James 23
James
I straighten as I scan the notification on my pager, the compression in my chest releasing when I realize it’s from Kenji; then contracting again as I read the response.
He’s finally answered my flurry of desperate messages with a single word.
What?
Okay, see—this is helpful. This is just irritating enough to kill the heat in my head, calm the static in my blood, and simultaneously piss me off.
I start typing back.
I’m sorry I wasn’t being clear
I forgot you still don’t know how to read
I’m proud of you for trying, though
You even spelled out an entire word
NOW GIVE ME A FUCKING JOB
I decide it’s probably a good idea to send Warner a couple of messages, too. Just to cover all my bases.
STOP BEING A DICK
GIVE ME BACK MY JOB
Then, after a moment’s consideration—
Or you could tell me where he is
You choose
I’ve just hit send when my attention is drawn by the sound of a sudden, surprised oof.
I look up.
There’s a young boy up ahead, tightly latched to his father’s hand. He just brought the poor man to a stumbling halt.
The guy clasps his heart in a panic.
“What happened?” he says to the boy. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing is wrong.
This kid has stopped in place for no reason except to gawk at me like I’m an animal in an exhibit.
This is different from the looks I get from people who recognize me.
This is a totally different phenomenon, born of nothing but simple fascination.
I have no idea what this boy is thinking.
All I know is that kids love staring at me, no filter.
Babies stare at me even more, locking eyes like we knew each other in a past life, like maybe their diaper situation is my fault.
I shoot this kid a covert look, clocking him as maybe five or six years old. He’s watching me with one of those intense stalker stares only children can get away with. I cant my head, giving him my full attention before mouthing the words Be cool.
His eyes widen.
If Adam were here, he’d shove me into a parking meter for stirring up unnecessary trouble. I wipe the hint of a smile off my face, pretending to be fascinated by my pager, and it suddenly buzzes again in my hand.
Kenji wrote back.
Who is this?
Wow.
This jackass.
He knows it’s me. I spent the first five messages explaining that it was me, and I didn’t even have to. The team at HQ updated my line automatically for all old contacts.
Your mom, I type back.
“Elliot?” The dad again. “Elliot, c’mon, we have to get going—”
“WHY DOES THAT MAN HAVE AN X ON HIS HAT?”
I can almost feel the dad startle, then cast a look in my direction. I angle my body away, pretending to be deaf as I stride down the sidewalk.
“What?” says the dad. “I don’t know.”
“ASK HIM,” says Elliot. “ASK HIM WHY HE HAS AN X ON HIS HAT.”
This hat was another prized vintage find.
The Reestablishment did a thorough job destroying evidence of historic revolutionaries and criminalizing support for human rights activists, so it always feels a little like magic to find these kinds of relics.
They give me hope. It’s yet another reminder that the fight for justice is forever, that the work matters, that it’s entrenched in history.
Maybe the dad is hoping I’ll miraculously regain my hearing and volunteer to answer the question myself; but I’m not interested in teaching anyone about Malcolm X right now, especially not with this Elliot kid activating the interest of all the pedestrians on the street.
If Adam were here, he’d say it was my own fault.
Why the hell would you provoke the kid if you don’t want people looking at you? he’d say to me.
Yeah, I can feel people looking at me.
I have to push through a loose cluster of pedestrians in order to get past Elliot and his dad, and I’m trying not to make eye contact with all the people now squinting in confusion at my ducked head.
It’s a black X embroidered onto the front panel of a black baseball cap; not exactly easy to distinguish.
“Elliot, stop,” the dad shout-whispers, “I’m not going to ask him that.”
“WHY NOT?”
But I remember too well what it was like being a kid. I remember how we’d stare like idiots at the rare adults we found fascinating. Almost never did that fascinating grown-up acknowledge any one of us.
I like to remind kids that we know they exist.
“Because it’s not polite to bother people,” the dad is saying. “And please stop shouting. We’re in public and we have to use our quiet voices—”
Once I’m a healthy distance away, I look over my shoulder to find Elliot still staring at me. He’s all twisted up, craning his neck at an awkward angle as his dad tugs him down the sidewalk.
I flash him a wide smile.
The kid beams up at me in response, his small face transforming from skeptical to exhilarated as he bobbles down the street.
I still have no idea what’s going through his head.
I almost laugh as I turn away, my spirits lifting just as I glimpse a promising, neon pink storefront a few feet up the sidewalk. Even better: the place looks empty.
Yes.
I needed some wins.
I jog up to the entrance, push inside in relief, and the three young employees on the floor turn in tandem at the sight of me, fossilizing like statues mid-movement.
I come to an abrupt halt.
Aggressive electronic music blares through overhead speakers, the bass so loud I can feel my brain begin to bleed out my ears. The intensity of the upbeat tempo renders the standstill only more ridiculous.
They’re all looking at me like I just killed someone.
I try to keep my face neutral, but when the three of them continue to stare at me in stunned silence, it occurs to me that maybe I should smile. Be friendly.
“Hi,” I say.
One of them backs blindly into a mannequin, which teeters precariously before toppling sideways, taking the girl with it.
They both crash to the floor, the sound of her weak scream muffled by the high-pitched, nervous laughter of a second employee, who steps artfully in front of his fallen comrade, hiding the mess from view.
“Hi and welcome in!” he says brightly. “Can I help you find anything today?”
Okay.
Shit.
I haven’t done anything like this in so long I’d forgotten how awkward it could be. I almost never go into the city on my own anymore.
Honestly, I’ve never had this much free time.
I glance back at the exit, reconsidering my entire plan. Hell, I had no plan. “You know what, actually, I don’t—”
“Jessica,” hisses the third employee. “Jessica, get up.”
“I can’t,” she groans.
“I’m Armando,” the guy blurts out. “I’d love to assist in any way I can! Are you shopping for yourself today?”
His eyes are panicked. His smile is strained.
His frantic energy only intensifies as he takes in the details of my outfit: the whiskey-colored leather bomber; the rust-colored fur collar; my dark pants and boots; the black baseball cap.
He darts a nervous glance around the store, trying to reconcile my funereal appearance with the bright, pastel displays around us, and only then do I process what I’m seeing for the very first time.
Everything in this store is a shade of pink.
Everything.
A sinking feeling settles low in my gut, alarm pulsing in my blood. I lift my gaze to the neon sign hanging behind the register.
Blush!
Then, beneath it:
Live life through rose-colored glasses
I can almost feel it when the light goes out of my eyes only to flicker on in Armando’s head. He looks up at me like he’s been offered a front-page headline before it hits the papers. “Or maybe you’re shopping for a girlfriend?”
Fucking hell.
Maybe I should walk back out the door and pretend this day never happened. I’m seriously tempted.
But then I remember Rosabelle’s empty closet and desolate room and the small nest she made of my destroyed clothes, and my heart turns over in my chest. I scan the store again, feeling desperate.
I’ve come this far.
There has to be something useful here. A sweater. A pair of pants. Something. Anything.
My eyes land on a display of lacy pink underwear.
Jesus.
I squeeze my eyes shut before taking off my hat in a flustered movement. I’ve faced a lot of terrifying shit in my life, but I’m not sure I’m brave enough to buy underwear from these people. I push a hand through my flattened hair.
Someone makes a faint, breathless sound.
I don’t even know which one of them makes this noise, because the girl on the floor whimpers again, still trying to push the mannequin off her body. I’m starting to worry someone should help her up.
I’m worried that person might have to be me.
“Did he leave?” asks the girl on the floor, and she sounds like she’s crying. “Oh my God, he was so beautiful I think I went blind.”
“Shut up, Jessica,” the other girl whispers back.
I squeeze the baseball cap between my hands.
Yeah, this was probably a stupid idea.