Moving to LA wasn’t a measured decision. I didn’t finish school and then drive off in an old jalopy with just graduated written on the back. No. I didn’t move to LA at all. I fled to LA.

In the days after Aimee died, I spent day in, day out in a silent, furious rage. I sat outside by my parents’ screened-in, chlorinated pool, staring out at the man-made lake behind their house and seething. I woke up early every morning, unrested from hours of watching the clock tick on and on through the night, then went out to one of the rubber-strapped pool chairs and baked in the sun until it hurt. My skin pulsed with the heat and the rage that roiled inside of me. I sweated out every ounce of water I drank and ate next to nothing. Even to my parents, I probably looked like I was tanning at the pool, luxuriating as if nothing had happened. As if maybe I wasn’t facing it, at the very least.

They both came and asked me repeatedly if I wanted to talk. They brought me fresh juice and toasted bagels slathered in butter and cream cheese. But I was snotty and irritable back at them.

I didn’t go to work, which didn’t surprise anyone. At the time, I was employed at a beach club bar at a hotel selling pretzels from a hot cabinet and plasticky cheese with stale corn chips, so it wasn’t as if no one could cover me or live without the service.

Then, on the day of the funeral, my mom laid out a new, dull-looking black dress with a pair of grocery-store stockings and my little black ballet flats. She left a note on them.

Meg,

I always find that, when it comes to funerals, it’s best to wear something you’ll never wear again. I thought you might hate this.

We love you. We’re going to Aimee’s parents’ house to help prepare for the wake after the service. See you later. Call if you need anything. There’s a hash brown casserole in the fridge.

Mom

I had stared at the note and it filled me with anger. The fury that had been boiling inside me for days erupted.

I took the dress and threw it in the trash can along with the note. I then went to my room, blasted music as loud as I could—fuck the neighbors with their probably untraumatized lives—and filled every backpack and duffel I had.

I got in my inherited Camry and started driving. I had a couple thousand dollars in my bank account from working through winter break at the hotel, the last few weeks, and what I had saved from last summer. I had enough to get to LA and rent a room somewhere, probably. I’d find a restaurant job. I could start making tips right away.