The Passenger Read Free Page B

look at me as a brunette. Maybe they wouldn’t look at me at all. It would be nice to be invisible for a while.
    I took the shears into the bathroom and took inventory of what I saw. A cheap dirty-blond dye job, hair too long to style, light brown eyes shaded by dark circles. I sliced a few inches off the bottom, into one straight even line. I had been cutting my own hair for years. Not because I was cheap or particularly good at it, but sitting in that chair, the hairstylist asking all those questions, always gave me a knot in my gut.
    I gave myself bangs, even though I knew the hair would tickle my forehead and drive me mad, but I already looked less like Tanya and more like Amelia. I mixed the auburn and brown together with the developer and began drawing lines on my scalp with the plastic bottle. After my hair was soaked in product, nostrils burning with chemicals, I checked my watch, slipped off the gloves, and turned on the television.
    There was a movie playing, set in a college. One of those old campuses, stone buildings with pillars and staircases everywhere. Students reclining lazily on the grass under the shade of hundred-year-old oak trees. I liked the way this one girl looked. She was trying to get people to sign some petition. I didn’t catch what it was all about. She was wearing faded blue jeans that seemed as soft as an old T-shirt, a white tank top, and a green army jacket; dog tags and a house key hung from her neck. She looked like she didn’t care what anyone thought of her. And she looked really comfortable. At the bar I always wore dresses or skirts and impractical shoes that took bites out of my feet. Amelia Keen wasn’t going to wear anything that hurt her.
    I washed out the sticky dye and dried my hair, leaving dark stains on the sandpaper-rough motel towel. I combed out my new ’do and sharpened the flat line of the bangs, snipping a few wayward strands. I slid into an old pair of blue jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt, stuffed the rest of my clothes into my suitcase, and left Swan Lake a different woman. A brown-haired, brown-eyed woman. Five foot six, one hundred and twenty-five pounds, mid to late twenties. I looked like so many women you’ve seen before I doubt you could’ve picked me out of a lineup.
    I DROVE to a photo shop and had my passport photos taken.
    â€œDon’t smile,” the photographer said. It was the first time I could remember that I wanted to.
    While I was waiting for the photos to be developed, I drove to a stationery store and bought a laminating sheet. Then I went to a drugstore and bought a razor blade, a baseball cap, red lipstick, black eyeliner, and mascara. No blush. Amelia Keen didn’t have a rosy glow. I returned to the photo shop to collect my pictures. I set to work on my passport in the backseat of my stale Buick. I used a tiny dot of glue to keep my photo in place on the blank passport. I placed it on top of my hard-shell suitcase for the next step. I took a clear sticky laminating sheet and poised it over the page. My hands shook some and I waited until I got my nerves in check; I had one chance to get this right. I laid down the laminate in one clean, even motion. I used the back of the razor blade to sweep away the air bubbles. Then I sliced around the edges until the passport lifted up from the suitcase.
    I looked over my handiwork and was satisfied. Probably wouldn’t pass customs, but I had no intention of flying anywhere.
    Next, I found a thrift store. Bought more denim and plain button-down shirts. One checked, one plaid. I tracked down an army surplus store and got a green jacket like I saw that girl in the movie wear. While I was there I picked up a pair of size-eight combat boots. I bought cheap underwear. Amelia Keen would spring for something nicer when she had a job. I tossed Tanya Dubois’s suitcase in a Dumpster behind a gas station. For a moment I let myself reminisce over the last time I threw away my