Simone

I was out with friends when my father violently sped past me, a flatbed filled with suspicious materials following his vehicle. Little did I know, he was setting up the ramshackle enclosure in which I would spend the next few nights.

Aimlessly walking around town, now alone, he cornered me in an empty parking lot, and threw me, tied, in his car. There I was: kidnapped. He introduced me to a ragtag group of accomplices he’d met at a trailer park. In exchange for money, they’d agreed to aid him in his efforts, amongst them, present-day David Spade.

I was threatened with various weapons and told to keep quiet. I did.

In this universe, my parents were no longer married, so I was relieved upon sight of my mother, believing she was there to save me. I was wrong. She had reconciled with my father, in what she promptly explained was their joint effort to stage my disappearance. In what I then deemed a careless misstep, she revealed to me their plan. First, they would condition me to my new standard of living, an empty shed in an overgrown lot. They would soon report me missing, launch a large-scale search, kill me, dump the body, all while collecting $$$$ympathy from the community, life insurance company, and legal settlements. She explained that since I was so special, brilliant, memorable, impactful, and universally loved, she and my father would make at least $1 billion if everything worked out correctly.

I knew I had to expose their lies. And I knew there was a way.

Phase one had only just begun, so I was still allowed to go to school, albeit without my phone, and under a low profile. My mother, a teacher at my high school, was to keep careful watch, ensuring my compliance.

At school I was my usual self; happy and outgoing and loud and not understanding that I might not actually be the smartest one in the classroom. But some of this was purposeful, I thought to myself, the bolder I am now, the better they will be at finding me. But what if they don’t find me? That thought lingered too.

Finally, I had my chance at freedom: In the auditorium—seated next to Christine, equal parts unemotional and intelligent—for a school-wide assembly. I aggressively whisper-explained my predicament and begged her to go to the precinct after school, to which she responded with a passive, “Okaayyyyy.” In this moment, my mother made eye contact with me, and in the scariest 15 seconds of my life, swiftly approached us. She instructed me to get up and let her sit between us, saying it was disrespectful to talk during the assembly. As I sat there, wondering if I’d just ended my own life, two police officers came on to the stage, calling out my mother’s name, proclaiming they had a warrant for her arrest. My mother jolted up and away, quick to defend her honor to the crowd. But I boldly stood, verifying their claims, sobbing relief, knowing my horrors were over.

But the audience remained chillingly still, unresponsive to my emotion. And then my father, followed by his band of misfits, began to emerge from backstage, hand hugging and smiling at the officers. And the audience wailed, laughter filling every open space, while fingers and open mouths taunted me.

“GOTCHA!” My mother exclaimed as she began a speech explaining her past transgressions as part of a town-wide effort to test and destroy my inflated ego. Really, how could I have thought I was worth $1 billion?

I screamed back at her, shedding tears as salty as I and cursing everyone around me, even Christine, my once-savior. To this my mother retorted, “Watch your language, there are assistant principals here!,” erupting the audience in a second wave of hysterical chortling.

I woke up abruptly, startled and uneasy.

Upon further reflection, I decided to document the dream and share it, because my special, brilliant, memorable, universally loved brain had crafted such a metaphorically truthful statement and it needed to be heard. ♦