Page 20 of Lethal in Pink

I want this. I want the anonymity. I want the classroom. I want the chance to be wrong about something without it making headlines. I want to sit in a library and read a book that has nothing to do with me. I want to walk down a street where no one knows my face. That’s what I’m flying toward.

My flight gets called on the loudspeaker and people begin to shuffle, preparing to board our flight.

There are fourteen hours of sky.

I sleep in increments, eat something that tastes like cardboard, watch a romantic comedy and then another one and then, god help me, a third. I keep my headphones in even when there’s nothing playing. Somewhere over the Pacific, I stop thinking about where I’m coming from and start thinking about nothing at all, which feels, unexpectedly, like progress.

LAX is honey-colored and loud.

The baggage claim carousel grinds in slow circles while suitcases drop onto the belt with the indifferent thud of things that have been handled by many strangers. Families press together at the barrier, arms already open. Business travelers drift past them like they’re furniture. The airport employees work the floor with the calm, unhurried authority of people who have absorbed so many arrivals that one more barely registers.

After grabbing my things, I head outside and the heat hits me like a warm, dirty hand. Exhaust. Concrete heat. The faint salt-sweet note of the ocean thirty miles west.

I actually kind of love it.

I pull out my phone and open the ride-share app and type in my destination—the address of the apartment near Blackthorn’s campus, the one my mother’s connections helped secure. The map loads and a driver about five minutes away accepts my request.

I stand on the curb and wait.

Five minutes later the blue sedan I’ve been waiting for pulls up, the driver inside sporting a beard and a Dodgers cap. “Jae?” he asks through the window.

“That’s me.”

He pops the trunk and I load my luggage. The trunk latch doesn’t catch on the first try—I have to slam it twice before it locks.

“405 or surface streets?” the driver asks once I’m seated.

“I have no idea what that means.” I say with a chuckle, rubbing the back of my neck.

He tips his head, amusement apparent in his eyes. “Okay rookie. We’re taking the freeway. Buckle up.”

We merge onto to freeway where a sea of metal and concrete greet us. Cars are hurtling in both directions at speeds that would be illegal in Seoul. Though, still speeds I am quite familiar with. My best friend and I have loved driving fast since we were on bikes with training wheels. Speaking of which, I can’t wait to get my own set of wheels back. It should be arriving within the next day or two by ship.

“You just visiting?” the driver asks, eyes on the rearview.

“Yes and no.” I say. “I’m attending Blackthorn University, so I guess I’m going to be living here for a bit.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy your time in LA,” he grins before his hand reaches to turn up the radio.

Huh…Americans are friendly.

I stare out the window and watch Los Angeles materialize around me in pieces—palm trees and strip malls and billboards for things I don’t recognize. A taco truck on a side street with a line ten people deep.

That looks…kind of good, actually. My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I haven’t really eaten anything outside of the airplane cardboard since the night before I left.

I’ll order some take-out.

Letting myself sink into the seat, I can feel the tension in my shoulders begin to dissipate. This is really real. I am really on my own.

It’s a strange and an absolutely terrifying fucking feeling, but it’s also exhilarating and beautiful.

And everything I asked for.

Chapter seven

Amiyah

The hallway to the lecture hall smells like the desperation that clings to the first day of a semester like perfume to a cut-priced whore. I inhale it through my nose and hold it for a moment before slowly releasing it through my mouth, because my therapist said it might help with the anxiety that comes with leading a double life and fine, whatever, it works.