“There once was a girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead.
And when she was good she was very, very good. But when she was bad she was horrid.
There was a catchy little tune that went with that. Abby’s father thought that was funny. Abby always thought it was a horrible thing to be told, catchy tune or no.
Well, if one has a reputation of being ‘horrid’, even if only occasionally, one might as well give it some substance, right? What a shame it would be to have such a reputation without any of the fun that comes with acquiring it.
Abby tossed the suitcase in the back seat of the BMW and tore out of the parking lot. The 405 was lightly travelled at this time of night – she wouldn’t stand out, but she had room to maneuver.
She spotted the police lights in her rearview mirror, changed lanes right in front of a car that looked much like hers, and exited almost immediately. Six quick turns off of Wiltshire Boulevard and Abby found herself deep into a residential neighborhood. She turned off her lights, cut the engine, and coasted into a driveway. She ducked, invisible in the front seat as the cop car rolled past. After counting to 100, she peeked over the seat, saw that the street was now empty and put the car in neutral, rolling out of the drive. She started the engine and headed back the way she came.
Abby smiled as she imagined Rembrandt’s portrait of An Old Man in Military Costume, removed just that evening from the Getty Museum, screaming from inside the suitcase, banging on the inside of the bag, gasping for air.
Yes, when she was bad she was horrid.