing some underage intern in my house this morning.”

His nose crumpled like an eight-year-old’s.

       “Sounds like father of the year.”

       “Well, daughters can’t be choosers.”

        “Did you say anything?”

        “No. But I shot him. Well, I hit a box of cornflakes first and then nicked him in the ass.”

He broke into a husky laugh that sounded like it hadn’t seen the sun for a while. I felt like a crummy person for making a joke of things, but Caleb managed to get me to smile about it a little—definitely a step up from crying.

         “Where were you headed when we ran into each other, sharpshooter?”

         “Charlottesville, my mom’s down there.”

          “That’s a nice place. My parents are out in Prince William County, but I haven’t been back there for a couple years now.”

He lost himself in a thought. My iPhone buzzed in my pocket.

        “Alert Issued for Washington Metropolitan Area at 7:00 a.m. Hailey Anderson, 18. Potentially armed and dangerous. Last seen at Chevy Chase Residence at 6:30 a.m. Officers on full alert at Amtrak Union Station.”

Armed and dangerous? So much for father-daughter forgiveness.

         “What’s up?” he asked.

         “My dad called the cops on me, no big deal.”

        “You didn’t do anything that bad. If it was my dad, I would’ve killed him, you’re much nicer than me."

Sarcasm’s all fun and games until it gets sinister, and the tinge of truth in his voice sent me three steps back to being uncomfortable. I thought about walking away or finding some cordial end to our conversation so I could sneak onto the nearest train out of D.C.

But halfway through my less than brilliant strategy, a gaggle of Amtrak police spilled out from the stairs leading down from the station. They scattered across the platform, like ants from a concrete ant hill, stopping passengers left and right with a Xeroxed photo of me.

       “Caleb, I gotta go, but thank you.”

       “Where you headed?”

       “Prison, maybe.”

       “Not if you don’t want to.”

Of course I didn’t want to. Anderson women didn’t go to prison. In fact, the worst thing I’d ever done before today was cheat on a French test. Once. So prison was out of the question. I thought about UVA and how they’d rescind my acceptance when they heard that I shot one of their benefactors.

Sometimes, life seemed simpler for other people. People like Caleb, this rough-around-the-edges guy who didn’t look like he cared about straight A’s, or college, or scholarships. Maybe I didn’t have to anymore, at least for a little while.

       “What do I do?” I asked.

       “You got a jacket or something?”

I pointed to my duffle; he opened it and pulled out my old soccer sweatshirt. He flipped it around and read my monogram “H. ANDERSON” out loud.

         “Really, Hailey?”

         "Sorry, next time I’ll make sure to pack my fugitive clothes.”

Caleb slipped me into my sweatshirt, inside out, and took off running with me on the cart and the musty railway wind at our backs. A sumo wrestler of an Amtrak staff woman screamed at us to stop as we flew into the station.

“You can’t run in here with that baggage cart! And tell your girlfriend to get off the front!"

We zoomed past her fast enough for the world to blur, and I held my breath until I was blue in the face from the rush. I’d never broken any rules that mattered. I’d never flown. I’d never torn through a train station with a boy behind the wheel. But there are first times for everything, and today was the first day of a different me.

                                                                ***

The main hall swelled with typical passengers and atypical police officers searching the crowd for my face. I was the only girl in a gaudy-red-sports hoodie. The cops were stopping everyone coming in and out of the Massachusetts avenue exit.

       “You sure you didn’t kill the guy, Hailey? The Pentagon's practically out for you.”

       “My dad’s a drama queen.”

       “Does it run in the family?”

I hit him. He deserved it.

A couple people stared at me long enough to make Caleb nervous, but he stopped me before I drew too much attention. He picked up my purse, dumped practically everything I owned on the floor, grabbed my phone and wallet, and pushed me along.

       “What are you doing?” I asked.

       “Which is more important to you, your bag or getting out of here?”

       “That bag was expensive—do you even know what Prada means?”

        “Not a clue. Spoiled, maybe?”

I’d never been talked to that way so figuring out a rebuttal took longer than usual.

       “How do you turn off your phone, Hailey? Is it Prada too?”

       “Seriously? Hit the button on the top!”

Maybe we weren’t from the same planet after all. Caleb pocketed my phone without asking, tossed my wallet to me, and kept moving. He was always moving, pushing my boundaries a little too hard. And the harder he pushed, the harder I wanted to pump the breaks on the situation.

Thinking was out of the question.

Stopping was out of the question.

Asking questions was out of the question.

He flew through the crowd, feet against the floor, heart against the odds, and rolled me along for the ride.

       “Trouble at 3 o’clock,” he said.

Caleb motioned to the Amtrak woman from earlier as she pointed three MPD officers in our direction. He dropped to the floor, pulled a sock out of my suitcase, and tied it around my foot tight enough to sting.

       “Get ready to walk, your highness.”

Walking, running, or even hobbling through another wave of the morning throng didn’t exactly top my to do list. I wanted to disappear, to go back to being the unknown me who blended into the crowd like butter on toast. No one suspects buttery toast of anything, especially not petty crimes.

But the Hudson newsstands wouldn’t have it. Every single one we passed had my face and Caleb’s plastered on the seven-o’clock news, no thanks to camera phones.

It started out small, like someone knocked the wind out of me until bits and pieces of panic bloomed into full-blown hyperventilation. I grasped for Caleb’s t-shirt, gasping for him to stop. He ploughed forward like he had somewhere to be, when he had nowhere to be—at least, I thought he didn’t.

We pushed through the steady pulse of the rush hour crowd, hoping the clutter would keep us off the radar. I sunk deep into my sweatshirt, hiding my undoubtedly pale face from curious onlookers.

A German shepherd moved through the masses a few feet away. I grabbed onto Caleb tight enough for my palms to pale. The dog whipped its head in our direction, took in the scent of the blood trailing from my feet, and pulled away from its leash, barking wildly at the thrill of the hunt.

Caleb broke into a sprint, and we flew, ripping faster than a runaway train through hordes of people while an officer gave chase.

We tore away from the police until we found ourselves in the west wing of the station—the last frontier with an unmanned exit. Caleb darted over to a line of telephone booths and shoved me in between the silver slabs.

       “Get rid of that hoodie!” He said.

I pulled it up over my ears, handed it to him, and he tossed it into the nearest trash bin. He took off his t-shirt and gave it to me to wear over my clothes. I saw why he stuck to t-shirts, his wife-beater revealed him to be somewhat of a beanpole.

        “Take your hair down, Hailey.”

I let my frizztastic brown monster loose and his eyes lingered on mine, except this time there wasn’t any warmth in them.

The shepherd’s barking echoed through the corridor. Caleb pinned me to the booth until the heat from his skin sparked a thousand brushfires to life on mine.

       “You think you can trust me to keep you safe?”

His voice sounded like someone else’s, someone who didn’t have a dazzling smile or swoon-worthy charm, but someone distant. Someone dangerous. I choked on an answer, and his eyes went wild enough to frighten me.

        “Hailey!”

I looked at him wide-eyed, my confidence in his character waning, and nodded. He reached into his pocket, shoved something into his mouth, and kissed me. Tongue against tongue kissed me so hard it hurt. He pushed me back against the booth. His lips were bitter. His sweetness a lie.

I struggled to pull away from him while a little pill dissolved against my taste buds. He held me steady, forcing the kiss until I settled into an unnatural calm. It felt a little like freefalling, like spiraling towards the ground with nothing but panic left as a parachute.

Everything fell apart. Fast.

My lungs locked, my legs gave out, and I dug my nails into the length of Caleb’s back, hoping to keep from collapsing under my own weight. He smiled at me—smiled and stared, while he peeled my hands away and let me fall.

       “You’re too quick to trust, Hailey, and if you’re not careful, that’ll get you killed.”