One Week - By Nikki Van De Car Page 0,25

anything—I still have to go use the public ones at the end of the car. But it's something. And the seats fold out into a bed, so maybe I can get some decent sleep. It looks like there's another pull-down bed up above. And they provided sheets and blankets, and I can adjust the air-conditioning, and there's a little table that folds out. And that's about all my exploring has to offer. I kick my bag of books from the newsstand out of the way and flop down on one of the seats. It occurs to me that Jess will have no way of finding me here—if, that is, he would even bother trying. Which he probably won't.

I rummage through my purchases and pull out a bodice ripper. If I actually saw somebody on the street with hair and muscles like the guy on the cover, I'd have to run away and hide. Or point and laugh. The girl does have nice hair, though, and isn't it handy how it's covering her exposed breast like that? I prop my feet up on the chair opposite me and try to immerse myself in the problems and passions of Lady Delia Swarthmore, Virgin Extraordinaire, and her dashing pirate kidnapper.

I look up from Lady Delia's predicament (should she continue to wear her sodden and formerly sensible but now completely revealing dressing gown, or should she accept the scandalously low-cut gown from the likes of the pirate?) as the train lurches into motion. No sign of Jess. I suppose he must have found a seat someplace else. Which is fine. I sink down lower into the seat and try to make myself care about Lady Delia's ditherings, but I just can't manage it. I fling the book across the room, which is too tiny to make the flinging at all satisfactory, and bite my lip.

I hate feeling like a spoiled brat. I go out of my way to avoid the spoiled brat mentality. If I actually were a spoiled brat, I would have no problem with anything in my life—I would be all “Yay clothes! Yay famous men! Yay parties!” just like everybody I know thinks I should be. And I'm not. Obviously. I'm running away from all of that.

Which is totally the mature and responsible thing to do.

Or not.

I cover my face with my hands and scream into them. But quietly. Wouldn't want to disturb the other passengers.

Clearly running away is not a solution to anything, nor is it particularly independent or empowering to do it using Daddy's credit cards. I do realize that. So what the hell am I doing here? What is this supposed to accomplish, exactly?

I don't know what I'm doing. Which is the whole problem. I've never known what I'm doing. I've spent my entire life not knowing what parts of my life are mine, and what parts are manufactured for show, and I just wanted to get away from all the demands and expectations and noise so that I could figure it out. But yeah, I guess my chosen method of self-discovery is a little irresponsible.

But accepting pot deliveries for your friends isn't? Please. Jess has no business being even remotely judgmental. And I'm an idiot for caring at all about what he thinks.

With my attitude properly readjusted, I walk the two steps it takes to cross the roomette and pick up my book. Lady Delia deigns to accept the scandalously low-cut dress that was probably previously worn by a prostitute. Of course.

The slow—and then whoa, not so slow—whittling away of Lady Delia's standards and inhibitions passes more time than I thought it would, and when my rumbling stomach causes me to look up, the sun is already setting and we're well clear of the greater Sacramento area. I lean my chin against the window and look out at the flat deadness of Nevada—or that's how I've always thought if it, anyway. With the sun setting and the brush flying past, it looks golden and alive.

I look at my bags of Skittles doubtfully and decide my stomach is empty enough to deserve some real food. After a day in which I ate nothing but a tiny cheeseburger and some chips and a Snickers from your friendly neighborhood vending machine, I'm starving. I dig the key the attendant gave me out of my back pocket and lock up the roomette, and head off in search of the dining car. Which probably won't have real food either, I realize, but