Read A Girl Named Digit for Free Online

really want to have something to, like, look forward to in the fall?”
    “We don’t decide if the show stays on,” he said, stepping closer still, eyes intense as if he were memorizing my face.
    “Okay, then, thanks!” I backed into the door before I actually turned and got through it, then ran all the way down the stairs to the parking garage to my car. I got in, locked the doors, backed into a Dumpster, and raced out of there.
    I turned up the radio and started to laugh. Maybe I needed to try harder to fit in and really keep Digit in the closet. Maybe I should just go full force and make Drew Bailey my boyfriend and stay drunk until graduation. Maybe I should start wearing black eyeliner and get really skinny. Or maybe . . . maybe that car is following me way too closely.
    I looked in the rearview mirror and saw him. The creepy guy from the station in a white Chevrolet.
He knows I know,
I thought,
and I’m history.
My fight-or-flight instinct kicked in big-time and so did my accelerator. I didn’t really have a plan but was hoping something was going to appear to guide me. Maybe a big sign saying: “Safe haven, stop here, no bad guys allowed.” Maybe a police station? That was the best thing I could think of, but the only police station I knew of was in Beverly Hills. I saw the entrance to the 405 freeway and got on, heading north.
    Creepy was right on my tail. I accelerated as well as I could in my 1988 Volvo wagon. You can say a lot about the Swedes and their great love of safety. But speed? Not so much. I eventually got up to sixty-five mph, and Creepy had no trouble staying right with me.
    When the exit for Wilshire Boulevard came into sight, I started talking out loud, like I was the GPS lady. “Farrah, take this exit, you will drive two miles down Wilshire and make a left on Cañon Drive just after you pass Tiffany’s. You will make a left on Santa Monica Boulevard. You will be fine.”
    I took the Wilshire Boulevard exit, driving way too fast to have time to think when the exit split into a choice of two smaller ramps: Wilshire West or Wilshire East? In three seconds I had these thoughts: Is Beverly Hills east or west? West is toward the water, and the Westside is considered the fancy part of town; Beverly Hills = fancy, therefore it must be west. Well, give the little lady a lovely parting gift (and maybe a break since I’ve only been driving for a year) because that answer is INCORRECT.
    I found myself driving west on Wilshire Boulevard, away from the Beverly Hills Police Department and the only safe place I knew. Creepy was now in the lane to the right of me, giving me a closed-mouth smile like he knew I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life. There were gravestones behind him, and I took that to be a bad omen. But then I remembered that the VA graveyard was across from the Federal Building and looked left to see the building looming in all of its windowless grandeur. A crowd of protesters paced outside with signs expressing outrage over lenient car emissions laws: CHANGE THE LEADERS, KEEP THE CLIMATE. Finally, some good guys. Did it make sense to stop here and give the FBI another chance? I didn’t see what other choice I had.
    I ran a light and made a left-hand turn into the Federal Building’s parking garage. I was fully prepared to run down anything in my path until I saw the security checkpoint, complete with three Vin Diesel look-alikes and a metal arm that would have made my Volvo the first convertible of its kind. I skidded to a stop and turned around to see Creepy’s car stopped behind me. The security guys were coming to the driver’s side of my car. They’d never believe me and let me in. I’d be shot before I had a chance to explain. Now Creepy was getting out of his car too. I took off my seat belt, made a break for the passenger door, jumped out, and ran toward what I hoped would be the safety of a crowd of protesters.
    They were packed into the allotted protesting spot, a