The night before I left, the apartment split open again.

There was screaming. Not just raised voices. Not just doors slamming. Screaming that made the walls feel thinner than they were. Words thrown like objects. The kind of rupture that doesn’t end when it ends — it lingers in the air.

I had been thinking about leaving for a long time.

That night, thinking turned into planning.

I told myself, I’m doing it tomorrow.

At thirteen, I realized no one was coming.

Not mother. Not father. Not anyone.

Five years until eighteen. Five years felt like half my life. When you are thirteen, five years is an eternity. I remember doing the math in my head like it was survival arithmetic.

Four years.
Thirty-six months.
Two years.

I counted time the way other kids counted down to summer.

At fourteen, I stopped counting.

Waiting felt unbearable.

So I packed my school backpack.

I put in the pillowcase I had been sewing. A change of clothes. Some cheap cheese sandwiches. I think I had five dollars. My bus pass. That was it.

I wore the outfit I felt prettiest in — my blue denim mini skirt and the matching jacket. No tights. It was about thirty degrees outside.

But California is warm, I told myself.

When I get there, I’ll warm up.

I thought I could go to California and become an actress. If I became famous, everything would be fixed. I would get my green card. I would never have to depend on my mother for anything again.

That was the logic.

I dressed for California, not for Queens.

I took the bus as far as I could. I got off in Flushing at one point and found a house that looked abandoned. There was a shed in the back. I told myself I could sleep there, just for the night.

The owner appeared before I could settle in. She saw me and told me to get out. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t wait for explanations.

I remember thinking she was mean.

So I got back on the bus.

I rode it to the far end of Queens. I didn’t get very far. My bus pass was going to stop working around six. I did the math again.

I couldn’t leave that day.

If I went home an hour late, it wouldn’t be suspicious. I could say I went to the library. I could blend back into normal.

So I went back.

It wasn’t a failure. It was reconnaissance.

After that, I went back to counting.

Four more years.