Beads of sweat form on my forehead as the blistering Arizona sun beats down on the asphalt. My arm feels fatigued; it has to have been at least thirty minutes. Cars hurtle past me indifferently. It becomes apparent that nobody wants to pick up a teenage hitchhiker. I can’t say I blame them. Miraculously, a white Subaru slows to a stop next to me. I gratefully climb into the passenger seat. The driver is a thin young woman with curly blonde hair. She’s wearing cutoff shorts and a red halter top. She smiles at me warmly.

 

“Hot day to hitch a lift, kiddo. Where are you headed?” she asks. 

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“Phoenix,” I tell her. I watch the vast expanse of dust and cacti become a blur as we start driving. 

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“How old are you? You’re awfully young to be traveling alone.”

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“I’m visiting my mom. Her place is in Paradise Valley.” The lie lingers in my mouth like sticky cough syrup.

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“Beautiful town. What's your name? I’m Kiara.”

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“I’m Elise,” I say.  I’ve always loved that name; it’s so delicate. It reminds me of those Renaissance women we studied in art class. Betty is a name fit for a cow. I don’t know why my mother endured 36 hours of labor just to name her daughter Betty. Maybe she knew she would eventually abandon me anyways, so it didn’t really matter what I was called. 

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We drive in silence for a while; Fleetwood Mac plays on the radio. I wonder when my dad will notice I’m gone. 

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“Elise, is it all right if I drop you here?” Kiara parks next to a store called The Bunky Boutique. We’re in Phoenix, at least it looks like we are. I’ve only ever seen it in pictures. 

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“Yeah, here is perfect. Thanks for the ride.” 

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It doesn’t really matter where Kiara drops me off, but I don’t tell her that. I’m not headed for Paradise Valley. I’m not headed anywhere in particular. I stick my thumb out into traffic. It isn’t long before a teenage boy pulls over in a pickup truck. 

He grins at me; there’s a gap in his teeth.

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“Where are ya headed dollface?” he asks. I don’t have a doll face, I don’t even have a pretty face. My eyes are dull and brown. I have a crooked nose and thin lips. 

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“Paradise Valley,” I say, crossing my arms. It’s 1:00. My dad is probably just waking up from his booze induced slumber, nursing his hangover. 

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The boy introduces himself, but I’m not listening. My back is turned to him. I can feel his eyes undressing me. 

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He attempts to start multiple conversations, but I don’t reciprocate. We drive for about an hour. He gives up on the small talk. 

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“Drop me off over there,” I tell him, pointing to a gas station in the distance. 

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“She speaks!” he says in a sarcastic tone. I don’t laugh. 

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He drives me to the gas station and I sit on a bench, waiting for my next chauffeur. I wonder how far I can get, how much distance I can put between myself and South Tucson. It will be days before Dad gets a call from school about my absence. He’ll take a swig of his beer and pretend to care. I could disappear for a while; I have enough money for a week or two. I fantasize about living in a trailer near the Grand Canyon and selling my art to tourists. I could sculpt red rocks out of clay. I could wake up early to watch the sun rise over the cliffs and paint the scenery. Maybe I would make enough money to go on one of those donkey rides on the canyon trails. My reverie is interrupted when a battered Chevy pulls into the gas station. The driver is a greasy looking middle-aged man.

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“Need a ride, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice is raspy. 

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I nod and climb into the passenger seat. 

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“I’m Jack. What's a pretty girl like you doing out here all alone?” He slides his grubby hand onto my thigh. My muscles tense.

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“I’m going to Paradise Valley,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

 

He laughs. It sounds coarse and steely. 

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“Paradise Valley my ass. No rich bitch is gonna be thumbing it all the way back there. How about we take a little joyride?”

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Shit! I have to get out of here, now, unless I want to end up diced into little pieces on the side of the road. 

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I glance at the door beside me; it’s unlocked. In one fluid motion, I unbuckle my seat belt, open the door, and roll out of the truck. I skid across the pavement. I can feel skin peeling off my arms and legs. I sit on the side of the road, panting. Jack’s car becomes smaller and smaller. I breathe a sigh of relief. My arms and legs are stinging; they’re rubbed raw. A station wagon slows down next to me. A concerned looking woman and a man who I assume is her husband spring out of the car. 

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“Honey, what happened? Are you okay, do you need a ride?” she asks, crouching beside me. She’s striking; her eyes are china blue and her hair is full and dark.  She’s close enough that I can smell her perfume. It’s elegant and sweet. I suddenly feel the urge to tell her that sometimes I mist myself in my mother’s old scent, that I wear the dainty pearls she left behind. I want to tell her that when I apply my dollar store lipstick and clip my hair back I almost feel pretty. I don’t say any of this. Instead, I let them help me into their car. 

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“What’s your name sweetie?” her husband asks me. He’s pale and dappled with freckles. 

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“I’m Betty,” I tell them.