The Alchemy of Forever

bun.
    “What you need, sweetie? Mica? No . . . a license?” She nods to the man, and he walks away.
    “Yes,” I say. “My favorite bands are always playing twenty-one-plus shows. Can you help?”
    “Mmm-hmm.” She raises her eyebrows. “You got cash?”
    “How much?”
    “Seventy-five. But it’s legit. You can scan it and everything.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and I nod okay.
    “Right, let’s go for a walk.” She pulls a raincoat off a peg on the wall, and we head out to the street. We walk a few blocks, and she offers to share her umbrella, but I shake my head no. “Come on, now,” she says, looking at me ruefully. “You’re like a drowned bird. You want to look pretty for your picture.”
    We stop in front of a photo studio, its display windows full of glamour shots in elaborate gold frames, all soft focus and dreamy expressions. The inside of the studio is dim and smells faintly of mildew. There are an assortment of backdrops and a rack of frilly dresses. I run my fingers over them, but Lucia heads straight to a door and leads me into another room, with a plain blue screen. I recognize the hue as the background for the California driver’s license headshot.
    A man wearing dark sunglasses comes in, his bald head gleaming under the studio lights. He murmurs to Lucia in Spanish: “You sure she’s cool?” I can’t hear Lucia’s response, but he seems reassured.
    She brings me a towel to dry my hair. “Gracias,” I whisper. I give her my money, and the man takes my photo, then leaves.
    “It will be about an hour,” she tells me. “You can meet me at the taqueria.”
    “Can I stay with you?” I ask her. I’m hungry.
    “You’re pretty new at this, eh?” She laughs at me, but agrees.
    As we walk back to the market, I’m lost in thought. Kailey’s hospital records are a problem. Every hour will count when I make my escape, and I can’t risk him finding out who I am before I’m well out of town.
    At the taqueria I order two carnitas tacos and sit at the counter on a stool. Lucia cracks open a mango Jarritos soda and slides it over to me. “On the house, sweetie.”
    I take a grateful sip. “Hey, Lucia,” I begin. “I have another . . . request. Do you know anyone with computer skills?”
    “What, you need help buying concert tickets?”
    I smile. “I need to make some information disappear. There’s a hospital visit and a police report that I don’t need my parents finding. They’ll kill me.” I feel my face grow hot and take a bite of the taco, spilling onions onto the paper plate.
    “Ah, I see. I do have a friend who’s a total genius with this stuff. I can ask him for you.”
    She pulls out a cell phone and disappears into the kitchen. I strain to overhear, but can’t make anything out. After a few minutes she comes back.
    “You probably won’t want to pay. He can do it, but he wants a thousand. And he says he can’t make anything on the Internet disappear.” She leans against a refrigerated case of beer and clicks her nails, waiting for my response.
    My face falls. “I only have three hundred.”
    Lucia studies me for a moment, chewing her lip. Then she returns. “Okay. Just this once he’ll do it for three hundred.”
    “Thank you, thank you, thank you! How did you do that?” I breathe. It will wipe out my cash, but there have to be other ways to replenish it. Perhaps Bryan has money, or I suppose I could find something in the Morgans’ house to sell. The thought makes my stomach churn, but I am desperate.
    Lucia shrugs. “He owes me.”
    I pull out my wad of cash and count out three hundred dollars, then hand it over to her. She gives me a piece of paper, and I write down the details of Kailey’s accident: date, location, and the name of the hospital she was taken to.
    Just then the bald man from the photo studio appears and hands me an envelope. I open it and am staring at Kailey’s face on the new ID. My new name is Jane Smith. I look at the man questioningly, and he shrugs, the smallest hint of a smile playing on his lips. “You didn’t tell me what name you wanted, so I picked it out.”
    I thank them both, resisting the urge to hug Lucia. I tell her she’s a fairy godmother, and she laughs and waves me out.

thirty-two
     
    “Good morning,” I say brightly to Mrs. Morgan on Tuesday as I glide into the kitchen, punctuating my greeting with a kiss on her cheek.
    Mr. Morgan looks up from his newspaper. “Uh-oh. Last time you were