Chapter 2
Still only two in the afternoon—sure, so far I’d gotten fired and had my card declined, but that meant the day had nowhere to go but up, right?
Never hand the universe a straight line like that.
“Everything looks in order,” the bank cashier assured me. “No reason your card should have been declined, Ms. Bibb.”
I blinked. “My name isn’t Bibb. It’s Watson—Alix Watson, Alexandria.”
Clicking keys. “The name on the account is Libby Bibb.”
“What kind of name is Libby Bibb?” I could feel a throb start up between my temples. This was supposed to be a quick stop at the bank branch around the corner from my apartment; a fast unscramble of whatever was wrong with my debit card. “I’m not Libby Bibb.”
“According to this you are, dear. It lists Libby Bibb as the account holder for the last eight years.”
“I opened this account eight years ago. Look—” I started digging through my frayed nylon wallet for ID. “It’s me, Alexandria Watson. How can somebody else’s name be on my account?”
“Do you have any paperwork from when you opened the account?”
“Are you seriously asking if I still have a piece of paper from eight years ago?”
She gave me a cold look. “If you are alleging account fraud—”
“You’re damn right I’m alleging account fraud, if someone named Libby Bibb has put her name on my bank account.” Thirty-six dollars and eighty-two cents, I kept thinking. It wasn’t much, but it was a whole lot more than zero. “When can I access my account again?”
“You’ll need to return with a minimum of three forms of identification. Passport, social security card, birth certificate—”
“Sure you don’t want a blood sample? Retina scan?
Shoe size?” Another cold look. “Look, I don’t have three forms of ID.
I’ve never had a passport”—because I’d never gone anywhere, and the way things were looking, I never would—“and I don’t have a birth certificate or a social security card either.
” My mother didn’t exactly pack up all my documents for me when she skipped town with her dead-beat tech bro.
“You can apply for a copy of your birth certificate, dear. Twenty-dollar fee for those applying in person—”
“How am I supposed to pay a twenty-dollar fee”—out of thirty-six, Jesus Christ—“when I can’t access my account?”
She went off into a long drone, but what it came down to was I can’t help you. I reclaimed my debit card and mumbled something, stomach roiling sickly.
“Are you sure you aren’t Libby Bibb?” the idiot cashier called after me brightly as I turned away. “Things would be a lot easier if you were!”
I looked at her over one shoulder. “Lady, things would be a lot easier right now if I were anyone but me.”
“Alix, I want you to know I’m sorry.” My roommate Brandon looked nervous, and I paused in the act of unzipping my boots. Nothing made Brandon nervous. Normally he was too stoned to rise above torpid. “Really, I am.”
“Did you drink my milk again?” Trying to hold on to my temper. If you’d lived in as many foster homes as I had, you got possessive about your food real fast. “Goddamn it, Brandon—”
“No, that was Laurel.” He blinked at me, still looking nervous.
The three of us shared a two-bedroom in Southie: Laurel had one bedroom and waited tables at the Union Oyster House; Brandon had the other bedroom and alternated between working tech support and delivering pizza; I had the couch in the combination living room/kitchenette.
We weren’t exactly friends—I’d gotten to know Brandon only because he’d delivered my discount calzone three Fridays in a row when I was living in the apartment before this one—but things had worked out okay, minor kitchen thievery aside.
“Did you eat my Pop-Tarts when you got the munchies, then?” Much as it pushed my buttons when people helped themselves to my food, I hoped he had.
If my roommates owed me one, they’d have a hard time bitching when I came up late with my share of the rent this Friday, which I was certainly going to do.
“No.” Brandon chewed his lip. “I’m sorry, Alix, but you’re gonna have to find another place to live.”
I stared. “You’re kicking me out?”
“Taylor found out about the time you and me hooked up. And she’s not cool with you still living here, so—”
“Brandon, it was once, before you even knew Taylor, and it was so lousy we both agreed it was never going to happen again. Did you tell your idiot girlfriend that?”
“She’s not an idiot,” Brandon said stiffly. “And it wasn’t that lousy.”
You kiss like a dying flounder and you went at me like you were pumping gas, I thought but didn’t say.
Because my stomach was roiling all over again, and my eyes were taking panicky little stutter-steps all around this shitty apartment with the curling lino and the stove with only two working burners and the cracked windows that wouldn’t open because thirty years of paint layers had sealed them shut.
This apartment, this couch with the wire coils that poked into my back no matter how I shifted—it was shitty but it was home.
And right now, it was all I had. “Brandon, you can’t kick me out. ”
He shuffled his feet. “Um,” he said, and didn’t have to say anything else because he could—his name was on the lease. Me crashing on his couch was a strictly off-the-books arrangement.
I tried to take a deep breath, but I felt like I’d been sucker punched in the diaphragm, and the breath only went about halfway down. “How long can you give me?”
“A week?” he mumbled. “Taylor’s, um. She’s really mad.”
“Come on, Brandon, a week? How is that enough time to find a new place?” With only thirty-six dollars and eighty-two cents in an account I couldn’t even access.
“Just stay with friends, or . . .”
Friends? Who did I know who would happily open their door if I turned up in a week’s time with a duffel bag over my shoulder? No one, that’s who.
Brandon was making puppy-dog eyes at me. “Don’t make this hard, Alix.”
“Oh, sure. I’m sleeping in a cardboard box next week because your bottle blonde thinks I’m angling for her man.” I zipped my boots back up and rose. “She’s even dumber than I thought, and I already figured she had two brain cells fighting to the death for third place.”
“Hey—”
“I’ll come back for my things.” Grabbing my purse and slinging it over one shoulder. “Feel free to call Taylor and have two minutes and twenty-four seconds of tepid missionary on my couch while I’m gone.”
“Hey!”
But I’d already slammed out.
Homeless. I’d never been entirely homeless—come close sometimes, close enough to feel the icy chill at my back, but never quite.
Even the time my last boyfriend and I broke up (an argument about whether or not his making dinner two nights per week and pushing a vacuum around once a month counted as 50 percent of the chores; he smacked me; I slugged back and then stormed out because as far as I was concerned my mother was the very last Watson woman who was going to accept but he’s so sorry!
as a reason to put up with that kind of shit) I managed to couch surf with a neighbor for a few nights till my next paycheck hit and I could negotiate the living room deal with the stoner who delivered my calzones.
I had always, always managed. I’d never had to go to a shelter or sleep on a bench.
You won’t this time either, I told myself, heading back into the teeth of the snapping wind with hands buried in pockets.
It wasn’t even five; there was still light in the sky—this day felt a hundred years long, but it still wasn’t over.
You’ll come up with something, Alix. But my stomach was churning so hard I could barely breathe, and I stopped in the middle of the crowded sidewalk (commuters heading for the T, office drones in suits, drivers in vests pushing and shoving in all directions) and had to brace my hands on my knees.
I could barely catch my breath—it felt like a landslide had come to rest on my lungs. You’ll come up with something.
“Goddamn drunks around here,” someone mumbled, rebounding off me, and I lurched into motion again because it was move or fall.
I stumbled onto the T more because the crowd carried me there than because I had anywhere to go, feeling the lurch of the car as it headed inbound.
Scrolled through Instagram—I had an account, but I hardly ever posted anything.
@beaubrummellsofboston had a new post; I clicked on it, hungry to see a gauzy ball gown or an embroidered coat or something pretty just to steady my mind and my breathing—was it just that morning Beau had dropped a flirtatious wink at me and said, C’mon, I’ve got a robe à la francaise with your name on it . . . What do you say, gorgeous?
The new post was Beau’s long-fingered hand caressing a square of gold silk in an embroidery frame, captioned simply: Guess who’s finishing up the commission for his very first movie premiere?
Can’t wait till you see this gown on the red carpet—stay tuned!
Eighty comments already, heart emojis and smiley faces and OMG what movie?
! and What actress are you dressing?! and Did they choose you or did you choose them?
! and it wasn’t till the entire post blurred that I realized my eyes had filled with tears.
Did they choose you or did you choose them?
What I wanted to know was, What if no one ever chooses you?
If it came down to you and Dead-Beat Tech Bro and your mom didn’t choose you; if it was you and an entire foster system full of lonely kids and not one prospective parent chose you; if it was between you and Two-Brain-Cell Taylor and your roommate didn’t choose you . . . What if it’s never you?
I mean, isn’t that why we read fantasy? The perennially unchosen, dreaming that this time the magic wardrobe opens for you, the Yellow Brick Road unrolls in front of you. You’re finally chosen. You get the adventure.
But you never do. Because that’s not real life.
Because if you’re me, if you’re Alix Watson, no one ever chooses you.