That's Not My Name

by Megan Lally

He smiles. “Don’t worry. Nobody will see you.” I can’t explain the stab of unease that sentence brings.

What. The. Hell. His attention trails out the window and stays there. You can’t remember. You don’t know the rules. There’s clothing I’m not allowed to wear? Along with the “clean” books I read? I look down at my shirt again. What’s wrong with a V-neck?

“Okay…um… We got really close after your mother’s accident. Even closer when we started homeschooling. You’re part of some homeschool groups back in McMinnville—they’re a great group of kids, really solid friends. No troublemakers.” I forgot I’m homeschooled.

I have no idea what to make of that story. Appropriate books. Appropriate clothes. Appropriate friends. Appropriate life. A pattern is emerging here. And what does he mean, about going too far? Too far in what way? Is he saying I got into drugs or shoplifting, something illegal?

It must have been the strawberries? Was he guessing the first time? How can my own father not know what I’m allergic to?

The van pulls away and she takes out her phone, almost frantic, and holds it to her ear.

I nod through the sudden pain at the back of my throat. I know how hard this has been for them, but he got one part wrong. I don’t know that I am still here. Not really. I feel like part of me left when she did.

Then why do I have to go inside? To keep him from seeing my collarbone? Oh, the horror. Also, the old guy may be a neighbor? If we come up here all the time, wouldn’t Wayne know who lives nearby and who doesn’t? I climb out of the van.

He smiles, tips his head to the side, and squints at my face. “You know, something about you looks so familiar. I can’t put my finger on it.” I match his squint. “Really?” “She gets that a lot,” Wayne says with a grin. “She has one of those faces.” I do?

Mary. My name rings in my ears, like my brain won’t allow it in.

Max leans over from the driver’s seat. “Get in, losers, we’re going sleuthing.”

Oh my god. What if… What if he’s not my dad? What if I’m not Mary? What if that’s not my name?

I think of my family back home, how badly they must want to see me again. I hear them calling my name, looking for me, and one final piece clicks into place. I know my name.