Sara Hosey - Iphigenia Murphy

Copyright 2020 by Sara Hosey
E-book published in 2020 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Kathryn Galloway English
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.
Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-982618-31-5
Library e-book ISBN 978-1-982618-30-8
Young Adult Fiction / Coming of Age
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com

For all the girls that nobody looks for.

Part I :
Getting Gone

Chapter 1

On the couch that was also my bed in the apartment Id lived in all my life, I sat, sucking my thumb, thinking of the terrible things hed said to me, using them to ignite a small fire, to get myself warm and moving, to get myself going, to get myself gone.

But, cold and numb, I sat listening hard to the noises: the train rumbling down Roosevelt Avenue, a bus squealing its brakes and then its tired engine sighing and heaving back to life, the water running in the pipes over my head and then the padding footsteps of our upstairs neighbor, my stepmothers whistle-snores through her bedroom door.

My empty stomach churned. Vaguely, I knew that if I sat there long enough, someone would wake up, emerge bleary-eyed, and ask me what was going on. Whats that stupid look on your face, Iffy? Answer me. Sucked teeth. Dumb skank.

I took my thumb away from my mouth. I touched my eye and my clammy fingers stayed there, gently exploring. It was sore from where I had fallen against the edge of my stepbrothers dresser the day before.

My backpack sat on the floor beside me. This morning, Id gotten up and packedclothes and underwear and bathroom stuff. Id folded and stowed my sheet, gone to the bathroom and brushed my teeth and hair. But then, when it was time to leave, I sat back down on the couch, cold and quiet inside.

Remembering myself, I reached for the straps of my backpack.

There was a flutter and then a scratching noise from across the room; my stepmothers bird was moving under the rust-colored blanket draped over its cage. I felt something moving inside me toomaybe something kindling in me as I thought about my stepmother. Although shed often loudly insisted on her love for them and spent quite a bit of money buying them, my stepmother averaged about one parakeet every three months. A pretty short life expectancy, right there. I honestly wondered whether she realized that they were unhappy. That their cage was too small and too dirty and that they were neglected. That she was killing them. Did she not know that? Or did she just not care?

There was a noise from my stepbrothers room, something falling, maybe a sneaker or a beer bottle kicked from the bed. Then, a low moan. Laylas still asleep . I almost smiled. Something was warming inside me.

Layla was a neighborhood girl, and she and my stepbrother had been running around for weeks behind the back of her scary-as-hell boyfriend, Oscar. It was late when theyd come in last night and Id been sleeping on the couch when the door clicked open. My whole body had tensed, then relaxed when I realized Layla was with him. They went straight back to his room. Through the thin wall, I could hear them fooling around, and then playing video games, and then fooling around again, for hours.

Id lain awake for the rest of the night, listening to the pounding Mortal Kombat music and Laylas murmured Oh, Marco s. I would have put my headphones on, except I needed to save my batteries. But lying there, I had resolved to follow through on the scheme Id come up with.

And hearing the bird, thinking of that scheme, finally I jumped from the couch, moving decisively around the apartment one last time.

I took a piece of loose-leaf out of my backpack, went into the kitchen and scrawled a note: Staying at Lizettes. Be home on Sunday. Iff.

I slapped the note down on the kitchen counter and grabbed one of my stepmothers Pop-Tarts, knowing thatd piss her off. Thinking better of it, I grabbed a second packet and shoved them both in my hoodie pocket, carefully returning the empty box to the cupboard. Now that would piss her off.

On a roll, I went and opened the kitchen window. I took the three short steps back to the living room and undraped the birdcage. Tweetie flapped its little wings and looked at me. I eased open the sliding gate and stuck my pointer finger in; even though we didnt interact a whole lot, the bird seemed to sense what was happening and hopped right on to my finger.

I carried the bird carefully back to the kitchen, one hand cupped around it as though I was holding a lit candle, and I set my hand out the window.

That bird didnt hesitate. It got gone.

I watched it perch on the neighbors fire escape before setting out for real and flapping down 83rd street. Good luck, I whispered.

I had no idea if that bird would make it through the summer, if it would live to see 1993, or if it would fly south or find a new family or what, but its odds were a lot better out there than theyd ever been in here.

And I was right behind it.

I redraped the cage and headed to the door. They probably wouldnt even notice that cage was empty til tomorrow. I picked up my school bag and popped my skateboard under my arm.

I opened the apartment door and pushed the little button by the deadbolt so that it would stay unlocked. I went into the hallway and pulled the door quietly behind me. I became lighter with each step I took, as though ropes that had held me loosened and frayed and snapped off the farther I got from that door. I jogged down the three flights, jumped the last few steps, holding the railing and swooping down, like Ive always done, since I was a little kid. I was weightless.

My breath was short, my heart fluttering when I burst from the service entry into the sunny morning. Theymy stepbrother, Layla, my stepmotherwere still asleep, I knew, but nevertheless I felt pursued, a fugitive. I dropped my board and stepped on it. Other folks were just starting to emerge into the day, the dog walkers and deliverymen hustling around. I put on my headphones, holding the bright-yellow Walkman in my hand as I kicked off to the opening notes of the Pixies Where Is My Mind?

I thought more about that bird as I skated the three blocks over to the playground to meet my friend Lizette once last time.

I was getting gone too.

Chapter 2

I was never going back there. Never going back . The words repeated in my head to the rhythm of the board over the lines that divided up the sidewalk squares, never going back , never going back . And then I crossed the street and the rhythm shifted and the words changed. Gotta find her. Gotta find her . Gotta find Mom.

I was a little bit less of a wreck when I got to the playground. I sat on my swing and tried to get ahold of my breathing. I wondered if other people had to work so hard to try to seem normal all the time.