I faked seizures when I was thirteen.

Dad took me and Mercy to Disneyland that summer where a woman collapsed in line waiting for the Matterhorn Bobsleds. Her skin chalky, eyes rolled into her head, she gyrated on the ground with chattering teeth and a flopping tongue.

Mercy wouldn't look, but I couldn't tear my eyes away. I'd never seen a seizure before; I was enthralled.

That following fall, Mrs. Rawls, our English teacher at Tubman Middle School, required we write a three-page essay on To Kill a Mockingbird. I wasn't a good student, so I had no interest in writing it. Mercy was an avid reader and finished her essay about Boo Radley easily, tucking the sheet of paper in her teal binder with a flourish. She practically begged to help me with mine.

Since I was the older twin (by four minutes, thank you very much), it was usually me rescuing us and helping us survive. I'm the one that went asking the neighbors around our apartment complex for food when Mom disappeared for three days. We were eight.

I called 911 and injected the Naloxone into Dad during his first overdose. We were ten.

I saved the day. Often. But this time, it was Mercy throwing out suggestions, excited to bail me out of something for a change. "Why don't you write about Tom Robinson? Mrs. Rawls told us focus on one of the innocents."

I sat cross-legged across from her on the scratchy blue blanket strewn across the twin bed we shared, glaring at the rosy-cheeked face that looked just like mine.

"Why don't I write about these nuts?" I fell into a fit of giggles, thinking I was so clever at the time.

"Get serious. You'll fail," Mercy warned.

I didn't give a shit. I wanted to go out and play basketball with Bobby Santiago in the courtyard of our apartments, maybe even let him sneak a kiss, if he wasn't being an asshole in front of his friends.

Though I pleaded, Mercy wouldn't write the paper for me; she was pious in that way. Then, the sallow-skinned lady from Disneyland flashed in front of me.

What if I faked a seizure to avoid class? Maybe Mrs. Rawls would take pity on me, perhaps even let me skip the essay altogether.

I practiced in our small bathroom, making faces in the toothpaste-splattered mirror until I was convinced I made a plausible epileptic.

The following day, I knocked my teeth together, rolling my eyes in the foyer of school. After dropping to my knees with a bone-straight back, I bubbled spit on my lips.

It was quite the performance.

Paramedics were called. Mom had to leave her shift at Dollar General. Even the doctor wanted to run tests, putting me through one of those tunnel-looking machines to scan my brain. But Mom instantly assumed state insurance wouldn't cover all that and promptly yanked my ass out of that ER.

Back in our sparse one-bedroom apartment, Mercy was both appalled and amazed.

"I can't believe you got away with it," she gushed under our covers that night.

"What did Mrs. Rawls say about the essay?" I asked, the adrenaline from the day beginning to ebb.

"She said to turn it in when you feel better."

Then Mercy and I giggled until we snorted, which made us laugh even harder, tears streaming our faces.

Mercy knew I'd do whatever it took to get shit done.

Which is what I'm thinking as I hold Sheila's phone in my hand. It feels as heavy as a brick in my hand. I can almost feel Mercy's disapproving glare.

What? I want to ask Mercy. I needed to do something.

After pulling into a Quik-Stop parking lot to study her GPS, I realize with horror I forgot to ask Sheila to unlock her phone.

What was I thinking?

What's the plan? GPS my way to California? What happens when the phone dies? And how far will I get on half a tank of gas? How will I eat?

Tears sting my eyes, but I won't let let them fall. I've cried too many times today.

I wish I could call Dad, he'd know what to do.

When he stuck a needle in his arm after four years of sobriety, I wasn't mad at him. It was a couple of days after Mercy's funeral and he was lost.

Though Mercy's been dead two years, I've only spoken to him on birthdays. He doesn't want to talk to the bad daughter.

While racking my brain, Sheila's phone lights up with HOME flashing across the caller ID. The ringtone is a gospel song, There Is Power in The Blood.

Ignoring it, I struggle to think.

Outside the stuffy car, wind rattles the windows. Fat clouds block the sun.

What would a person like Sheila use as her passcode? Trying combinations of numbers, I curse that her phone requires six.

I curse when her phone sings again. "Dammit, Sheila!"

I want to throw the stupid thing out of the window and drive Cherry over it. But I need it.

There's no way I'm going back to that horrible school, surrendering to Bella Hardgrove, befriending Sheila Hyatt, and partnering with Colt Colby. Especially him. Guys like him only live to humiliate girls like me.

Besides, Mom doesn't want me around. She cooked eggs today to make up for her episode last night. Normally, her approach to mothering is: Fend for yourself.

It's time I fended for myself, I guess.

But how far will I get? Will Mom report the car stolen? Will Dad slam the door in my face?

When Sheila's phone rings a third time, I have to admit the hard truth:

My plan sucks.

I steer Cherry back onto the highway, down pitiful Main St., cross Oak and Pine Streets, and turn left on Old Salt Crossing. Cardi B tells me about her red-bottomed shoes.

Something about Cardi's sing-song voice plants the seed of a new plan.

I'll change Mom's mind. Make her see how evil this town is by using Margaret's disappearance as an example of what happens to girls here. Forming the story on my tongue, I feel confident as I turn Cherry into the driveway.

But swirling red-and-blue lights jar me from my thoughts.

Two black Sheriff cars with six-pointed gold stars painted on the sides, are packed in tight in our narrow driveway, one right behind the other.

My heart thunders.

Leaving Cherry's engine purring, I throw the driver's door open and jog to the front yard, where two Sheriffs in cowboy hats try to shush a crazy, shrieking woman.

I'm not surprised when I see the screaming woman is Mom.