by Lisa Moore
So, three security officers. Big men in blue shirts and black pants with a blue stripe down the legs.
Then it occurred to me. Something must have happened to Miranda. A panic set up in my forehead that felt like a knitting needle through my right eye. It was Miranda or it was Felix. Something terrible must have happened. A car accident, a heart attack.
What’s happening? I asked. I wanted to cooperate, I was gathering my things, ready to follow as fast as I could.
You are being arrested for shoplifting, the guard said. And he reached inside the hood of my jacket and took out a package of earphones.
What I felt, before the shame kicked in, was the most acute sense of bewilderment.
Here’s what bewilderment feels like. You have gone to the very edge of what is possible, but the edge hasn’t stopped you. You keep on going. There’s the word “wild” right in the middle of bewilderment, and that’s where you’re headed. And then you’re surprised to find you’ve gone too far.
I remembered Tyrone patting my back.
That was the end of bewilderment.
Enter shame, stage left. Wow, shame is a hard one. Shame tingles all over and poof you go up in flames. The fastest-burning flames there are. Shame incinerates.
They walked me through the food court, a security guard holding each of my elbows, the third one walking behind like I was going to try and make a run for it. The food court is a noisy place but it had gone completely silent. Everybody, maybe a hundred people, looked up from their burgers and didn’t say a word.
Except Gary Bowen, who said, quite loudly, See, I told you she was a welfare loser.
Amber didn’t even look in my direction. She was the only one in the whole food court not looking at me. She was trying to poke her straw through the cover on her oversized cup of root beer. She had the straw in her fist, and she was stabbing the lid over and over until the straw sank in deep.
The manager’s office was somewhere in the basement. I’d never been to that part of the mall. I hadn’t even known it existed. We went down two sets of stairs and then a long corridor with fluorescent light and lots of doors, and actually it was scary, going down there with three men I didn’t know. It seemed illegal. If I was really a shoplifter of in-ear sound-isolating wireless headphones that went for $115.99, did that mean I was stripped of all human rights and freedoms, or whatever? I was trembling all over.
It was crazy how afraid I felt. After all, it was just the mall. It was just some stupid security guards. The hallway down there was cinderblock, painted glossy white, and there were exposed water pipes, and some wrappers from takeout were spilling out of the flap of a garbage bucket. I couldn’t hear the noises of the mall. It felt like we were deep underground.
Finally we came to an office and there was a man behind a desk and I was brought in and told to sit down in a chair. The man was reading a piece of paper that he held up before him. His mouth was hanging open just a little as he read. Very carefully, he placed the piece of paper in a pile to his right. His hair was a springy red afro. He had a gold signet ring on his left hand and one ear was pierced.
He looked up and spoke to one of the security guards, Did you bring those moose steaks?
Yeah, the guard said. They’re out in the truck. I’ll bring them in on the break.
Thanks, man, the guy behind the desk said. The wife has a crowd coming.
Any time. I got a freezer full of it.
Who’s this? the guy behind the desk said.
Monitor Seven, answered the security guard, and then he and the other guards left.
The man behind the desk turned to the computer next to him and typed and then there was a paused video on the screen. He turned the screen so I could see it.
We’ll have to wait for the police, he said to me. They’re the ones who press the charges. Could take a while. We might as well watch some TV.
He made a phone call. He seemed to be personal friends with the chief of police. Called him Johnny.
Yeah, shoplifter. Girl. I don’t know, sixteen? When can you get somebody over here? We can wait. You’re welcome.
The man put the tips of his fingers together like they were a church steeple in front of his chest. He made his chair rock and it squeaked. He was obviously comfortable with just sitting there making me scared and uncomfortable.
Now we wait, he said. Then he pressed the Play button on the computer.
There I was, in black and white, with my bottle of floor cleaner in my hand. There was a spot of glare on the bottle, like a star. The camera was above, so you couldn’t see me blushing. It was a strange view. It felt like I was the guardian angel of myself who had forgotten to take care of me.
And then, the handsome Tyrone and his crew. And you could see, in spite of the angle, how happy I was to see him. The mirror aisle. Round mirrors, mirrors with big gold frames, long skinny mirrors. I was surrounded by mirrors and there was my face all over the place and what a grin. Oh, this girl had it bad.
You could plainly see Tyrone putting the earphones into my hood. You could see everybody, or bits of everybody, from all angles, because of the mirrors — and you could see us all, very clearly, from above.
And you could also see I had no idea that Tyrone had put the earphones in my hood.
The boys all turned to walk away, and when they had their backs to me, I did this stupid little wave. Wiggling my fingers. I wave goodbye even though they can’t see me.
This girl, standing in the aisle of Sears with a bottle of floor cleaner, was the biggest idiot I had ever seen. No wonder nobody was in love with her.
The man stopped the video and rewound it. We watched it again. Tyrone patting my back as though assuring me all was well.
And then the manager picked up a snow globe on his desk and shook it.
This thing plays music, he said. He twisted a little key at the bottom of the snow globe and set it down on the desk. It took me a minute to recognize the Christmas carol “Jingle Bell Rock” because it was slowed down and sounded like a funeral dirge.
The two Christmas elves in the center of the snow globe had linked arms and were surely supposed to be dancing a jig. But they turned around very, very slowly in the whirling snow.
It looked like they couldn’t let each other go. They could have been me and Miranda. Both of us unlucky in love, stuck to each other forever.
Care to tell me the names of your friends, young lady?
I said, It seems I don’t have any friends. And I knew that that was the truth.
Those guys, he said. He moved his chair toward the computer and tapped a key and the video played again. He stopped it on my grin. He shook his head.
You’re free to go, he said. I hope you have a Merry Christmas.
I’ve got homework, I tell Miranda.
Don’t you want to have a cup of tea with Tyrone? Miranda says.
No thanks, I say.
I’m here to work on the Entrepreneurship project, Tyrone calls out from the kitchen. Isn’t that due around now?
It’s done, Tyrone, I say. I am bending down to untie my boots. I am trying not to cry and I take off up the stairs and close my bedroom door and get in bed and pull up all the covers. It’s so cold I can see my breath. I can hear the oven door screech.
After a while there’s a knock.
I’m coming in, says Tyrone. I leap out of the bed and jump into the chair at my desk and the door opens and I already have a pen in my hand, as if I’ve been writing away.
I’ve got homework here, Tyrone, I say.
I’m sorry, he says. About the earphones. I just couldn’t risk getting caught myself, Flannery, because of my graffiti art. They’d have me then, on all those charges. I knew you wouldn’t be charged. I’m really sorry.
I get up out of the chair and walk over to where he’s standing in the doorway so I’m standing very close to him. I’ve got one hand on the doorframe and the other on my hip. I’m not raising my voice. I’m saying it as plainly as I can. I do
n’t even know what I’m saying. I’m just talking. I’m trying to explain.
Headphones, Tyrone? Headphones? Are you kidding me?
Honestly, I didn’t think they’d catch you, he says.
You and me, we know each other, Tyrone, I say. We have known each other since forever. And I actually thought this was love. And when you kissed me at the waterfall, I know this is silly, but I thought it meant something. I thought, Later, Tyrone and I will make love. We will be lovers.
Jesus, says Tyrone, and he rubs his forehead as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
Flannery, he says.
And I thought, Later we’ll be lovers and later we’ll eat French fries in the food court. And later we’ll get an apartment. And later we’ll watch movies with a bowl of popcorn. And later we’ll backpack across India. And later we’ll have kids. And later we’ll make enough money to take care of our mothers. And nothing else matters because this is friendship, this is love, this is so big and you kissed me in front of that painting of your mother, Tyrone. That beautiful painting that you hadn’t shown anybody else. I thought that was significant. I thought I was significant. And I’ve loved you since we were kids. Since we were babies.
I feel like I’m on fire here, truly inspired. For the first time in perhaps a very long time — maybe ever — every single word coming out of my mouth is exactly right. I’m giving it to him, basically.
I don’t believe that some people should have more than others in this world, Tyrone. More things, more material possessions. That’s what Miranda has tried to teach me, if she has tried to teach me anything. But the truth is, I have never stolen anything in my life.
I keep going.
Everybody has a right to food and shelter and education, and a few other things that I can’t remember right now. Oh, yeah, friendship, love, respect, the chance to express themselves, be creative. But mostly love.
And I know you’ve had a hard time with Marty. I know how cruel he is. I’ve seen it. I know social services has been checking up, and they’re worried about you in school. The teachers are worried. I know you’ve been sleeping on people’s couches.
And I know I’ve had it easier than you. Okay? Miranda has provided love and respect for me and Felix, without dint.
Do you know the word dint, Tyrone?
It’s a word that means a blow or mark or a hollow. You’re supposed to love people without dint. That’s what love means, basically. You love no matter what.
Sitting there in that security office, Tyrone, watching the image on the security monitor of you putting those earphones in my hood? I felt a dint. A big old dint right in my chest. You and I, we don’t love each other. We aren’t even friends.
We watched that videotape, the manager and me, in his cold office and then he paused it with your hand resting on my back. That was a pretty bad moment, Tyrone, and — no matter how bad things are for you, no matter how scared you are for your mother. Or yourself. You shouldn’t have done that, okay? You really hurt me.
Now, I’d like you to leave. I don’t care if I never see you again.
I close my bedroom door in his face. After I hear the front door close behind him I think about having a little chat with Miranda about a certain blog post. Maybe bring up a few issues — like that privacy might just be a human right. That she must never refer to personal-to-me identifying physical characteristics again, like the color of my eyes, for example. And she must never, ever use the phrase “tulip-tender” again. That is just bad writing!
29
Chad kicks down the footstool of the old recliner and the back snaps up and catapults him out of the chair. He strides across the room like a man full of purpose and grabs the super-sized bag of chips sitting on the dining-room table. He wrenches it open with both fists. A volcano of chips erupts into a stainless-steel bowl. He crumples the bag into a ball and tosses it into a Nerf net above the dining-room door.
There’s a tub of dill pickle dip with a fierce orange sticker on top that says Special and another sticker that says Reduced and another that says Maintain a Safe Distance of Five Metres and another that shows a skull and crossbones, the internationally recognized sign for poison.
I have come to Amber’s music video wrap party too early. I’m supposed to meet Kyle Keating here and he hasn’t arrived yet. This is supposed to be our first date, but I think he’s stood me up.
Here is the awful truth. I was the first to arrive at the party. I am the one and only guest.
It turns out Jordan and Devon are living here, since Chad’s parents left to preach Christianity in China. They left Chad to fend for himself with a freezer full of frozen three-cheese, gluten-free pizzas.
Devon was kicked out of his parents’ house because he refused to go to school. He has been smoking so much weed he’s never not stoned and he’s permanently fried, like forever, and he’s failed everything and now he lives on Chad’s sofa. In fact, they are waiting for someone to arrive with weed, because they’re out.
There are crushed pop cans all over the living room and crumpled chip bags and dishes with dried ketchup swirls piled on every surface. There’s a large pot with the orange remains of Kraft Dinner hardened to the sides, and four spoons. There’s a pile of laundry on one side of the couch.
But there are also three very big flatscreen TVs stationed around the room. There’s a bedsheet tacked to the wall so they can project the music video on four different screens at once.
This is to be the unveiling of Gary Bowen’s great work of art, the project that will be screened at the Young Entrepreneurs’ Exhibition and that Mr. Payne — who has had a sneak preview — says might just be the highlight. I’ve heard it’s already available on iTunes.
But tonight is to be the big unveiling for the rest of us.
Once and for all, we will understand Gary Bowen’s genius.
Here’s what I think it was like before I arrived at the party. Chad and Jordan and Devon were being normal guys. They were talking normal guy talk and maybe farting. Or talking about farting or talking about breasts, but calling them tits, or they were talking about drinking or ollies they have skated, or who has a great half-pipe in their basement, funny things that happened when they were smoking weed, and famous skaters. And they were also in the middle of a chicken nugget fight. There are nuggets all over the floor.
But now they’re all uncomfortable because I’ve showed up for a party, and the party isn’t much of a party.
Nice streamer, I blurt. Someone must have thrown a streamer from one corner of the room and through the chandelier, at which point it plummeted to the floor and rolled over to the opposite corner.
The boys understand that I have opened up the streamer situation as a small-talk opportunity. They struggle to say something about the streamer.
Devon abruptly leaves the room and heads down to the basement. He can’t take it anymore.
There are loud noises coming from down in the basement. Things are crashing, bouncing, tumbling.
I have known Chad and Jordan and Devon since I was at Happy Kids. We all sat on the story carpet and sang “Itsy Bitsy Spider” together, doing the little finger dance. Chad got in trouble for kicking over my Lego castle and had to have a time-out. I think that time-out may never have ended. I don’t think he’s had any time-in ever since.
At Happy Kids we learned about our inside voices and when we were scared or sad or lonely we sometimes used our inside voices even when we were outside. Sometimes we used our outside voices when we were inside if we were angry or when we hit each other or when things were so funny our sides hurt from laughing.
We all slept on the yoga mats for naptime and sang “Baby Beluga” and “Skinnamarink” together.
What I’m saying is, I’ve known these guys my whole life, day in, day out, since the beginning of existence.
But right now these guys are total strangers.
People have been texting about this party for weeks. It was on everybody’s Facebook.
Where the hell is Amber? Isn’t this her big moment? The great reveal of the fantastic Gary’s music video?
You went with pink, I say. Chad and Jordan stop what they’re doing and look up at the streamer.
Girls are coming, says Chad. He sounds defensive and forlorn. As though he knows nothing about the kinds of things girls require for happiness, but has felt an obligation to learn. He has come up with this. A pink streamer.
Nice, I say. Devon comes stamping up from the basement with a giant disco ball resting in the crook of his neck, one arm curved under it. Devon looks like Atlas carrying his own private planet on his shoulder.
Jordan grabs a ladder from behind the dining-room door and Devon climbs up to the chandelier and attaches the disco ball and fiddles with some wires.
Hit the lights, Devon commands. And I do.
For a minute we are in complete darkness. Then the disco ball starts turning. We are covered in bright ovals of light. A circle moves over Chad’s eyes and cheeks, over Devon’s brown skin, over my face and body and hair, slipping off onto the walls behind us. We are covered in spots that swirl all over.
The swirling circles of light make us instantly happy.
Music! I shout.
Music, Jordan says, slapping his forehead with the flat of his hand. I knew I forgot something!
He puts on Bob Marley.
Wait until you see the fog machine, Devon says. He switches on some colored footlights — red, green, orange, blue — and a box in the corner of the room belches a thick fog that crawls along the floor, changing color as it winds in front of the footlights. Soon it’s up to our knees.
The doorbell rings and maybe twenty-five people come in all at once. Some of them are from Heart, but some are from Gonzaga and Booth, and some of them I don’t even know.
They take off their boots in the porch and they rush into the living room and change the music — Snoop Dogg — and they have beer. One of them has a forty-ouncer of vodka and they are passing it around, putting it on their heads. I’m pressed into the corner talking to Brittany Bishop about glitter nail polish — apparently she has a whole collection — and another thirty or forty people burst into the room.