His Missing Wife by Jaime Hendricks (nice books to read .TXT) 📕

everything got bad. That was when I heard the twins took off from a different foster home, Kenny knocked someone up for the first time and left me, and Christopher did his premiere stint in juvie, which I know was just practice for the real thing.

All of them still had it better than I did there.

First things first: Time to blend.

The darker hair dye is hidden in my belongings, so I apply that, wait a half hour, and wash it out in the shower. The towel is slightly stiff, and I vow to add towels to my Target list. I certainly don’t want “housekeeping” coming in and going through my shit. My skin crawls at the thought of them transferring one set of sheets to another room, unwashed, over and over. A black light in this room would probably make it glow like a Christmas tree.

After I dry my hair, I razor-cut three inches off, just because. It has a fun little uneven edge, just like me. I also give myself proper bangs again. It fits. Asshole didn’t like the bangs and made me grow them out. Said I looked like a twelve-year-old.

I retrieve a pair of baggy jeans with holes in the knees and a ribbed tank from my suitcase and slip them on, and finish with foam flip flops that I got at the dollar store. My face is freshly washed from the shower, and I don’t reapply my makeup. I need my bruise for Part Two.

Locking the door behind me, the stares at the fresh meat are obvious. Walking down the stairs, I get called vulgar names in Spanish as well as English, and I’m offered a “pick me up” from one of the men with cornrows who I saw making a deal earlier. I ignore them all, head up, crossbody bag strapped to my midsection, and set out on foot.

I know the ID place I’m looking for is less than a mile from here, a straight shot up the highway. It’s still hot, still daytime although the sun is lower than it was when I arrived, and I curse the jeans that are sticking to my sweating legs, so I stop and roll up the baggy bottoms to let some air circulate. Just shy of a half hour later, I’m opening the door to the place and thankfully I see a young kid, twenty-one or so, at the register. He smiles at me.

“Hey, yo. Can I help you?”

“Hi.” I smile, the really big Yes You Can Help Me smile, because it’ll make him feel like my savior when I go into my sob story. He notices my black eye and I fake embarrassment and hold my hand over it, just for a second. “Yes, I’m really hoping you can help me.”

“What do you need, honey?” He’s chewing gum, his mouth wide open, and he has no game, yet he’s trying to be sympathetic. It’s what I’m counting on.

“Well. I—I just escaped a pretty bad situation a few days ago.” I wince, like I’ve just been hit. I’ve certainly had practice perfecting the motion. He notices my fear as I dive headfirst into a speech I’ve given many times when I assumed half a new identity. “I need to get a job, and I need a picture ID. But the thing is, I left with nothing. I never had my birth certificate because I left home when I was sixteen, after my mother’s boyfriend—never mind that. I had to leave.” The tears well up, as I let him believe I had a bad stepdaddy. The truth was worse, but he doesn’t need to know that. The less detail the better. “The only thing I have is my Social Security card.” My real one. Tessa Smith. Real number too. Go me.

The kid, Daniel, shifts uncomfortably, knowing he’s being asked to make a fraudulent document. Not really fraudulent, but without the proper identification that the state requires to prove my identity. I need a head start on getting my life together. I need this ID. My stories have worked in the past.

“I know these IDs you make here have a state seal,” I continue, “and I’ll need that to prove my identity for when I finally get a license. It’s all such a Catch-22. I need this ID to get a job so I can afford a place to live. I’ll need proof of residence on a bill or something before I can even get a license. I just need a little bit of help.” Puppy dog eyes. Even the bruised one. “I’m staying over at the Empire Motel right now. I don’t want him to find me. I don’t know where to go.” If telling him about that shithole doesn’t illicit a sympathetic response, nothing will.

He doesn’t exactly say no, so I up the stakes. “I have a hundred dollars for you if you do this for me. Cash. I can give it to you right now. You can use my Social Security card, right?” I produce my authentic card and let it fall on the counter. It is really mine, but this kid knows I could’ve swiped it from any old granny’s bag. “I’m just trying to stay alive. Get back on my feet the right way.” For once, the truth. Mostly—it’s hardly the “right” way.

He picks up the card and inspects it, probably used to seeing a hundred of these a day. His face is drawn, and I know I’ve won him over.

“Two fifty,” he says.

Little shit. I try not to show excitement. “Oh my God, really?” The tears fall. Grateful tears, even if I fake them to make him feel like a hero.

Yes, I’m grateful. This ID card, with the state seal, is verifiable. It will have my full name, Social Security number, and picture, and works as a valid ID for pretty much anything. The best part is, my real Social Security number has three ones and two threes in it. That’s always been