5
I bolt out the door, nearly mowing down the gum display. The grocery bag is cutting off circulation in my arm. Not that I notice, because I’m in full-on avenging-Alaska mode. Done being the dumb damsel who cries over a yanked-out hair; today I’m a neighborhood-licensed vigilante.
The moment I hit the street, I realize I have no idea how to confront a dangerous blonde in combat boots.
So I do the sensible thing: I hide behind a car.
My stealth lasts as long as it takes me to headbutt the side mirror.
I crouch by the hood feeling like a master spy, but the truth is, my bangs are plastered with sweat, the bag of chickpeas is carving holes in my forearm, and I’ve got the kind of face that says if the cops show up right now, I’m the one getting cuffed.
I peek out, ready to spy on the blonde, hoping to catch her doing something shady, though for now I’m half-crouched, heart pounding, waiting for her to come out so I can, I don’t know, yell at her?
Ask for my hair back? Offer her a vegan croquette?
Who knows. The plan is still under construction, but at least this time I’m the one doing the spying.
I see her walk out of the grocery store with her little reusable tote. First thing she does is look everywhere. She scans the sidewalk, the crosswalk, the produce shop, the neon pharmacy sign. You’re not fooling anyone, babe—you’re obviously looking for me.
That bitch takes a couple of steps, freezes, tilts her head my way. I freak the hell out and drop to the ground. My bag snags on a license plate and, trying to play it off, I almost fling my phone. When she gives up, she doesn’t walk—she struts.
I follow, keeping the “pursuit distance” I learned from cop shows. Which, in my case, means hopping from car to car, tripping over a badly parked scooter and, at one point, nearly face-planting into a hedge.
And yeah, meanwhile, I can’t not admire her.
Holy shit, I’d fuck that back. She walks like a straight-up boss.
I picture her shrugging off that military jacket and ending up in a clingy T-shirt, showing off biceps that would steamroll the straight girls on the block…
and me, two seconds away from blurting, “Officer, if you’re going to frisk me, take your time and, if you want, keep my ID forever.
” I can’t help it; I laugh out loud, because my brain is public-access TV, porn edition, on a zero budget.
But hey, in my fantasies, I always get laid.
Anyway, the blonde stops at a crosswalk and fiddles with her phone.
I plaster myself to the hardware store window and catch my reflection in a frying pan—so cute.
If this were a cool movie, we’d trade a smirk, do the fake stumble, and end up grinding on a car hood…
but no, instead, some grumpy grandpa jabs me with his elbow because I’m blocking the doorway. Almost knocks my spleen out.
Finally, the blonde gets moving, reaches her car, and does another scan of the area. I hug a lamppost, trying to activate invisible mode, and it’s not going great. Sweat’s glued to my bra and I’m breathing loud.
She puts the bag in the trunk, turns, and looks right at me. I don’t even blink, dumbstruck, in my parallel universe where right now she peels me off the lamppost, ushers me into the car, and says, “Let’s go, Alaska—let’s rob banks, chickens, whatever’s handy.”
The only thing that actually happens is she shuts the trunk, starts the car, and leaves me there, dripping with embarrassment, half pissed off, but hoping that if she’s going to spy on me, next time she at least buys me dinner and, seriously, gives me my hair back.
I need it for when I decide to be a messy-hair influencer.
And then I see her stop at a yield sign.
Me, with a pulse like I just did CrossFit and sweat creeping between my toes, I whip out my phone, open the camera, zoom in on her license plate and—bam—photo.
Hell yes. Legal document, personal stash for a future police report, and, if you push it, material for my stalker folder.
I’m living. I feel like a Sesame Street detective, only with more swagger and a face full of sweat beads.
I get home freaking out, with a half-torn bag, hair full of static, and my phone in my hand. I walk into the kitchen and Vega’s eating cereal, blissfully unaware there’s a dangerous blonde on the loose.
"Girl, you won’t believe what just happened," I blurt, tossing the bag on the table and sliding the deadbolt in case the blonde can kick down doors.
I don’t waste time: I unload everything.
The Carmen Sandiego–style chase through the grocery store, the hair thing, the neighborhood spy camouflaged behind a Prius, the surprise attack on my side mirror, the license plate photo (CSI, take note), and my brain pulling overtime with fantasies where the blonde is part villain, part my new religion. I’m obsessed. I’m scared shitless.
And Vega? Nothing. Not even a laugh, not a "girl, you need therapy." She gets that worried prairie-dog face she only brings out when the drama’s real—or when she finds out we’re out of Nesquik.
"Alaska, listen…" she says in hush-hush mode. "I didn’t tell you before so you wouldn’t spin more movies in your head, but… the other night I felt like someone was following me. Pitch-black, I leave work, and the whole drive there’s a car glued to my ass— like a psycho thriller.
I didn’t see anyone, but the bad vibes stuck to me. And what if…"
She doesn’t finish the sentence and I freeze in the middle of the kitchen, clutching the bag of vegan croquettes to my chest in case I have to defend myself with them, phone shaking, brain in full meltdown.
Because if I’m the family paranoiac, turns out the stalker blonde isn’t just my wet nightmare.
Houston, we’re screwed. And not just because the blonde looks like she’d swim the Atlantic after her.
A few days go by that feel like a vacation in a nursing home.
So quiet it pisses me off. No trace of Mob Barbie, no creepy cars, not even a single fucking hair yanked out on the sly.
I’m sleeping almost normal, though my dreams are a mashup of chase scenes, sex with whip-wielding blondes, and a cameo or two from The Little Mermaid.
My head is an amusement park with no insurance.
Today Vega and I do a fashionista lap through El Corte Inglés.
I’m sniffing perfumes that cost more than my rent, drenching half a bottle on my wrist and dreaming of walking around leaving a trail that says "classy dyke.
" Vega gets lost in the pricey jeans, because according to her, today’s for a splurge.
I laugh: we are the definition of guilty pleasure.
"Girl, I was thinking," Vega says in that teacher voice that means bad news is coming. "What if we hit up Lolo?"
My lone common-sense neuron freezes; I’m holding a tester strip, face saying "pick another universe, please."
"Lolo? Mini Tarzan from the group home? The one with gum-breath halitosis and pits that reek of testosterone."
Vega nods, grabs her phone, and pulls up the plate photo.
"That one. You know he’s a cop now, right? Maybe he can run the plate and tell us if your blonde is just fuckable or also dangerous. A quick favor and we get this off our backs."
My inner drama queen rolls her eyes so hard I almost lose them.
"Yeah, sure. Tell me you want to see him and I’ll lock you in the Calvin Klein fitting room till the fever breaks."
Vega cracks up. For real. She almost drops the jeans bag.
"God, shut up, I break out in hives just thinking about it."
"And not even a decent goodbye when he bailed, remember? Just ‘ciao, losers.’ You actually want to look him up?"
She half-shrugs, like pride chafes but the X-Files car spooks her more.
"I don’t want to see him, but if the loser can run the blonde’s plate, I’ll swallow the drama and WhatsApp him."
I go full diva and fake a faint.
"What a low point, sister: the queens of El Corte, asking Lolo for help. Netflix would cancel us after two episodes, you’ll see."
Vega ignores my act. She throws an arm around my shoulders and we keep shopping like twin superheroes infiltrating the middle class.
"Chill, Alaska. Worse would be not knowing and having to hunt down Blondie’s plate the hard way. If the cop does us a solid, we laugh and file it under stories to tell."
We head home like Sherpas off Everest, bags hanging off our ears. We haul up the stairs sweating and dying because the elevator’s out. Second floor. And… flash: my fucking phone! I left it in the car. My phone, with my whole life in it and the top-secret license plate of the mystery blonde.
"You go on up, I’m running back to grab the portable bunker," I tell Vega, who’s dragging the bags in full zombie mode.
I bomb down the stairs, wrecked but riding that mama-bear instinct for my phone.
And when I hit the ground floor, wham, reality slaps me: there she is, that bitch, strolling out of my building like she owns oxygen.
Black jacket, hair that even hell- humidity can’t mess up, and that smug bombshell face.
Even the air molecules part for her. Give me a break.
Filter gone, pride gone, I sprint after her.
"Hey, you! Blondie! Enough with the mystery already!"
She turns slowly and hits me with a chill voice: "Keep your voice down; nobody wants a scene out here."
But I’m in full drama-queen Alaska mode, so I plant myself in the doorway, slide my keys between my knuckles (just in case, suburban-mom brass knuckles style), and throw my hands up like I know anything about boxing.
"Heads up, I know self-defense, okay? Try me and it’s a knee to the groin and I’m out."
She cracks up. Literally. Laughs in my face, not mean, more like “aww, you think you’re dangerous.” No respect, no fear, not even a scrap of mercy. Just this soft laugh that makes you feel twice as ridiculous and three times as lame.
"Come on, drop the theatrics and get inside."