Don't Look Behind You by Lois Duncan Page A

taken seats at the back of the aircraft. Our seat assignments were toward the front, and we stashed our luggage in the overhead compartment and settled ourselves into the middle and window seats in the seventh row. Several more last-minute passengers hurried on board, flushed and breathless as though they had just run a marathon, and then the doors were closed and the flight attendants cruised the aisles, checking to see that everyone was wearing a seat belt.
    A few minutes later Richmond lay far below us, a mosaic of rooftops, punctuated by brilliant blue swimming pools. The plane continued to climb until the city’s highways had been reduced to a network of overlapping lines with black dots creeping along them like sluggish ants. Then, in an instant’s time, the earth vanished completely, buried beneath a layer of marshmallow clouds, and we and our fellow passengers were alone together in an infinite expanse of open sky.
    Mom reached over and gave my hand a squeeze.
    â€œWe’ve made it, honey,” she whispered. “We’re safe at last.”
    â€œDo you really believe that?” I returned the squeeze, momentarily forgetting that I was mad at her.
    â€œOf course,” she said reassuringly. “And just think, we’re going to Florida! What a wonderful place to take an extended ‘maxi-vay’!”
    She was making such an effort to act lighthearted that I tried my best to respond with the same sort of cheerfulness.
    â€œI wonder if it’s like the TV commercials, beaches and palm trees and everybody gulping orange juice.”
    â€œThat sounds good,” Mom said. “I wouldn’t mind a glass right now. Here comes the girl with the drink cart, maybe I’ll get some.”
    When the flight attendant reached us, Mom ordered her orange juice spiked with vodka, which was something I had never known her to do before. I asked for a Coke, and the freckle-faced girl who sat next to me in the aisle seat ordered a Sprite.
    â€œI like Coke better,” she confided, wrinkling her nose. “I’m scared, though, of what might happen if we hit rough air. My mom bought me this dress just to make the trip in, and Coke’s so hard to wash out if it spills on your clothes.”
    â€œI’m not wearing anything elegant enough to worry about,” I said, having had no time to change out of my jeans and T-shirt.
    â€œI see what you mean,” said the girl, observing me critically. “My mom says people ought to dress up when they travel. Did you get a discount haircut? One side’s longer than the other.” She didn’t wait for a response. “I’m Abby Keller. I’m going to visit my dad and his wife for the summer.”
    Then she asked the inevitable question, “What’s your name?”
    I froze for a moment, unable to come up with an answer. Although I could no longer call myself April Corrigan, I was not yet ready to be Valerie Weber, the identity I would assume once we landed in Florida.
    â€œApril Gross,” I said finally, settling on a compromise. Half real, half fake.
    â€œOh, gross!” the girl exclaimed rudely and burst out laughing. “Do people tease you? I know my friends would tease me. Do they say, ‘Oh, here comes that gross girl?’”
    â€œA name’s just a name,” I said shortly. “People get used to it.” Except when it’s a name like Valerie, I added silently.
    â€œWhere are you going?” asked Abby. “To Sarasota?”
    I nodded, feeling progressively more and more uncom-fortable.
    â€œI wish that’s where I was going to be staying,” Abby said. “It would be nice to live on the coast where the beaches are. My dad and his wife live in Dullsville. That’s not really its name, of course, but that’s what I call it. Can you believe the only movies they get there are so old you can already rent them on DVD?”
    I glanced across at Mom and