by Mary Frame
“But you didn’t?”
I shrug. “It wasn’t my place to judge. She needed money to live. And she was merely a child, but I wanted to help them.”
“Grey moral area.”
“Exactly. It’s not as though I hadn’t done the same.” I watch her closely. “When I was a younger person, before I became acquainted with technology, I had my own habit of stealing.”
“Stealing what? Like loaves of bread?” She smiles.
“It does sound rather Oliver Twist in nature, but I was a pickpocket. Wallets. Smartphones. It was easy. I always excelled at sleight of hand and magic tricks. It’s how I got enough money to purchase my own computer, and then once I had that,” I shrug, “I moved on to more ethical ventures with my technological skills. But I couldn’t possibly begrudge Grace for doing what she needed when I had done much the same. For me it was also a way to control something when the rest of my life felt so out of control.”
Annabel nods. She doesn’t appear appalled by my past behavior, so I continue.
“As soon as I made enough to contribute, I left home. Grace and Beast came with me. I was seventeen, old enough that the fake ID I made could pass as legitimate.” The memory of fleeing one sunny afternoon assails me. It was sunset. I had only a hint of a plan and enough money in my pocket to get us out of town.
“Didn’t your parents send, like, the cops after you or something?”
“I would be surprised if they spent any significant amount of time or energy searching.”
She frowns. “Why?”
“After I was born, Momma couldn’t have any more kids.”
“So?”
I shrug. “So they kind of . . . blamed me for that.”
“How is that your fault?”
“It’s not, but that’s not how they see it. I ruined her ability to serve the Lord as a woman was meant to.”
Annabel snorts. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“ ‘Procreation is the Lord’s plan,’ ” I recite. “Women are here to bear children and then rear them. That’s their sole purpose.”
Annabel’s face is sufficiently horrified. “I wouldn’t last five minutes.”
I grin. “It’s one of the things I appreciate about you. And one of the reasons I love a good romance movie. I wasn’t allowed to watch any movies, let alone romantic ones. Full of sin. They set a bad tone as well, because romance isn’t necessary when women are only good for one thing.” I lift my brows at her in challenge and take a moment to let her stew on that.
“So you guys have been living together this whole time . . . and then . . .”
“And then Grace disappeared and started sending me messages from Blue Falls. You have to understand, Grace is like a sister to me. She and Beast are the only family I have.”
I may have helped them in some ways, but the truth is, they saved me.
“I wasn’t completely brainwashed by my parents’ upbringing, but living my life in an environment where I was unsafe to be myself, to share my hopes and dreams . . .”
It made me hard. Cold. Closed off. Grace and Beast showed me there was another way. That there were people who would care about me enough so I could be myself without fear.
“With Grace and Beast, it was the first time I experienced true family. True empathy. They cared for me not despite my shame and past behavior, but because of it.”
Annabel swallows and glances away.
Maybe I’ve pushed too far. Given too much. I can’t say I regret my past, though. It helped make me who I am today. I learned how to read people because I had to. I knew to stop talking whenever my mother’s lips thinned. I knew to leave the room when my father’s right eyebrow started to tic, and to flee the house altogether if that tic turned into a squinty-eyed glare. It was the only way to survive unscathed.
“What was on the flash drive you got at the middle school? That was something from Grace?”
“Yes. It’s spyware. The link to a software download along with the name of a person.”
“She wants you to spy on someone?”
“She wants me to plant spyware on a particular person’s cell phone. This is precisely the type of task I could use assistance with. While Beast is a good distraction in some ways, he doesn’t speak and he tends to incite fear more than anything else.”
“Have you had to plant spyware on other people before?” Her eyes are bright with interest.
“Only a couple of people who frequent my social events, people who appeared to have money funneling through their accounts. But those ended up being dead ends. Hopefully this one won’t be as well, but there’s only one way to know.”
She nods. “Who’s the mark?”
“Bryce Butler. You know him?”
She shrugs. “Name sounds vaguely familiar. How do we install the spyware?”
She said “we.” That’s a positive indication. “It’s fairly easy, actually. It’s what we like to call an evil maid attack. We simply need to get our hands on his phone for a minute. There’s a secure site set up to download the software. It takes less than thirty seconds to install, wipes its own tracks, and then we’ll be able to access everything on his phone and use it as a listening device.”
“And I presume Grace will also somehow have access to this information?”
“Likely.”
“What would my job be in all this?”
“We have the same goal, to get ahold of Bryce’s phone for a couple minutes and download the spyware. Between the two of us, we can find an opportunity. It could be as simple as asking to use his phone to call someone or sneaking it out of his pocket.”
She blinks down at Mr. Bojangles and then clasps her hands in her lap, thinking. “When are we doing this?”
“You free Wednesday?”
“I can be.”
I nod. “Every Wednesday Bryce goes to the same place, some kind of gathering in the basement of the library.”
She frowns. “They don’t have any functions at the library on Wednesday nights. I’ve covered the calendar of events before.”
I shrug and rub at my beard. “I suppose it’s a meeting, of sorts.”
“What, like an AA meeting?”
Should I tell her? It might be more fun if she figures it out on her own. “Not exactly.”
“Well, what is it?”
“You know, I’m not entirely sure. It’s some kinda group meeting, but they’re a bit reticent. I know where and when and that Bryce will be there. You said you were in. Did you mean it?”
She watches me for a moment, brown eyes soft in the dim light. Then her shoulders straighten and she nods. “I’ll be there.”
Chapter Eight
No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.
—Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter
Annabel
I pick Jude up Wednesday night before the “meeting,” whatever that means, honking for him from the driveway.
My head is still spinning with all of the information he unloaded.
How much he shared of himself, all of his past. How much he’s been through . . . it’s astounding. And the way he put it out there, he made it seem so easy. Like it’s no big deal. A secret part of me wishes I could live like that but life has proven that every time I open up my heart, it gets ripped to shreds. Every time. Whether it’s my writing, my friends, or even my own momma.
After a few minutes, Jude saunters out of the house carrying two brown paper bags, one in each hand.
He motions for me to pop the trunk and sets whatever he has in the back.
He slides into the passenger seat of my small Honda Civic, shutting us into the small space together.
“Good evening, Annabel.” His voice is low and slow.
I ignore the tingles shooting down my spine at the way he says my name. “Hey Jude.” I laugh. “Ha ha, get it? ‘Hey Jude’?”
“Migh
ty original of you,” he deadpans.
He’s dressed simply, jeans and a black T-shirt. His presence damn near fills up the whole car along with the scent of his cologne—a faint smell mixed with soap and man and citrus. Basically, he smells like something I want to roll around in and lick. “You’re looking mighty fine tonight,” he says.
I’m dressed somewhat provocatively in tight jeans, tight shirt, extra makeup. “This is what you do when you’re trying to be a distraction and get access to some guy’s phone.” I pull out of his driveway and head down the street in the direction of the library.
“You might find those efforts are fruitless.”
“Why’s that?” I glance over at him in the passenger seat and he gives me a slow smile and says nothing.
“Did you find out anything more about what this whole meeting is about?” I already asked around at work and checked the community calendar again, but there’s nothing.
“It’s possible.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
He’s right, because the library is only a few miles down the road. In less than ten minutes, we’re parking.
He jumps out first, grabbing the bags from the trunk.
I meet him at the back of the car and he hands over one of the sacks. “Here. You’re gonna need this.”
“What is it?” I can’t tell what it is on the surface, but it feels soft and fuzzy. Maybe some kind of blanket or something? Maybe it’s a movie night and he brought me something to sit on. I reach in to pull it out but he tugs on my arm.
“No time. Come on, we’re late.”
I follow him down the side of the building to a set of stairs that head down to the basement. We stop in front of a large metal double door. He knocks twice and there’s a responding knock on the other side. Three sharp raps.
Jude counters with one, then a pause, then three more, and the door swings open.
This is so weird. What is happening here? This is more than a movie night.
A woman close to my age, probably midtwenties, is on the other side. She’s cute, small, blonde, and blue eyed and has a wide smile. “Welcome.” Her head tilts. “I haven’t seen y’all here before.”
“It’s our first time.” Jude grins at her—as he does—and she blinks at him, straightening up and pushing out her chest a little bit more. He sticks out a hand. “I’m Jude Parker.”
So I guess we’re not going incognito here. Alrighty then.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Rachel.” She shakes his hand and then turns to me.
“Annabel.”
“Everyone is in the reading room at the end of the hall, on the right,” she says after shaking my hand, too. “You can get dressed in the closet—it’s a walk-in, everyone leaves their bags in there—or use the bathroom if you prefer. It’s just over here.” She points to a door. “The band is playing in about a half hour, and there’s some snacks at the back of the room. Eat as much as you like! Some people like to keep in character the whole time and won’t eat the people food.” She grins at us.
I am so confused, but I try to hide it by nodding and smiling. In character? Is this some kind of acting thing?
“Thank you kindly,” Jude says, ushering me down the hall.
“What does she mean, in character? And we’re getting dressed into what, exactly?” I peer inside the bag again but I still can’t compute.
We go into the reading room and it’s full of people.
People in suits.
Not nice, three-piece suits or competent pantsuits. Oh no, they are all dressed in costumes. And I realize exactly what this is. Furries. Some are in full-body costumes, some in only tails and ears and paw-covered feet.
I don’t know what to do. Or what to say. There’s a giant teddy bear with a tie talking to a grey cat in a tutu. A group of wolves of various colors—brown and green and blue—sits in a circle in the corner. Another girl is wearing bunny ears and she’s drinking coffee and talking to a guy with a horse’s tail. There’s also a unicorn and a zebra setting up instruments in the corner.
What the actual fuck?
I don’t realize I’m staring, open mouthed, slack jawed, until Jude tugs me into the closet, and shuts the door. Everything disappears from my eyesight except Jude.
“Here.” He reaches into the bag I’m holding and pulls out a soft brown costume.
He grins, handing me the brown material and I hold it up in a daze.
“The head is still in the bag,” he says.
His phrasing gives me pause. “That’s not what I want to hear right now. It sounds as if you’re discussing a body part.”
He laughs. “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to, but I think you might rather enjoy it.” He shoves one leg into his suit.
His suit has white fur. If he’s dressing like Mr. Bojangles, I might die. Or murder him. His head will be the one in the bag.
“Jude,” I hiss at him. “What the fresh hell is this?”
“It’s a furry event.”
“A what?”
“You know, people who dress up in animal costumes. They hang out, create art, play music, and such.” He hikes the suit up so his legs are covered up to his waist.
I’m silent for about three seconds watching him pull on the furry white costume. “You brought me into a stuffed-animal orgy?”
Now he’s laughing silently, shoulders shaking. “It’s not an orgy, but I like how you think. It would be most difficult to penetrate, I imagine.”
“This isn’t funny!”
He stands up and grins at me. “You’re right, it’s not funny. And it’s not what you think. It’s not weird or sexual. They’re just people getting together like anyone else. Don’t pass judgment until you’ve tried it for yourself.”
“Okay, fine, but don’t you think you could have mentioned this, I don’t know, yesterday?”
Now he laughs out loud, the prick. “I’m helping you. You’re gonna have to learn to deal with the unexpected if you want to be a writer. Think about it this way, you’re undercover. Just go with it. Oh, and I may have told Rachel that you’re a reporter and you want to write about the positive aspects of furry culture to help contradict negative portrayals from the mainstream media.” And with that little kicker and a final panty-melting grin, he yanks the bodysuit up and slides in his arms. The costume has a bright pink shirt.
He pulls a head out of his bag. It is a Mr. Bojangles outfit.
I press my lips together. “I can’t take you seriously like this.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
“How are we gonna find Bryce? And get his phone when we’re wandering around in these, these, full-body costumes?”
“Well, you see, the paws on the hands are removable.”
I lift a brow.
He chuckles and pulls out his phone, pushing some keys, and then holding the phone to his ear.
“Hear anything?”
I strain to listen but all I hear is talking from outside this room. “No.”
“Then he’s got it on him, most likely.”
“What if he doesn’t? What if he left it at home? What if it’s in here but turned off?”
He cocks his head at me. “You worry too much. It will work out.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
He shrugs and turns away. “Then we move on to plan B.”
“We don’t even have a plan A!”
“Sure we do. First, we find Bryce. Then we get his phone.” He shrugs. “We’ll figure it out. Improvise. These things always have a way of working out.”
“Ugh.” I yank my costume out of the bag. It’s a brown mouse with a wide smile and cheerful green eyes.
I stare down at the mouse head in my hands.
“You couldn’t have gotten me one with just tails or something?”
“I’ll have you know this is a very lush and expensive suit and I picked it out specifically for you to show we’re serious
here. We need to go all out and all in.”
He pulls the headwear on. The Mr. Bojangles face is rather bitchy looking. Suits him. He smacks me on the shoulder and says, “See you out there.” And he marches into the room full of furry people like this is no big deal and hey what else is there to do on a Wednesday night?
“Screw it,” I whisper and get dressed. If he can do it, I can do it. I can be chill. I can go with the flow. I’m breezy.
I take my time getting dressed and then a few deep breaths before I tug the head on. The mouth and eyes create holes big enough to see and breathe through, so at least I don’t feel like I’m being going to hyperventilate.
And actually, having my whole body and face covered is kind of . . . nice. Like I’m hiding. No one will know who I am under all this. Nothing to be ashamed of.
The band starts up and I walk out into the room. The music isn’t half bad, actually, a cover of a Taylor Swift song.
I glance around, trying to spot Jude’s pink shirt.
Some people are dancing in the open space in front of the band, while others congregate near the food table. It’s hard to see my periphery because I only have the eyeholes in front.
Someone walks up and stops next to me. A bright green turtle. She’s got the furry outfit and shell on her back but no headpiece. It’s the woman from the front door, Rachel.
“Hey! Y’all having fun?”
“Sure.”
“Jude told me you wanted to talk about furry stuff.”
“Yeah, of course.” Maybe this will make an interesting article, but I really can’t imagine Bruce’s response during the pitch meeting. Probably something along the lines of, That’s nuttier than a five-pound fruitcake!
Rachel tilts her head at me. “Are you really uncomfortable?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Even your mask looks like it’s constipated.”
Surprised, I laugh. “I’m just not used to wearing . . . this.”
She grins. “It’s okay if you aren’t comfortable in the headpiece, you can take it off. It can get hot in there anyway, and it’s harder to have a conversation.”