Mark My Words

| prologue |

Summer in Germany could always be described as hellish. Joanna Spencer wouldn't miss the severe lack of air conditioning, nor would she miss the pasty white walls of the psych ward. Through the open front doors of the ward, she could already feel the dense, solid heat swelling from the parking lot pavement.

There stood the shadow of the Lieutenant walking up in a pair of green khakis and aviator sunglasses. Joanna envied the Lieutenant's short, cropped hair and, more than once, wished that she could just rip her ginger curls out. A month in a hospital could do that to a girl, no doubt about it.

The Lieutenant strode up the front steps of the ward as Joanna lingered at the front desk with a nurse at her side. Joanna watched as the Lieutenant lifted up a pair of aviator sunglasses and went to the front desk to check Joanna out of the hospital. Neither of them spoke and Joanna adopted a stoic facade as she awaited clearance. Her wrist felt cold and sticky where her pale skin once again touched the sterile, stiff hospital air for the first time since having the wristband strapped on.

Every part of her itched where the sweatshirt touched, and it was all she could do to keep from ripping it off in the summer heat that wafted in through the doors. She was wearing what she came in with a month ago—a shitty sweatshirt she wanted to burn and sneakers a size too big.

When they left, the Lieutenant paused a few steps above the parking lot so they were eye level with each other.

Joanna squinted back and said, "I want to start a fire."

"We can't start fires in Montgomery," the Lieutenant said. "White suburbia won't appreciate the smell, I can tell you that much right here and now."

"Is there a burning restriction right now?" she asked.

"Not that I know of."

"Then let's start one now."

"What're we burning?"

Joanna plucked the sweatshirt out. That action alone said enough. That damn sweatshirt made her sick to her stomach and threatened to tear apart her psych ward facade.

The Lieutenant came to the ward with a vehicle packed full of their belongings and two train tickets to the Netherlands followed by an eight hour flight to America. They had no house and therefore no exclusive bonfire pit. For all Joanna cared, the world was now their bonfire pit and she'd burn it to the ground.

Before she could do that, though, they were in the front seats of the Jeep and out of the parking lot. The Lieutenant made a detour to a nearby convenience store where Joanna stood next to the Lieutenant with only a lighter in their cart.

The Lieutenant tossed it on the counter for the cashier. The cashier looked down at it with a raised eyebrow and said, "Ist das alles?"

"Ja, danke," the Lieutenant said.

The cashier glanced at the two of them and Joanna stared back until the euros were passed over and she could grab the lighter and escape with it. She beat the Lieutenant to the car, fully aware that her skin was crawling and sweating in the dry heat. Her lungs felt like someone had it in their fist and were tightening their grip slowly but surely. She knew exactly whose hand it was in, and it had a little something to do with this goddamn sweatshirt.

Joanna slammed the passenger door and sat, festering, in the heat. She took a deep breath as the Lieutenant cracked open the driver's door and stepped in. The Lieutenant blasted the AC the instant the car was up and running, at which point Joanna said, "I can't stand this place. I feel like I'm gonna crawl out of my damn skin."

"We have two hours before the train," the Lieutenant said.

"I want to leave."

"Then let's fucking go," the Lieutenant said, and even though it brought an ounce of relief, it wasn't enough to wipe the scowl from Joanna's face as they traveled westward in search of greener pastures and a park that didn't have a fire restriction in this goddamn hellfire of a summer.

Around noon, they arrived at a riverside park where Joanna's first priority was shedding the sweatshirt. In nothing but a pair of basketball shorts and a sports bra, she reached a hand for the Lieutenant, who deposited a switchblade into Joanna's hand. She used it to tear a hole in the shoulder seam of the sweatshirt before throwing the knife down, stomping a foot on the sleeve hem, and ripping it up by the hood.

The sweatshirt tore apart stitch-by-stitch with a vibrant, wrenching rip. It was so satisfying that she did it again with the other sleeve and then tore the front pocket off with her bare hands and a grunt of effort. The Lieutenant tossed the pieces on the rusty barbecue grill and snapped the lighter over them. The fibers turned to wax under the heat and filled the air with a chalky, dry scent that smelled like victory to Joanna.

And then, Joanna was facing the name on the back of sweatshirt.

She held it up in front of her, throat tightening. She swallowed it down with a grimace, along with every curse on the tip of her tongue. The Lieutenant put the flame against the ink that had turned sticky in the heat. The white letters shriveled up, scalding at the edges before catching flame. The grip on Joanna's throat loosened and she felt her chest burning with toxic acid that ate away at her resolve to not let any of this affect her. She wouldn't let that bitch get in her head again.

She'd let the entire goddamn Atlantic separate her from that soccer team from Hell.

I'll fly under the radar this time, she thought, but the restlessness in her itched for a fight as she watched the sweatshirt burn and shrivel against the grill. She spent too long sitting still in the mental facility. It gave her plenty of time to prepare for Montgomery, and she knew just the way to take her first step on American soil.