Pamala was late. I greeted her with, “We need to talk.”
She greeted me with a bone-crushing hug. “Are you breaking up with me?”
“No. Why would you think that?”
“We need to talk is never followed by anything else.”
“Nothing like that.”
“It can wait, then. I’m more excited than I should be.”
“Antoinette Blanc,” I said to the man in his twenties—sharply dressed in a dark blue suit with a red tie.
He returned a look of question, doubt.
“Meeting room?”
“Oh, eh—right, we’re expecting you.”
“I look young for my age.”
“Right.” He accepted cash.
The room was Spartan—plush royal-red carpet begging for my bare feet, pale walls parading nondescript artwork at eye level, and a ceiling too low for chandeliers. “Why?” Pamala asked, dropping binders on the table, her coat on a chair. “Why here?”
“Convenient location.” I stowed two duffel bags under the table, my bag on the table, and my coat atop Pamala’s.
She rolled her eyes at me. “Why not the apartment, I meant? Maybe a table in the back of Collings Nook.”
“The Nook is closed.”
“Not the point.”
“Oh—we’re being clandestine for a whole mess of reasons. Fantasy Girl never operates out in the open.”
She deflated. “I didn’t hold anything back from Mom.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
Jessica followed the door opening, two men trailing, Jessica’s full-length rabbit fur coat dropping from her bare shoulders, her black satin spaghetti strap dress hugging her form, dropping to her knee, her black hair free, flowing around her head.
I rolled my eyes, leaning toward Pam. “Tongue, mouth.”
“Sorry.”
Jessica froze in midstride, caught like a feral cat on the porch, staring. “Antoinette Blanc,” she said, more of a question than a statement.
I did a pirouette, a turn, and a bow. “Toby.”
“I like what you’ve done with yourself. Very—eh.” She presented a hand to a man my height, squat, in a blue pinstripe suit, blue tie, round face, dark, busy eyes, brown hair in a flat top, and black-rimmed glasses, in his forties. “Thomas Stenholm.”
He struggled a stack of folders onto the table while nodding. “Good to meet you.”
“Butch Falcon,” she said, indicating the second man. Falcon had a full head and a half on me. In his late twenties, black hair parted on the right, disarming blue eyes with a smile-smirk to match. His charcoal tailored suit was not flashy but made a statement, which could have been more about how he carried himself than the suit.
“I didn’t know this was going to be formal,” Pamala pouted.
“I’m coming from a thing,” Jessica explained, introducing us.
We awkwardly had a shaking-of-the-hands-fest with how do you do’s.
“Butch is our front man,” Jessica said. “That means—”
“I know what that means.”
“I know what it means, too, but how’s it apply?” Pamala asked.
“Oh, you are going to get so hugged,” Jessica said, eyeing Pamala. “When it’s more appropriate.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Anyone looking at our little project here,” Thomas Stenholm explained, “will get the impression Butch is running things.”
“For so many different reasons,” Jessica added.
“You guys and your so many reasons.”
Jessica held Pamala’s eyes. “If you decide you’re in, nothing will be kept from you.” She half turned. “Thomas Stenholm. Our lawyer.”
Pamala glanced me, then looked hard at Jessica. “Can I start? I have so much I want to go over.”
I nodded to Jessica.
“Like what?”
“Oh, Mom and me had two three-hour meetings.” Her palm rested on her binders.
“Let’s.” Jessica sat next to Pamala, Pamala opening a binder. Jessica closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
I rolled my eyes.
“Toby,” Stenholm said.
“Mr. Stenholm?”
“Let’s take a walk.” He retrieved five of his folders from the table.
“Let’s. Mr. Falcon?”
“Oh, I’m good here,” he answered, watching from between Jessica and Pamala, a hand on each chair.
A hefty tip from Stenholm got us a small table and coffee in a dark corner of the downstairs restaurant, the restaurant closing. “Jessica, huh,” he opened.
“Headstrong. That’s what I like about her.”
“That could get her killed.”
“The trick would be to have those who would kill you fearing being killed by you.”
He held my eyes taking measure. “Before anything can happen, we need to do some things; I need to know some things.”
“Okay.”
“Firstly, I need to be your lawyer.”
“What? I give you a dollar?”
“It’s never that simple.” He produced a form. “My job is to protect you. To protect you, I need to know everything, and it needs to be the truth.”
I placed a pen on the form. “I guess you require my actual name, huh?”
He read upside down. “Who’s Antoinette Blanc, then?”
“She’s dead. I stole her identity.”
“We’re going to be here awhile.” He slid a yellow legal pad from his bag. “Let’s start here: Where’d you get the money? Did you steal it?”
“The money was a gift, maybe payment for services rendered.”
“Don’t fuck around here. That’s a shitload of money, eh—”
“Toby.”
“Toby. A whole shitload of money.”
“I wasn’t fucking around, but okay.” I glanced the ceiling. “The first bag, I was told, keep this safe. After that, my complete instruction was: you know what to do with this. I figured investing in Jessica was a sound idea given that practically I can own so many pairs of shoes.”
I gave him the traffic cop palm literally in his face. “Allow me to add, when he gave me the money, he'd demand I get naked, him watching me as he jerked off. Did I think he was overpaid? Sure, until he raped me.”
His pen stopped on the legal pad. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen. Sixteen in October.”
“Did he know that?”
“That my birthday is in October?”
“October,” he warned.
“Call me Toby. Everyone does. He knew I was underage. He had me sign an affidavit I wasn’t, which had nothing to do with him raping me.”
“What did it have to do with, then?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How can you not know what you signed off on?”
I rolled my eyes, falling back on the chair. “Everything sounds like a half-answer, even to me.” I locked my fingers behind my head, closed my eyes, leaned back in the chair, and said, “A couple of lifetimes ago, I lived in terror. My brother would sneak into my room at night and jerk off on my face. I think he learned that from Uncle Gropey, who couldn’t keep his hands off me anytime he visited. There was this one time when he held me down on the toilet, pushed his face in mine, spunking on my bare legs. I still sometimes have panic attacks in a bathroom even with the door locked.”
“What did your parents say?”
“Basically, oh, that Uncle Gropey. He’s such a character. Please hold all questions until the end. Thank you.
“I put a lock on my bedroom door, which offered a stay of execution. You see, Mr. Stenholm; I knew Mark would get around to raping me. He’d smack me around just for fun at times. It’s like when night melts into early morning. I know the sun is coming. Mom wasn’t happy about the lock. Dad didn’t care, though once he did whack me in the face with a hammer.” I pointed to the scar.
“What Dad did care about was sticking his business in a bubbly child not much older than me, which made me think my father thought about me when he jerked off, maybe sniffing my underwear. They’re in love; it seems more than love. Soul mates. Do you believe in soul mates, Mr. Stenholm?”
“Eh, ah, no. I do not.”
“Neither do I. I think it’s just an excuse for some old guy to stick his dick in a wide-eyed bubbly girl barely not a child, but oftentimes what we believe doesn’t matter. My father, tongue dragging on the mall floor, goes chasing after his new love, crashing my mother into instant poverty. Overnight, we land in a two-bedroom apartment definitely on the wrong side of town, my mother in one bedroom, my brother in the other, and me on the sofa.”
“Huh?”
“If I were totally paranoid, I’d think that the grand scheme all along, to make me available to Brother Rapey. I worked out plans. High on my list was to camp down by the nearby railroad tracks. I had a place picked out. I could stop in the apartment now and then and shower. Or I was told I could get a job over the track, shoveling shit, which sounded a mess better than taking Mark’s load in my face while sleeping.
“Best laid plans, something about often having rye toast.”
Stenholm chuckled.
“Thanks for not correcting me. I’ve got one foot out the door; Mark comes home with three friends, who take turns raping me.”
“Fuck,” Stenholm said in a voiceless whisper.
“Four times. Fucked four times. Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.” I showed a finger for each. “As fate would have it, or rather as fate would fuck me, I’d just met a guy who’d offered me a job cleaning shit. Literally. Cleaning up shit in a house he just bought. A ton and a half of human shit. What a wonderful, rich, meaty metaphor that was. I suggested I stay in the house, you know, to protect the property from future vandalism. He agreed.
"He and his lawyer show up with a stack of paperwork for me to sign. One form was me verifying I was of legal age. He looked out the window; the lawyer watched the ceiling. This is where I come to the answer to your question: what did the affidavit have to do with? I can guess, but I don’t know for sure.”
He started breathing again. “By all means. Speculate.”
“They paid me a stupid amount of money for basically doing whatever I wanted in the caretaking and upkeep of the house. I knew it was a fake job, which I executed diligently. Doing actual hard work gave me a sense of worth in myself. I taught myself how to plaster. Imagine that. Wasn’t any good at it, but still. The day of the affidavit, I signed more than twenty other forms. My motivation in the moment was having a place to live where I didn’t have to worry about being raped.
“Well, you heard how that turned out.
“They set up bank accounts, telling me most my pay should go into the accounts. When I checked the balances, I discovered others were making deposits, too. I borrowed some law books from Pamala’s mother. That, and a blind guy driving by fast, could see they were laundering money. That’s where I got the idea to invest the money.
“I figured two things. One: If I got curious asking questions, it’d get me killed. Two: That affidavit, all that other shit I signed, set me up as the fall girl if the federales ever came knocking. I think Bill had plans to ghost before that happened, leaving me clueless and the recipient of a gaggle of federal charges that could get me twenty years, I hear, even if I flipped and went state’s evidence. However, like me, his retirement assets disappeared like a puddle of water on an asphalt street in the sun midsummer.”
“Do you always talk in metaphors?”
“That was a simile. Point taken. Yes, I do.”
I rolled my eyes. “Right after he fucked me on the kitchen table, even as he fastened his belt, I muttered: You think that something? Wait until you see the fucking I’m going to give you.”
My eye twitched. “Services rendered, Mr. Stenholm. Services. Fucking. Rendered.”
He flipped pages on his pad. “If you wish to come forward—”
“I don’t. There’s nothing back there I wish to reclaim. Besides, it’s not just the federales. I’m sure the criminal enterprise would like to have a long conversation with me, which would not end well. I’d be glad to give you details as I know them, but all you need do is read the paper.”
“Your future could get complicated. A family. Children.”
“This world is so fucked up, Mr. Stenholm, I’d never wish to subject an innocent child to its horrors no matter how greedy I felt in a moment. Additionally, I cannot imagine any scenario in which a sperm dispenser ever again gets inserted in me, and I have a great imagination.”
“That I understand, Miss Blanc.” He produced another form. “If you would be so kind to fill out this form, Miss Blanc, which will make you my client. If we ever need to speak of the other person, we can at your discretion.”
In those fleeting moments, the law firm of Stenholm, Koel, and Viceroy engaged Antoinette Blanc as a client, Stenholm entering my conspiracy.
Over the next thirty minutes, we worked through countless forms, which Jessica, Stenholm and sometimes Falcon had already signed, Stenholm carefully explaining each.
I’d often cut him off with, “Got it, next,” having explained again I’d read a law book or three.
The blind LLC intrigued me.
“It’s like a person, legally.”
“I know what a corporation is. This,” I pointed to the form, “is what’s going to own the restaurant.”
“Well, yes.”
“I’m going to own the restaurant.”
“With me and Jessica.”
“If the legal troubles of—eh, that other person catch up to her?”
“The LLC is like a firewall, a shield.”
“Good.” I narrowed my eyes. “Why you?”
“That’s a long story.”
“I’m young.”
“Her father—”
“Manny.”
“Yeah, him. The family. Years ago—fucked my father and destroyed him for no better reason than it was good for business. Do you need details? You’re young, but the night is not.”
I chuckled. “I do not require details; however, some evening in front of a fire, us sipping rich hot chocolate, I would appreciate a good story.”
“Ah, the best time for a good story.”
“Final question on this topic: Can I buy a house with this LLC?”
“Simple answer: Sure.”
“Complex answer doesn’t matter at this time. My life just got a whole lot simpler because sometimes, Mr. Stenholm, that’s the way the universe works.”
“We good?” Jessica asked, looking behind me as we entered.
“We are more than good. We’re great,” Stenholm answered.
Jessica was visibly relieved.
“What?” Pamala asked.
I sat across the table, holding her eyes. “Seems we’re going to own a restaurant/nightclub.”
“At the risk of repeating myself: What?”
Jessica blinked. “Sure, yes, love the idea. Tom?”
Stenholm shrugged, digging through the papers. “Let me explain what a blind LLC is.”
Pamala drew hard on the air. “Damn. It’s in the business plan. I know what it is. Again: What?”
“Sign under Antoinette,” Stenholm said.
“Oh. My. Gosh. I should call home first. I should ask Mom and Dad. Darn. Who has a pen?”
“Now,” I proclaimed, “we’re great.”
I circled the table until the blueprints made sense. “Fuck, Jessica. A fucking waterfront property?”
“It’s going to put a serious dent in the coffers —”
“Don’t worry about the coffers.”
“How’d I know you were going to say that? I saw four suitable others.”
“But waterfront.”
“Yeah, that kept coming back. The city is supermotivated, too, offering property tax incentives—”
“Out over ten years,” Falcon interjected. “I got a verbal on the army of permits we need.”
“How’d you do that so quick?”
“I get invited to all the right gatherings and know all the right people. The right people take my phone calls. It would seem people find me charming.”
“We went to different schools together,” Jessica quipped.
“What’s your grudge against Manny?”
Falcon almost blushed, keeping my eyes. “Three and a half weeks in the hospital.”
Jessica nodded.
“Over too much salt in the minestrone?”
“Slept with his wife.” He shrugged.
“Damn. Was it worth it?”
“No. Not at all. It’s a long story.”
“Isn’t everything?”
“She wanted to piss off Manny. I was Mr. Available.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Hey, it’s not like I’m easy. I really thought we had something.”
“Soap opera aside, now that I own the place.” Pamala shuffled through a folder, coming up with a menu. “Did you see the menu?”
“I did not.”
“I’m adding French fries in brown gravy to the vegetables.”
“That would be Golden French Potato Slices in savory brown sauce,” Jessica corrected.
I took the menu, staring. “What the fuck, Jessica?”
Jessica shrugged. “Anyone else would be flattered; you give me a what the fuck?”
“I’m not particularly vain, like everyone else.”
“October’s Surprise,” Falcon said. “It is kind of catchy.”
“I just thought—”
“Terrible idea, Jessica. Think again. I like On the Water, maybe On the Waterfront.”
“How about The Waterfront?” Pamala suggested.
“It’s not like I’m married to the name. All things considered, you’re right.” She clocked the faces, nodding. “We like this property? Want to look at the others? Do we need a road trip?”
“Is there an engineer's report?” Pamala asked. “Any kind of inspection by someone who knows something about something?”
“Should come this week,” Stenholm said.
“We like?” Pamala nodded, taking a turn at all the faces, everyone nodding. “Let’s move on our offer, everything contingent on the inspection.” She bit her lip. “Maybe drop the offer twenty grand. I heard super motivated somewhere.”
“Brilliant,” Jessica agreed. “I would have plunged. I want you, no, I need you to be my number one.”
“I thought I’d be your number one?” Falcon almost pouted.
“You’re eye candy for the tourists, a dick to flash at the women-hating rich men who run society.”
“You make it sound like it’s an easy job.”
“I do understand how difficult it is, putting on a face for everyone.”
“Not unlike being a circus clown.”
“Exactly like that. Pamala?”
“You’re serious?” She looked at me across the table.
I shrugged. “This is the second time Jessica’s pulled out the big chair for you. Oh, it’s a plunge. You’re going to be in way over your head. Your smarts and common sense should make up for your lack of experience. Besides, you’ll have Jessica over your shoulder. I suggest you sit down.”
“Despite my comments to the contrary, Butch is brilliant, also over your shoulder.”
“I have to have a talk with Mom and Dad.”
“I’m willing to attend that meeting,” Jessica said.
“Mom likes your business plan to start with; that’s a big plus.”
“Do dress a bit more conservative, less like you’re trying to fuck Pamala,” I suggested flatly.
Pamala’s face went pink.
“I do know how to dress for a room, Toby.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“This is going to sound crazy.”
Pamala laughed. “We’re way past that, Jessica.”
“I’m throwing together a party for the twenty-first. Private party. Renting an estate. I suggested it to my father, but he wasn’t interested. A party like the one where we met.”
“You did say he likes the money, not the people.”
“Exactly that. Invitation only. Butch and I are making phone calls. With the Locke mansion boarded up—”
“The mansion is boarded up?”
Thomas Stenholm gasped, visibly shaken, propping himself on the back of a chair, looking at me.
I packed a wheelbarrow load of dismissiveness in another shrug.
“I assume. In any event, they’re out of business. Aside from adding to our coffers with the party, we can build our patron list. I can really use your help.”
I bit my lip. “I’ll be glad to work the kitchen, peel potatoes, chop onions, wash dishes, and clean up the mess afterwards. I can’t work the floor for obvious reasons.”
“Which are?” Falcon asked.
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Pamala can work the floor.”
“I can?”
“Yes. I’m sure you can get a night off.”
Pamala dropped to the bed and fell backwards. “I can’t believe it.”
“What?”
“All of it. Mom and Dad are going to kill me for signing off without talking to them first.”
“You’re a minor. You can easily get out of it.” I shrugged, sitting. “You going to take the job?”
“I stopped using deodorant.”
“I noticed.”
“I really need a shower.”
“Not on my account. I like the way you smell.”
“That’s why I stopped using deodorant. You don’t. I like the way you smell. I’m going to talk to Mom and Dad. I’ll do the party later this month for sure. Opening the restaurant. That’s big.”
“I’m sure you can handle the job and college. It’s not all that much more than you’re doing now.”
“Both are going to be a huge challenge. I attempt both at once; both suffer. I want to work for Jessica. I want to do this thing with you. I’ll take a year. I think opening and running a restaurant will look great on my college application.”
“I’d do college.”
“You think I should turn Jessica down?”
“I think you should take the job. I'm saying I’d do college.”
“Why me and not you?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Why didn’t Jessica offer you the job? Why me instead of you?”
“You’re cuter.”
“Seriously.”
“I’m an asshole. I don’t like people. You’re like the opposite.”
“Oh, that’s not true.”
“Which part?”
“Okay. I have the personality for it; you don’t.”
“I could do the job, but acting all day every day would burn me out in two weeks. You’re a natural.”
“You’re not an asshole.”
“Oh, I am. I embrace my assholiness. I know this about me. It’s why I don’t have friends. I’ve always been this way. You’re not only my first not dead lover. You’re my first real friend.”
“I need a shower. I promised to wash your hair.”
“You have to be up in four hours. Roll around in the bed real good so it smells like you. Shower. Nap. Just you being here is rich and fulfilling.”
“But not as much as me washing your hair?”
“More so, Pamala. I ache for you. I love you so much, I think my heart is going to swell up and burst out my chest.”
“You’re just flirting with me now.”
“I miss you already.”
“I’ll be back tonight after work.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s just not the way the universe works.”
“A quick shower. Together. Then we nap. I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
I took a lazy hour missing Bill’s house, Pamala and I practically living together, her never rushing in, then rushing off. I’d felt part of her life; now I was an interloper. Dressed in my new-to-me work pants, tan work shirt, new orange boots, pink knit cap, pea coat, I rode my bike the mile and change to the other side of town.
As if to affirm what I’d said to Pam, making nice with people was painful. I thought I could pay Pam to be my front person and spend my days raking leaves. I nailed down two more spring cleaning jobs, much like my first, one an old paper route customer.
“Had a girl paperboy,” he told me. “Best paperboy I ever had.”
To balance that out, I had a guy tell me I couldn’t do yard care because I was a girl. I nodded, offered a pleasant have a good day, happy not to work for an asshole who thought such things.
No day could be complete without Mr. Gropey. The door opened inward, and a wall of stale cigarette smoke, old socks, and decay struck me. I’d have not been surprised to learn his mother was long dead in an upstairs bedroom.
He had a head on me, broad shoulders, fortyish, unkempt brown hair, stark blue eyes pushed into a pale face, and a smile that failed, more of a scowl. “Aren’t you a pretty thing?” he greeted.
I took a step back. “Guy a couple doors down. Said you needed yardwork.”
“Paul. Nice guy.” He watched me, eyes dancing around my face for an uncomfortable handful of seconds.
“I looked around the yard—”
He feigned a shiver. “It’s so cold today. Why don’t you come inside? I have a fire going. We can talk about this—yardwork.”
I narrowed my eyes, swallowing my instinctual response, which would have been more evidence of what I’d told Pamala. “I think not.” I glanced my open notebook. “Looks like I’m all booked up for this season.”
His eyes raked me from head to toe and then back. “That’s really disappointing—I’m sure I’ll see you around—maybe under the hot summer sun—mowing lawns.”
“Maybe I’ll burn your house to the ground one night while you’re asleep.”
“Huh?”
“Oh—sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Have a nice day.”
Pamala greeted me with, “They didn’t say no.”
I greeted Pam with a bone-crushing hug, whispering, “But they didn’t say yes,” in her ear. “They need more information.”
“It’s like you were in the room! Shower? Oh, say yes.”
“Yes. I’ll literally wash your hair. You look really tired. We’ll get under the covers. I’ll read to you.”
“I do need a long winter’s sleep. I can’t miss church again. They take roll.”
“This morning was not my fault.”
“Yeah, work. Closed the books out.”
“I’ll go with you. I like church.”
“Just not the people.”
“Not most the people. I guess Dad’s going to Jessica’s party.”
“How do you know these things?”
“They want more information. What better way than to see how she puts a thing together.”
“Dad and Mom. Dad wants to talk with you anyway.”
I bit my lip. “I really don’t want to put them in that position.”
“Shower.”
“Shower.”
“I think I have that worked out. I asked Mom and Dad if they’d like to meet my new girlfriend.”
“That could work.”
“I know Mom would hold up in the box. Dad would fold like a well-oiled jackknife.”
“I really don’t want to put him in that position.”
“You can talk at the party.”
“I’ll get a chance to talk up Jessica.”
“There’s that, too.”
“What did they think about you owning a restaurant?”
“Eh—I didn’t tell them. Yet.”
Clouds offered a challenge to the sun; sprinkles threatened to become rain, Collings Nook was populated mostly with hurried breakfasters—not unlike mornings at the lunch counter in the mall. I was comfortable with my eggs and newspaper at a full-size table by the window, my attention kidnapped by each person entering.
I was alert for any possible threat, repeatedly analyzing the room and watching the street outside. Until that moment, I was not aware I had the habit.
“May I?” Shawn Beedle asked, dropping across from me, saucer and cup before her as the room thinned.
I swallowed the stinging obviously, answering, “Please do,” instead. Clocking the room, I said, “You’re really good at this.”
“This?”
“Working the room. Being pleasant when you’re obviously annoyed. That’s a rare gift.”
She rolled her eyes. “People, you know.”
“Yes, people.”
“They come through the door with baggage. Most people—since we live in a relatively polite society—like you, keep that baggage to themselves. Some don’t, lashing out with sarcasm or just being mean to be mean. I remind myself it’s never about me, or the eggs being too done or not done enough, or the coffee’s gotten cold. It’s their baggage, not mine.”
I bit my lip, watching cobalt eyes. “I’d last two hours, tops, then slap someone so hard with sarcasm, their grandkids would feel it.”
“There’s no upside to being nothing but pleasant to people who may tip you.”
“My rational mind wrestles with my authentic self all the time.”
“I adore your sarcasm. You’re certainly dressed differently today.”
“I do yardwork.”
“For?”
“I have my own business,” I said flatly, providing a flyer.
“Nice. I was going to ask you if you were looking for work.”
“Do I look like I’m looking for work?”
“Well, it’s not that.”
“I could never wait tables. People, you know.”
“I was thinking Woolworth’s, up the block. I know the manager. If you need work.”
“I have more than I want now.”
“Yardwork? This time of year?”
“Yeah, huh?”
She narrowed her eyes, biting her lip. I did my best not to melt because I’m not Pam.
“Do you always dress like an old woman? Well, I mean you’re not dressed like an old woman now. At the dance studio.”
I blushed uncharacteristically. “I can’t believe I took my clothes off like that. I’ve only danced for three other people—just counting living people.” I circled back. “Old lady?”
Shawn reflected my blush. “Eh. I don’t mean to get personal, but I have seen you naked.”
“Oh, I bet you’ve never worn silk.”
“I haven’t.” She stood and straightened her apron. “I’ll be back. Need anything?”
“I’m good.”
Shawn only caught me watching her twice; my attention split between her and the newspaper. Despite the obvious circus in the mall, neither newspaper had reported much, generally local businesses involved in racketeering with no names named. “Eighteen arrests,” I whispered aloud, others being sought.
I assumed Bill Locke on the first list; I, the second. Snickering, I recalled Thomas Stenholm’s face when he realized who I was.
“Looks like rain today,” the newspaper said in Shawn’s voice.
I closed the paper, turning it around, glancing the bottom weather graphic. “How does the rain know what time it is?”
“Sundial?” Shawn took the paper. “She must be important.”
“She, who?”
“This girl.” She presented the front page.
I squinted, not needing to. I’d read the story. My eighth-grade class photo looked back at me.
“Says she’s likely a runaway. Why’s that make her important?”
“First off, Toby, picture story front page above the fold,” she bit angrily. “Secondly, If you have information,” she glared, “call the FBI?”
“Whoa, Nelly. Why so angry?”
Putting the paper aside, her face softened, hands fishing in her apron, producing a wallet from which she pulled a news clipping and photo. “Jody Demarko.”
Dumbstruck, I managed to choke out, “She’s beautiful.” The photo could have been me. The photo could have been Antoinette. I gulped the barely-a-blurb news story. “I’m guessing not the front page, not above the fold.”
“Section three, second page, below the fold. Ran once.”
“Lacking an if you have any information.”
“They never looked for her. Assumed she was a runaway, would come back home when she got hungry. Six months now.” She picked up the paper, shaking it at me. “Two men in suits came around flashing this girl’s photo.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You know her—Jody Demarko.”
“My cousin. Fifteen years old, a typical kid, I guess, mad at what adults are doing to the world.”
“War, children getting killed, hip-deep in trash, pollution.”
“I think she fell in with the wrong crowd. Partying too late on school nights, though her grades didn’t suffer. The loose leash over the summer spoiled her, I think. Drugs. I’m sure drugs. I tried to talk to her a couple of times.”
“But you have an adult face and you’re polluting the planet.”
“Just about. So, why’s this girl so important they’ve called out the National Guard?”
“I couldn’t guess. Story doesn’t offer much.”
“I bet they’re rich. I bet it’s an important family.”
I took a long drink of Jody Demarko’s photo, handing it back. “She’s beautiful. Sorry.”
“Thanks. Went to the mall, her and a crowd of friends on a Saturday night. She just disappeared. Not one of her friends noticed her missing.”
Fuck.
Shawn released a long sigh, her hand covering mine. “Thanks for listening.”
With all my force of will, I resisted withdrawing my hand. “I’d offer something reassuring here. I’m not that kind of person.”
“I appreciate your honesty.”
“Do you own a tuxedo?”
“I could rent one. Why?”
“You’re so eager, Shawn. I have an event coming up, or rather, I know of an event coming up on the twenty-first. It’s a Saturday. I’m working the kitchen. We may need some servers.”
“This requires a tuxedo?”
“It would. I have to make some phone calls.”
“I might be interested. Let me know. You have my number.”
I glanced the room. No one in earshot. I leaned across the table anyway. “I do not wish to assume the obvious. Are you okay with homosexuals and transvestites?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Oh. I’ve not actually been around that many. Now I’m really interested. You say this is a paying job?”
“I think I like you much more than I should.”
The bell above the door announced my arrival at Valkyries Drycleaners and Formal Wear.
“Picking up?” the woman behind the counter asked. Mid-thirties, slim, dark hair in a ponytail, rich brown eyes, pale complexion, she wore a late-afternoon-sky-blue dress breaking at her waist, vertical ruffles down the front, patent leather Mary Janes with a two-inch heel, and white lace ruffled ankle socks.
“Love the dress. The whole outfit.”
“Thank you,” she answered with a blush.
“I’m interested in a tuxedo.”
“For?”
“A party.”
She narrowed her eyes impatiently.
“Sorry. I need two, actually. Party on the twenty-first. I’ll be buying, not renting. Black. I like the white shirt with ruffles like your dress. Vest. Pink pocket square and pink bow tie to match. Skirt to about here.”
She looked up from her writing. “You’ll be needing shoes.”
“You don’t have what I want.”
“Which is?”
“Black patent leather Mary Janes with a two-inch heel just like yours.”
“Jack’s Shoes on the Highway.”
“I’ve seen the place. It’s across from my bike shop.”
“You need two?”
“One for me. One for my girlfriend.”
She looked up again, holding my eyes for a long few seconds. “That’s wonderful. She’ll have to be fitted.”
“How about you do me now? We’ll come in around three-thirty.”
“Eh—I’m just a seamstress. Mr. Clift, the tailor won’t be in until tomorrow.”
I shrugged. “I’m okay with just a seamstress.” I dug in Pamala’s bag, placing a twenty on the counter. “Will you be here at three-thirty?”
“I will.” She squirreled the money into her fist. “Come around that way. Let’s get you measured.”
I liked Charlotte the seamstress just fine. Smart, she smiled in the right places without over-Sallying me, professional.
Christian Jones Photography stood a few stores east of F. W. Woolworth’s, a motor shop in between. I had no idea a market for electric motors would be profitable. I assumed, like my lawn business, the business was money laundering.
Marcy Jones was taller than me, not by much, with broad shoulders and a face to match; her straw hair cut like mine. Brown eyes held me in place.
“Good morning.”
“It is that,” I answered.
“Maybe a bit of rain.”
“I like rain.”
“Me, too. People think sunshine best for photography. Shade and shadows. The sun’s too harsh, unless I mean the image to be.”
“I’ve not given it much thought—photography.”
“We can think a photograph is a recording of events. A photograph is a declaration from the photographer.”
“Lighting, as you just mentioned. Camera angle? Tilt of the head?”
“Very good. And much, much more. I’m Marcy. What can I do for you today?”
“Formal portrait that looks casual.”
“Ah, perfect. You in your lumberjack wear?”
“Lawn maintenance, and no.” I watched her eyes. “Me and my girlfriend.”
She didn’t hesitate. “When?”
“Today. Around five. Maybe earlier.”
“Perfect.” She made a note. “Now, how about you?”
“What about me?”
“Those eyes, like brightly tanned leather glass, shades changing as you move your head. I’d really like to capture that face. You are truly beautiful. I don’t mean that in a gay way.”
“I didn’t think you did. Mean it in a gay way. I know what it’s like to be captured by beauty without feeling the need to fuck it.”
Marcy laughed, maybe a bit too freely. “My God, I’m in love, but—”
“Not in a gay way.”
Again, the laugh. “You’re an artist.”
“I am not.”
“You should be. I could use a part-time apprentice. Someone who can appreciate beauty without having to fuck it.”
“Who’s Christian?”
“My father. He’s retired. I took over the business. He was a mechanic. He also had to at least try to fuck everything he found beautiful.”
“I bet that was a sight, him humping the garden in the spring.”
“Oh, I love you. Do you have some time right now? I have a couple of albums I put together, showing his work then transitioning into mine. You can actually see the difference between a mechanic and an artist.”
“Are you open-minded, Marcy?”
“I am, but not so open-minded my brain will fall out. Be specific.”
“Have you ever done discreet photography?”
“I don’t do pornography or children naked.”
“I have to check with some people. We have a party coming up. Mostly it’s men dressing up like women.”
“Transvestites?”
I took a deep breath. “Who knows? Labels are for jelly jars. It’s high class, though. It’s a quarterly party—get together—dinner for people who must hide this occasional behavior from the world. What it is not is a sex party.”
“Go on.”
“Again, I have to talk to some people. I’m thinking we could set up a room and offer photo sessions. Discreet. Keep it simple. Whatever you think you should charge off the top of your head, double it.”
“I have no problem with how people wish to present themselves. I’m an artist. I like the general idea.”
“Good. I’ll make some calls. In the meantime, keep the evening of the twenty-first open. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Hey,” Michelle greeted from the table as I entered.
“Hey. No work today?”
“And tomorrow. Lucky me.”
“You sure about the school thing?”
“Quitting? Yes. I have to get my stupid books from my locker and turn them in the office. I heard they’d charge me for them.”
I sat across from her, watching the ceiling. “Tomorrow, bright and early. You can help me on a job.”
“Huh?”
“Then, we can get all dressed up, go over to the school, and take care of business.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“When I say dressed up, I mean Michelle. Don’t look so scared. I’ve not seen that face since I suggested we go to church.”
“I just have to turn the books in.”
I shrugged. “I’d like to walk the halls again. One last time. It’s like I’ve left something undone.”
“The idea of going back—like this—is, eh—”
“Exciting?”
“That works.” She bit her lip. “I think I fucked up again.”
“Keith?”
“It’s complicated.”
“No, it’s not.”
She gave me the expression as if she’d bitten into a peppercorn. “I ran a bulldozer over Levy.”
“He’s a big boy.”
“It’s like I didn’t even treat him like a human being. Him and his family. I used them to test out Michelle. The lies, you know. We were engaged to be engaged! I cut him loose, and here’s Keith. Bam. Right back in it.”
“But he knows.”
“I’m sorry, kind of, he does. The best times with Levy had nothing to do with the sex.”
“Being a girl doing normal things. Like when we went to get the Christmas Tree.”
“Things like that. All this time, I thought it’d be cool not to have to worry about leaving the toilet seat up, which I never do now because I always sit to pee.”
“But.”
“It’s hard for me to get a real feel of what it’s like living as a girl with Keith constantly wanting to suck my dick.”
I nodded.
“Thanks for not laughing. He treated me more like a girl before he knew I wasn’t a boy.”
“Maybe, for him, the novelty is wearing off.”
“Yeah, maybe me, too. I love work. All the guys accept me for the girl I am, even the customers. I’m trying to find me but it’s always Keith and me, if that makes sense.”
“It does. Tomorrow. It’ll be you and me. Doing some work in the morning. Home. I’ll do your hair and makeup. If you’re a good girl, maybe I’ll even do your nails.”
She let out a deep sigh. “I’ve always wanted my nails done.”
“Then, back to school. All that time, I won’t try to suck your dick.”
The drizzle promised rain, which became barely rain as I cycled around the river east to the bridge. Michelle reminded me why I had a roommate. My guilt, my culpability in her desire to live as a girl. Somehow, I thought, if not for me encouraging her to be Antoinette, he’d just be a guy wearing his mother’s underwear in the bathroom jerking off.
“Michael’s a big boy,” I said aloud, pausing on the bridge—the vague shadow of the Philadelphia skyline in the distance. “Now, maybe a big girl.” I knew two things for sure. Michael on this best day was a rabid asshole. Michelle was happy, often giddy. She expressed a childlike excitement, even wonder, like when she presented the star for the Christmas Tree at the garden center.
I envied that.
Just under two miles later, I entered the Cadbury Catholic parking lot. I saw Pamala before I saw her car.
Under a red umbrella, she seemed to have a girl pushed against the driver’s door of her red Chevy II. Almost a head under Pamala, the girl had lush brown hair in a French braid, a white raincoat over a white button-down shirt with black tie, a green plaid skirt just off her knees, gray knee socks, and black flats.
“Hey,” I greeted, rolling up.
“Toby! What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same question,” I answered in an exaggerated dramatic voice.
“Oh my gosh,” the girl said. “Is this her?”
“Yes. I am her.”
“Rachel, Toby. Toby, Rachel.”
“We’re not doing anything,” Rachel said.
“Hadn’t entered my mind. Like what aren’t you doing?”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Pamala told Rachel.
Rachel slipped past me. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Pamala hugged me, bike and all. “Okay. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“We have a couple of things we have to do.”
“I have work.”
“You can call from the dry cleaners.”
“I guess that’ll work. Diane’s back. Dad put her on the schedule as an extra.”
“Hospital too much for her?”
“Said she didn’t want to work that hard. For now. Picking up or dropping off?”
“Huh?”
“At the dry cleaners.”
“Measured for your tuxedo.”
“Charlotte’s pretty cool. I love Marcy. She had a way of looking at me.”
“Marcy’s an artist.” I sat on my leg facing Pamala, Pamala behind the wheel, the car running, raindrops singing on the windshield. “Charlotte made that dress she was wearing.”
“No kidding? I want one.”
“She has your measurements.”
“I’m kidding, well, not really. Marcy at the party?”
“The party where Jessica and I met, well, it was barely a party. Just a big room where men could dress any way they wished. Finger food. Later, some people would pair off and disappear.”
“Like into a linen closet?” She glanced her watch.
“I know. You have to go.”
“I’m good.”
“What Jessica plans is much more than just a big room where men can play dress up.”
“You do realize for many people it’s much more than just dressing up? Dad’s said—”
“Watching Michelle has taught me that much. Suffering Bill’s two faces showed me there’s a world of difference between the likes of Michelle and the likes of Bill.”
“The party.”
I rolled my eyes. “We’re doing a sit-down dinner.”
“Thus, needing servers.”
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
“I love when you bite your lip like that. You’re not breaking up with me, are you?”
I rolled my eyes. “No.”
“Great, the eye roll. Now I’m going to have to do myself driving to the mall.”
“Pamala.”
“It’s not my fault you’re so cute and fuckable.”
“I’ve asked Shawn if she wants to work the party.”
Pamala blinked repeatedly. “Shawn? Phone number on the receipt, Shawn? That Shawn?”
“Well, yes, that Shawn.”
“You called her? When? Why?”
“Take a breath.”
“Taking a very deep breath.”
“I wanted to surprise you by learning the flapper dance.”
“The Charleston. I’ve watched you dance. It’d not be difficult for you. I could teach you.”
“Then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
“Well, it’s not anymore.”
“Anyway.”
“Yes, anyway.”
“I checked out the dance place in town. The group from New Year’s? That’s where they’re from.”
“That’s pretty cool. Small world, huh?”
“It gets smaller.”
“How so?”
“Shawn was there. She teaches ballet. Don’t look at your watch. Cassandra Larkin is the main dance instructor. She’s the woman who taught me ballet in church.”
“You’ve told me about the church deal.”
“I was overwhelmed, you know, like with emotions.”
“I bet that was some moment, when you realized those memories were more than just a dream.”
“There’s nothing just about a dream.”
“I do understand that.”
“I danced for them. In the studio.”
“Naked? Oh, Toby. Tell me you danced for them naked.”
“I did.”
“I do not think you realize what a gift that is. Maria still talks about it as if being in the woods, watching you dance naked, was a life-changing experience for her. It was for me.”
I shrugged, lost for words.
“Shawn—eh, Cassandra, Charlotte, Marcy. All of a sudden, you have friends other than me.”
“I don’t consider—”
“You danced naked for Shawn and Cassandra. I watched you with Charlotte and Marcy. They’re your friends. That’s without mentioning Jessica, who loves you.”
I watched Pamala’s eyes watching me. “I don’t—”
“Wait and see. It’ll grow. You said as much about Jessica.”
I let out a deep breath. “Anyway.”
“Yes, anyway.”
“I called Jessica with the photo idea. She told me it’s your party. It’s my party.”
“I thought it was Jessica’s.”
“It’s my money. Jessica is working for me.”
“Wow.”
“I want to change my name—again, find a different rabbit hole to jump down.”
“Now you know how I feel about taking Jessica’s offer.”
“I made a deal. I officially put her in charge of everything. I told her I would appreciate any feedback on any idea I may have, particularly if the idea is stupid. I told her I was Fantasy Girl, not her father.”
“What did she say?”
“Old habits are difficult to break.”
“She’s got that right.”
“Tickets aren’t cheap.”
“Dad said.”
“It’s going to be more than just a room to dress up. Jessica plans a big dinner event. Kind of like a place out of reality, but a real place where the women can have a normal experience—as women.”
“Dad was trying to explain that to me.”
“I’d not understand the value of that if not for Michelle.”
“Professional photography. Fits right in.”
“Jessica thought so.”
“Kiss me like the universe is collapsing in on itself. I really must run.”
“One more thing.”
“Please, try not to sound so sinister—you so often think things are much darker than they are.”
“She’s back.”
“Okay. Not so sinister.”
“In the dance studio. Next to me. Saw her in the mirror. She’s not gotten her hair cut. Still looks the same.”
“Okay. That’s sinister. Did—”
“No, Cassandra and Shawn didn’t see her. I did not realize she’s aged like me.”
“I can’t imagine—”
“I’ve read just about every magazine printed in the past two years, newspapers, and been to the library and read a few books. I can’t find anything credible worth my consideration.”
“Maybe you should talk to a professional?”
“Psychologist or priest? I’ve flipped through some journals in the library. Doctors are fond of removing parts of the brain or even applying shocks to people who see things that are not there. Though the Church will tell you they don’t do exorcism any longer, watch their faces when you ask. A blind guy driving by fast can read that.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking to be cured. I just want to understand what I did.”
“Dumb question. Have you asked her?”
“This was the first time she actually manifested as not me.”
“Huh?”
“You saw it in sanctuary.”
“Yes, you becoming her.”
“Sure, over the years, there were times I’d feel her walking with me; we’d talk. Once she tried to take me to the other side—eh, or whatever.”
“We need to talk more about this.”
“I may be overthinking. I’ve read trauma can fuck the brain up and I’ve had plenty of that, as much as I deny it. Antoinette has always been my sanctuary, my place to run and hide.”
“Are you scared now?”
“Of?”
“Just generally. Like, before you ran away, you had your brother, mother, father, then in the house, the religious people—the school rapist, Bill.”
“No. I feel my plan solid. No one can find me, even when they’re looking right at me.”
“You seem confident in that.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“You are of the storm, the wind, the rain, the snow,” I said, surrounded by darkness, the glow of the small fire painting my face, me, naked, sitting on the fallen tree, rain turned to snow performing a ballet around me. “I have not been a good friend to you.”
I knew she was there, on the other side of the fire, shrouded in darkness.
“I loved you before I saw you. I feel I was born loving you. When I saw you, I recognized you or maybe me. We looked so much alike; my thoughts spin in a confusing circle whether it’s you I love or me. Or, somehow soulmates are real, and we are it. I am you. You are me. Even though we were never together, death couldn’t keep us apart.
“I don’t know what you are. I do know you are.”
Shivering, I pulled the pile of clothes onto my lap, fingers dancing to untangle my bra in front of me. “I really may have killed Mark if not for you telling me I can’t. I turn the idea over and over, puzzled as to why I can’t; all I come up with is: Antoinette said I can’t. I still may, if the opportunity presents itself, for no better reason than I want to.
“Life kills us all. You’re proof of that. If to cause the death of another is evil, then life is evil.
“Mark gets to live another day because today I’ve decided not to kill him. If I can confirm Bill killed Jody Demarko, I will hunt him down and kill him with the casualness that Mark demonstrated when he raped me.”
Snow, the fire, the darkness, your dance. I come, you talk of such dark things.
I narrowed my eyes, attempting to pierce the shadows across the fire, the words fading like rising smoke to doubt they ever were. “Antoinette. Antoinette?”
The whisper of the wind, the soft moan of swaying trees answered.
“Things are not light or dark. Thinking makes them so. I love you, Antoinette, real and true.”
The wind’s gentle fingers pulled at my hair, answering, I love you, too, October.
“I’d rather pump gas,” Michelle whined at me, pulling the rake.
“I appreciate the help.” I didn’t need her help. I thought spending the day together would be good for her, maybe me.
“How can you own a truck?”
I shrugged. “Give a guy money, and he gives me a title.”
“I mean, you don’t even have a license.”
“Paul did all the paperwork. Signed the title so I can transfer it when I need to.”
“Tex?”
“Yeah.”
A police car rolled up behind my truck.
“Looks like you’re in trouble now,” Michelle warned.
“Officer Martin!” I called, dropping my rake, and running to the street.
“Miss Blanc,” he greeted. “I have a couple of things.”
“Serving and protecting things?”
“Of course. Firstly, have you seen this child?” He displayed my eighth-grade school photo.
“I have not. Looks like a hardened criminal mastermind. Is the public in any danger?”
“She’s a local. Used to be. Lived maybe five blocks that way. Delivered papers on this street, I believe.”
“A girl paperboy? Unheard of!”
“I hear she was a good one. Seen her?”
“I have not. What she do?”
“Don’t know. High-priority missing child. How about your friend?”
I took the photo, jogging off to Michelle. “Shake your head no.”
“Couple of assholes came by work flashing the same photo. Keith gave them a long talk of how he used to know you—eh, her, living five doors from her. Told a story or two of brushes with her.”
“He’s a talkative one.”
I returned to Officer Martin. “Knew her, not seen her.”
“I’m required to ask.”
“What else?”
He retrieved my flyer from his breast pocket, unfolding it. “I don’t need an estimate. Come by. Get the yard ready for spring like you’re doing here. Book me for the season. You take checks?”
“Aye, aye.” I offered a sharp nod. “Of course, I take checks.”
“One other thing.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t take this truck out on the highway.”
“Good advice. Thank you.”
We took turns in the shower, then both wrapped in towels, sat at the table. I was uncomfortable, doing my best to embrace Michael as Michelle, a woman, and not Michael, a man with a penis that could penetrate me. I accepted Billie as the woman she was, who turned out to be a man with a penis, a man wanting to penetrate me.
Billie came fully freighted with his bullshit. Michelle was forever becoming, learning what bullshit would freight her. I knew I could help Michael become a better woman just by setting an example like my mother should have done with me.
“Your hair grows fast.”
“Not fast enough!”
“You going to let it down your back?”
“I want my hair to look just like yours did.”
“Find Michelle; don’t look to be like me.”
“Oh, I get all that.” She fluffed her hair, turning each way to see herself in the hand mirror. “You’re really good at this makeup thing.”
“My mother showed me.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. Magazines.”
“Oh, now I understand why you got so many. You’re not subscribing anymore.”
“I’m not paranoid.”
“Not one bit.”
“I had nine subscriptions. Somewhere, there might be a list, like at the post office or something. Somehow, the FBI could get access to that list, then check the list of anyone with the same nine new subscriptions.”
“Nope. Not paranoid.”
“Officer Martin showed me my school photo. You say the FBI came around your shop.”
“I didn’t say FBI.”
“They weren’t?”
“Oh, they were—badged us and everything. I’d just not said that.”
I rolled my eyes. “I think I need a boyfriend.”
“Keith didn’t buy all this! I bought the silk underwear and sandals!”
Michelle wore a brown suede skirt breaking halfway down her thigh, a jeweled tan belt, a cream cowl-neck long-sleeve knit sweater, nude pantyhose, and black three-inch sandals.
“You, Michelle, are absolutely beautiful.”
“You’d fuck me, huh?”
“I’m the kind of person who can appreciate beauty without the need to fuck it.”
Michelle watched my eyes, biting her lip, making me doubt my statement.
“I want to fuck you, Michelle, is often not the compliment people think it is.”
“Oh, I get that. A couple times hitchhiking, a guy thought me pretty and wanted to fuck me. When I said no, he beat me up.”
“If you ever want to sit, drink hot chocolate, and tell me those stories, I’ll make the time.”
“Thank you, Toby.”
In that moment, I realized what a friend was.
I wore my old woman outfit: light-blue, long-sleeve dress, hem dancing just above my knee, sandals like Michelle’s, sandals I’d bought when I picked up our Mary Janes at Jack’s Shoes. We walked eight blocks to Main Street and Royal Taxi and Limousine Service, a dozen store fronts and a traffic light west of Collings Nook. Michelle floated in her heels like a runway model, much improved since the first day she hobbled around on my sandals when we went to church. I told her so; she blushed.
In the office—a cramped dark space, chairs lining the walls left and right, a cumbersome oak desk toward the back facing out—Jane hovered on crutches behind the desk, her body cruelly bent and twisted, offering up proof there is no good and compassionate god in heaven.
Michelle, visibly upset, dropped heavily on a chair near the door, looking in the opposite direction out the window, biting her knuckle.
Pushing the base of the microphone on the desk, Jane said, “Twenty-one, take a seven!”
The radio answered, “Twenty-one on a seven.”
“What'd you want?” Jane barked at me.
“Good morning. We’d like a cab to the high school, wait, and return, please.”
Measured eyed, dark eyes, eyes having seen a thousand miles of bad road, held my eyes; the button depressed again. “Twenty-one.”
“What, Jane?”
“Come in.”
“Twenty-one, coming in.”
“Be a few minutes.” Her eyes never left mine.
I tethered, not letting go. “Thank you for your time today.”
“Yeah, sure. How do I know you’re not going to get to school and just run off without paying?”
“Almost impossible to run in three-inch sandals.” I fished in Pamala’s blue suede bag, producing a roll of money, peeling off a hundred-dollar bill. “Give this to you or Twenty-one?”
“Ralph—You give it to Ralph. He don’t have change for that—asking for trouble.”
I shrugged. “People do that?”
“Do what?”
“Run off without paying?”
“More than you’d think.”
Since my baseline is that people are assholes, I brushed off her comment as an expression and not an issue for debate. “People are assholes.”
“Young lady!”
I shrugged. “Okay Jane. People are fucking assholes.”
“I’d appreciate it if—”
“Yeah, yeah, polite society, I get all that. Let me apologize for saying people are assholes, then correcting that with fucking assholes.” I performed a ballet half-curtsey.
“That’s better.”
I managed a half turn.
“You aren’t going to ask?”
I turned back, taking her eyes again. “Ask what?”
“About me. What happened to me. Everyone through the door asks.”
Again, I offered a dismissive shrug. “Look at these eyes, Jane. You have not asked what torments I’ve endured, what horrors have visited me, what fires I’ve walked through. Why should I ask about yours?”
I heard the door open. “Who needs a cab? Oh, let it be you!”
“Thank you, again, Jane, for your time. It would seem my cab is here.”
“You’re welcome,” she snarled.
Turning, Ralph—just taller than Michelle, ratty walnut hair flowing on his shoulders, sparse crops of hair blotting his chin and above his lip, attentive brown eyes, lanky with long arms, tattered blue jeans, and tan plaid button-down shirt.
“It is, me,” Michelle said, Ralph crowding her at the door.
“And me, Twenty-one.”
“How did I get so lucky?”
“It’s how the universe works sometimes.”
Ralph ran around the cab—an old faded green Ford Galaxy like my mother’s—to the driver’s side. I opened the rear door for Michelle and me.
At the first red traffic light, Ralph glanced back. “She trap you with her story?”
“More like the other way around.”
He watched me in the rearview mirror. “Really? I’d have liked to see that.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Trust me.”
“Try me. Name a time and place. I’ll buy.”
I rolled my eyes so hard, I thought they’d get stuck. “We are both in committed relationships.”
“I just like to listen!”
“I’m sure.” I leaned across the seat. “Jane seems to think we’re going to run off without paying.” I wiggled the bill. “This is for the fare, the rest for you. When we get to the school, you can run around and get the door for us because we’re fucking ladies.”
He took the bill. “Yikes! Fucking ladies, got you!”
“You’ll wait. When we come out, you’ll run around and get the door again because—”
“You’re fucking ladies. When I take you back—”
“Right. Door again.”
“You okay?” I asked as we crossed the thirty-foot concrete expanse to enter the school.”
“That was so cool, Toby.”
“Look, it’s us.”
Michelle was lost in our reflection walking toward us.
“I’ve always liked watching me. This new me is taking some getting used to.”
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“I mean, the way you say it. I couldn’t or shouldn’t because it’s not lady-like.”
“I’m a lady. I say fuck all the time. I reject your premise but accept your point. I said fuck to Jane because I knew it would set her off.”
Michelle took the door handle. “You said fuck to Ralph—”
“So the lesson sticks.”
“The lesson being?”
“No matter who you are serving, if the person is in the position to tip you, be as nice as you can be.”
We entered, our shoes calling a counterbalanced cadence to each other.
With the universe overdoing irony, Mr. Collings appeared out of nowhere at the first bend. “Let's see your passes,” he demanded much too familiar, slipping quickly from bringing the good father to mind, now the creepy uncle who wants to fuck children.
I thought Michelle was going to scream, spontaneously confessing all her sins back to getting Adam to eat the apple pie.
“We aren’t students here,” I answered with dignity well beyond my station. “If you would be so kind to direct us to the office?”
“Oh.” His eyes went wide. “You have a child here! Imagine my mistaking you for a student.”
“Yeah, imagine. Office?” Like that line would ever work.
“That wasn’t too creepy,” Michelle said, Mr. Collings moving off, glancing us as he went.
“Some people eat that up. I’m not one of them.” I opened a classroom door. “In here. Have a seat.”
She did.
“Take a breath. Relax in the moment.”
“Okay.” She closed her eyes.
“How’s it feel?”
“I’m not sure I can put words to it.”
“I want you to do this. Be in the moment. Feel yourself in the moment.”
“I get what you're saying. It does feel different.”
“Your locker?”
“Upstairs.”
We struggled the seven books onto the chest-high counter. “Hello, Mrs. Gladstone,” I said pleasantly. “Could I possibly see a withdraw form?”
“We’re turning these books in. Is it possible to get a receipt?”
Mrs. Gladstone fingered through a file drawer at her right knee. Banging her head on fifty, she was robust in a red tube dress too small for years, her makeup overdone in shades of blue, her white hair piled on top her head.
Michelle accepted the receipt form. “I’ll write the titles in.”
“All the information is on the file cards.”
Michelle opened to the back cover, pulling the card. “How about that.”
“Just like a library book, huh?” I said, taking the withdrawal form, which I’d seen before at Riversides, jotting down information.
“Just who are you?” she demanded of me.
“Double-check my form?” Michelle asked, putting the paper in her face.
“Looks right, eh —”
I carefully penned Michael’s mother’s name. With my palm to the form on the counter, I said, “Thank you so much for your time today.”
“Likewise,” Michelle said.
Holding the forms, she looked from one to the other as we departed.
“Lunch?” I asked.
“I could eat. Meatloaf day. I’ve always liked their meatloaf. How do they get the mashed potatoes so creamy?”
“Powdered, I think. I’m a little disappointed.”
“With?”
“Mr. Collings not being here with flowers, maybe a box of candy.”
“I’ve blown men like him.”
“Eww.”
We entered the cafeteria.
“You’re evil, the way you work people.”
“It’s a gift.”
“Why’s everyone looking at us?”
“Who’s being paranoid now?”
“Really.”
“Don’t you look at pretty women? I bet half these guys are putting you in their spank bank.”
“Eww. Yeah, but—”
“That, and we’re new. Everyone’s trying to figure out who we are.
We enjoyed our meatloaf across from each other, an island of relative harmony in a sea of chaos, Michelle sharing simple stories of times with Levy and times with Keith.
“Christmas. I went out on the porch. I looked in—the tree—the fire—in between, you and Levy. The kiss, your right leg going up. That moment, in the moment, the universe was perfect; all things aligned.”
“I need to call him.”
“From Florida?”
“Send him a letter?”
“I can’t see anything you doing making things any better. Maybe I should call him. Tell him you died in an auto accident.”
“Turn the page.”
“Yeah. Just turn the page.”
That was the moment I was looking for, a moment when Michelle was just a girl in a normal place and not Michael preoccupied with being a girl in that place.
Back in the hall, our shoes once again calling a counterbalanced cadence to each other, Michelle said, “I could do school if school were like this.”
“It’s not.”
“I know.”
As if to prove our point, shoes shouting on linoleum invaded our world from behind. “Hey! New girls! Wait up!”
When we didn’t pause our march, Mark grabbed my arm, turning me. “Hey. I was talking to you.”
His face twelve inches from mine, he watched me for an eternity. “I’m Mark; this is Jerry. If you can’t find anything, have questions—”
Jerry nodded from behind my brother.
I had the answer I’d come back to school for. My brother and another of my rapists didn’t recognize me.
“Well, Bart, that’s nice of you—”
“Mark. My name’s Mark.”
Still, not a sliver of recognition.
I narrowed my eyes. “Do you always just go ahead and grab women you don’t know?”
“Well, you didn’t—”
I stepped in, putting a foot between his legs, pushing him backwards, following him to the floor, taking him by the hair, bouncing his head off the linoleum twice. Rising, I looked up at Jerry, keeping his eyes, crouched a little, arms wide, lunging with a growl.
Jerry peed his pants and swiftly ran away.
Classroom doors opened.
Oh, someone can run in three-inch heeled sandals. Just not well. The cab door was opened for us. We sped away as a crowd expelled from the school like toothpaste from a tube.