Next, I grab a package of my mother’s hair dye and regard it warily. She carries a kit with her just in case her roots begin to show before she can get to a decent salon (as if that would be the worst thing in the world). The directions say something about foil wraps and combing on the blond color only where you want it, but I don’t have time for that. Besides, my chopped-up hair is pretty much a lost cause. No point in attempting to look attractive now. I wet my hair in the sink, open the bottle, squeeze the strong-smelling cream into my palm and work it quickly into my hair. I run to the other room, where I grab a big tote bag and pack a few changes of T-shirts, underwear, bras and an extra pair of jeans. I throw some sneakers and socks in too, as well as flip-flops and a pair of pajamas. I pack a small bag of makeup, then my toothbrush and toothpaste. Finally, not feeling particularly bad about it, since I’m the one who earned it, I lift up the clothing in Mom’s large suitcase to reveal the secret zippered compartment below. I know she keeps cash in there. I stuff roughly a thousand dollars in twenties and fifties into the zippered inner compartment of my tote bag, then unzip her smaller suitcase, which sits in the corner, and take all the cash in its hidden compartment too. Seven hundred-dollar bills, three twenties, a ten and six ones. I stuff those in my pocket. It should be enough to get me where I need to go.

I’m going to Florida. To find my dad. It doesn’t feel real to me.

I take my cell out of my bag and leave it on the counter, like any good Law & Order fan. I know the police can track your phone, even if you don’t use it, just by tracking down which cell towers it pings off of.

I go back to the bathroom and wash the highlighter out of my hair. Then I pull the hair dryer from the wall, set it to high and bend over. I’m done in just a few minutes, thanks to the new length. As I stand to regard myself in the mirror, I burst out laughing. My hair is an unnatural shade of blondish red. I look like a cross between Bozo the Clown and Little Orphan Annie. If the paparazzi could see me now . . .