MOLLY

From the time I was able to speak, my parents constantly put the idea in my head that I was destined for something greater.

Of course, they loved my brothers and sisters as well, but among twelve siblings I was the clear favorite. They bought me gifts for no apparent reason, they praised me incessantly, placed the most trust in me as the eldest.

My parents were devoutly religious— evangelicals who tolerated no deviation from moral code, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant the infraction. Basking in their love, I became the perfect child. I did exactly what they wanted me to: when we went to mass, I sat in the front row, my voice the loudest during hymns. At Sunday school, my cardigan-clad teachers could always count on me for a perfectly correct answer, followed by an almost angelic, "Amen." At thirteen years old, while my friends were experimenting with boys, tube-tops, and eye glitter, I was wearing turtle necks, no make-up, a simple cross necklace, and tying my long blonde hair back in a bun.

That was also the year that my parents urged me to begin making my own sermons at youth masses, using my admirable talents to guide other young people into "the light." In short, I had become the most well-known and admired person in our entire parish. At that age, I somehow felt that what I was doing was right.

I also knew that I was to be a tithe—my zealous parents had decided to give up their eldest child to the church, forgoing tradition for once in their lives. To some extent I knew what the word entailed. I felt remorse at the prospect of never seeing my family again, but with the knowledge that my body was being given up for the Lord's work, I was content with my lot. My parents had agreed that they wanted to keep me for as long as legally possible, and so it was decided early on in my life that I was to be unwound at the age of seventeen and nine months. This prospect, though foreign and somewhat frightening, seemed far-off to me.

I lived as the perfectly contented child of my zealous parents for fourteen years.

And then my entire existence collapsed around me. I saw something that no one—especially not a fourteen year old child—should ever have to witness. My fate had transformed in front of my eyes. The word, "tithe," instead of the sense of purpose and importance that it had produced in the past, now filled me with paralyzing terror.

I knew that I had to get out. Though instinct told me to bolt as soon as the opportunity presented itself, I knew that I had to be smart about it. And so I bided my time.

I spent three years doing nothing but planning, planning and keeping up appearances. Outwardly, anyone would assume that I was the same perfect child.

Inwardly, I knew that the girl I had once been was dead.

"Molly, sweetheart?" my mother's gentle voice called up the stairs, "Are you almost ready? We have to leave soon if we're going to make it to the airport on time, you know."

"I'll be right down," I answered, doing my best to sound like my fake, perky self. After three long years leading up to this moment, I wouldn't risk ruining my chances now.

I hefted my brand new military-style backpack onto my shoulders, pleased that it didn't feel too heavy despite the massive amounts of clothing I had managed to stuff into it.

I started to walk out of the room, pausing to take a final look around at where I had lived for the past seventeen years. Looking at the soft pink walls and religious paraphernalia scattered around the room, I almost laughed at how juvenile it all seemed-of course, there was a reason for that. Most people my age would probably have redecorated their rooms by now. My parents had offered several times, but I had innocently declined. What purpose would it serve? I was never coming back here again.

I hurried down the staircase at my father's urgings, glancing out of the corner of my eye at the brochure hanging from our bulletin board. Camp Spirit! It announced in flowing golden lettering, Where your tithe can grow in the love of Jesus Christ!

I frowned as I remembered the night I had asked my parents if I could go.

"It's a two-week program, but I'll learn a ton, I'm sure. They have priests from all over coming to give sermons, and I'll be able to meet some other tithes too. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity."

"I'm sure it is Molly," my father answered. "I'm just not convinced."

"Is it the money? I know it sounds expensive, but I'm sure I could earn a scholarship or something."

"No," he said. "It's not that. It sounds great, and I know we can afford it."

"But?"

"But two weeks!" my mother sighed. "That doesn't leave us very much time to be together before the Operation," she said, making the word sound venerable.

I snapped. "Well maybe you should have thought of that before you signed me over!"

Their faces were identical masks of shock and hurt. In seventeen years, I had never once spoken out of turn with them. I moved quickly to fix my mistake. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired is all. And final exams are really stressful right now."

"Of course, dear," my mother said, placing her hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently. I had to fight the urge to slap it away.

It was a simple plan, really, but after three years of plotting I had made sure it was water-tight. My parents had paid the registration fee to what they thought was the camp, but what was really a bank account I had created with their help ten years ago that they had forgotten about. They assumed I would be in North Dakota for two weeks before coming home for two days and then going to the harvest camp. What they didn't know was that instead of getting off the plane in North Dakota, I would be making my way to Colorado on foot with $10,000 in my pocket and a backpack filled with hiking clothes for "camp."

Why Colorado? That was where my mother's sister had lived for the past ten years. Technically, Aunt June was also my youngest brother, Thomas's, godmother—to my parent's everlasting shame. However, between the two of them, they only had so many brothers and sisters, and, being the exceptional Christians that they were, they couldn't risk insulting her. In my sibling's opinion, she was odd; in mine, she was funny and creative—I looked forward to her yearly visits. However, these visits had ended because my mother, and my father by extension, hated Aunt June. She was unmarried at forty-eight, liberal, and, to make matters worse, she was an atheist.

She was also severely opposed to unwinding.

If I could make my way to her house and lay low for three months without being caught, I would be home free. Eighteen was the magic number, and if I had anything to say about it, I wouldn't be spending my birthday in pieces.

The drive to the airport was relatively painless, though my parents went on and on about how much fun I would have, citing their own camp experiences. I hardly listened, focusing instead on what had to be done once we reached the terminal.

Once we had passed through security and deposited my huge, useless trunk of nonessentials at baggage, my flight was already boarding. They walked with me as far as the gate. My mother was holding back tears—I had never spent more than one day away from her—and my father was continually clearing his throat. Well, they'd better get used to the separation. Either way this ended, they would never see me again.

"Have a great time sweetheart," my mother whispered as she hugged me, not noticing how little I responded to her gesture. "Write to us often."

"Can't do that mom. You know the camp has a strict policy about outside contact: no phone calls, letters, or emails."

"And we respect that," my father said, giving me a quick squeeze before turning to my mother. "Let's go Joanne. Her plane is about to leave."

They turned to leave, pausing once just before they boarded the elevator, waving. I lifted my hand in response, watching them until they disappeared behind the closing doors.

I waited a good ten minutes before walking back the way I had come, out of the terminal and toward the taxi station at the exit. There was a cab pulled up by the curb, ready to go. I walked up to the driver, rifling through my wallet before scrounging up a wad of twenties.

"All this is yours if you take me to the Kansas-Colorado border."

He looked at me suspiciously for a moment. "How old are you, kid?"

"Do you want my money or not?"

After a moment of hesitation he shook his head and answered, "No way. It's not worth it. Find somebody else to take you."

I sighed before pulling out an extra hundred and slapping it on the roof of the car on top of the twenties. "Take me to the state border, no questions asked."

His eyebrows shot up, but he said quickly, as if he were afraid I would change my mind, "Deal."

I started to get into the car, but paused as I saw an old, homeless man standing by one of the trashcans, his eyes fixed on the security guard standing a few feet away. He held a limp cardboard sign, though I had no idea what it said. "Hold on a second," I said to the driver, taking my money off the hood for good measure. "I'll be right back."

I walked up to the man, who stared unabashedly at me with sad, worn-down eyes. I dug in my pockets, produced the plane ticket, handed it to him and said, "Ever been to North Dakota?"