Becoming Sarah by Miranda Simon

my life. Once it had seemed crystal clear: go to college, get a high-paying job, and never have to worry about money ever again. I’d thought maybe law school, business school, it didn’t matter as long as I made a lot of cash.
    Now that didn’t seem so important. I had Sarah’s money and Sarah’s trust fund. What did I really want to do with my time, day in and day out, for the rest of my life?
    The answer sort of surprised me. One day I stopped by San Francisco State for an information session on becoming a teacher. It turned out that with Sarah’s transcript and a year of graduate school, I could teach English. It fit, actually. I could see myself doing that, and loving it. I decided to apply to the credential program for the next semester.
    I did one other thing, too. Something I’d always wanted to do.
    I went online and I bought myself a plane ticket to Paris.
    I figured if I was careful with my money, if I stayed at a youth hostel and ate croissants for breakfast, I could do it and still have money left over for my mother, for rent, for my expenses. I figured if I didn’t do it, I’d be sorry.
    It scared me half to death, the idea of traveling alone. My mother had never been out of the country and neither had I. But I could do it; I knew I could. I bought myself a Lonely Planet guide and read every word. I dug out Sarah’s passport, even though I had nearly a month to go before the trip. I told Matt about it, and he hugged me and promised me I’d have an amazing time.
     
    It was a week before my trip that it happened. It was a quarter to three and I was sitting in the car , waiting for school to get out, and Ricky walked by.
    Except this time, for some reason, I didn’t duck down in my seat. I didn’t adjust my glasses and pray I stayed invisible. This time anger surged up in my chest, anger so hot and molten I thought it might erupt out of me if I opened my mouth. And why not? Why shouldn’t I let it out?
    I opened the car door, jumped out, and ran up to him. “How could you do that to me?” I yelled, at the top of my lungs.
    Ricky froze in his tracks, a pole-axed expression on his face. He dropped his backpack, which he’d been carrying by one strap. “What? I ain’t done nothing to you, lady. I don’t even know you.”
    Of course he didn’t, and I’d forgotten. But I stood my ground. “You know me, Ricky. It’s me, Jamie Lumley. The one you killed in that alley the other night. Remember me now?”
    His face got very still, and then he glanced around like someone might hear me. There were a few other students walking by, kids who’d snuck away early. The looked at us curiously but kept on walking; they didn’t want to get involved.
    “That’s right,” I said, not bothering to lower my voice. “You remember. You said, ‘Hey, girl, c’mere.’ And then you told me I was cute when I was nervous. You asked me about my job.”
    His hand crept up to his neck. He stared at me like he’d seen a ghost, which he had. He was still seeing me. “Yes, and then you pulled me down and you put your hands around my neck to keep me quiet,” I said. “Like you’ve got your hand on your own neck right now, but hard.”
    “You can’t know that,” Ricky said. His eyes were hollow, far away. “No one heard. No one but her.”
    “That was me. You called me a fat bitch. You said I was lucky.”
    I tried hard not to cry, but the tears came anyway. And then the most amazing thing happened. Ricky started crying too, really bawling. He shook his head and muttered “no, no, no” under his breath. “No one knows,” he said.
    “I do. I know. And the thing is, it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault for being alone at night, for walking down that street, for going into the alley.” I’d said the same thing to Dr. Riley, but it meant more now; the words tasted right. I said them again. “It wasn’t my fault.”
    “I didn’t mean it,” Ricky said, but it was more of a chant than a statement. His