The Girl Who Would Be King(44)

Still, him missing me seems like too much to hope for.

And I’m not sure why I care. It’s not like he’s in my life anymore, but I catch myself hoping for it in spite of myself.

When I get tired of the innocent little things – like sitting on the beach – I return to crime. I rob a jewelry store, a convenience store, and an Apple store because I decide I need a laptop and an iPod. I steal like twelve laptops and throw them all in the Los Angeles River (which is more like a crappy concrete canal) except one that I keep. I do the same with the iPods and iPads – keeping a sleek silver iPod and none of the iPads. I steal a shiny car from a dealership at four a.m. one Saturday night, but crash it into the Los Angeles river the next night after realizing I prefer my bike.

I’ve gotten used to my lame motel rooms, but frequently consider what my other options might be. I don’t know anything about buying a house, or renting one, or what might be involved if someone needs my name.

I don’t even know my social security number – or if I have one.

I dream foreign things. Up until now, dreams were infrequent at best, but ever since I read about the stone – ever since I felt whatever it was I felt at Joan’s carnival – the dreams are different. In one, I’m commanding an epic battlefield of men engaged in bloody battle. I fly above them becoming fat on their kills. Sometimes, I turn into a crow, sometimes I turn into three. In another dream, I’m a slithering snake swimming through a river tinged with blood and emerge from it a cackling old woman. In another I run through forests, low to the ground and hunting something – it’s men. I’m hunting men. When I catch them, I tear them to pieces with my wolf jaws and then roll around in their blood, covering my fur with it and howling at the moon while strange women, all who remind me of Delia but are not Delia, watch from the trees, their pale eyes reflecting the moon sharply like mirrors. When I’m done I take to the air, my black crow feathers light on the breeze. Sometimes I think I see Delia – sometimes I know I do – but she never speaks to me. If I wasn’t so bored, I’d say I’m going crazy, but since it’s the most interesting thing that’s happened in weeks I just shrug it off.

I chase boredom away one day by driving up the coast through Malibu. I turn onto an abandoned drive and follow a road toward the ocean. A remote house far off the road and overlooking the beach sits there sadly, proudly. It reminds me of me. I watch it for a week before breaking in. It looks like people haven’t been here in months and there are no immediate neighbors, no mail comes, no paper. When I get inside I also find no telephone, electricity, or cable – it sucks about the cable. The water works though, and the gas must be on because I can get hot water in the bathroom. There’s an inch of dust on most everything.

I move in with my three duffel bags the following day. I park my motorcycle in some bushes near the south side of the house and I keep my stuff all in one place near the big sliding doors so that if anyone shows up suddenly I can climb down the rocky ridge with my bags in an instant. I figure I can hear someone coming if they even pull into the drive off of the main road. It happens a couple times, people lost or exploring, but they always turn around before getting too close. It’s a pretty sweet pad. The house is set awesomely above the beach, with a huge stone deck and pool overlooking the ocean. It’s been chilly out, but I don’t really get cold, and so I sleep most nights in the hammock or on one of the chaises on the patio, preferring the sounds of the ocean and the sky to the false quiet of the house and the overly decorated, dusty rooms.

The pool is empty and, after a few days staring at it, I fill it up with a hose I find in a side yard. It takes nearly a day to fill it up. That’ll be a big water bill – glad I won’t be here when it shows. I’m sure I’m not doing it right, that people don’t usually fill pools with hoses, but I don’t care. It looks great and I catch myself staring at the water for whole hours without looking away. I find chlorine in the garage and guess at how much to add. I get pretty close I think because it smells a bit but doesn’t sting my eyes when I get in, although maybe my eyes are immune. Guess I’ll never know, unless I have a pool party with some non-super-powered folks. Yeah, that’ll happen.

I don’t actually know how to swim, but I figure it’s high time I figure it out and I’m not about to sign up at the local Y for some baby swim lessons.

As I wade in a sudden bit of fear overtakes me. It’s a good motivator though and so I go all the way in, fast and hard. It’s not pretty at first (I look like some kind of half-drowned rat doing a half-assed dog paddle) but I like how the water feels and in a couple days I’m not so bad. After that I start swimming every day. Both because I like it and because I’m bored out of my goddamn mind. I suppose it’s also because I’m avoiding the fact that I have no idea what to do next.