Jeraline's Alley

by Becca C. Smith

  I moved as if the air was made from invisible mud, slow and out of place.

  Another model walked toward me, going at normal speed, stomping fiercely.

  As she marched closer, her entire body transformed into my attacker from the alley.

  I shook my head to snap out of it, but nothing functioned properly. The model kept coming toward me, her face still my attacker’s.

  I turned to the audience in hopes to break myself out of this nightmare, to see Josh, Grandma, or Buster.

  I stopped breathing as every single face in the building was now my attacker’s.

  Legs stopped working.

  The model with the attacker’s face stomped on a direct course toward me, five feet away, four, three, two, one . . .

  In a panic, I moved to the right to avoid a collision when I should have moved left. The model lost her balance.

  Still wearing my attacker’s face, the model used my dress to break her fall.

  With a loud rip, the bottom half of my dress detached itself from the bodice.

  Time slowed down as if to force me to remember every second of humiliation.

  Beads popped off the dress, flying in every direction, tumbling onto the runway and into the audience.

  Clanking and pattering on the floor, it sounded like rain on a tin roof.

  The strangest thought pounded in my head as the beads I’d so painstakingly sewn on fell into the audience: I had caused this. By crying on my dress, I’d created these tears that were now pouring onto the floor.

  They were my tears come to life, held in so tightly that they had broken free.

  To make me face what I had done to that man.

  It was penance.

  I stood rock still.

  Everyone’s faces were back to normal as my embarrassment brought me back to reality.

  My eyes met Josh’s, agony threatening to make me lose consciousness, but I still stood there on the runway, frozen in my bodice and underwear, the petticoat and skirt of the universe at my feet.

  The audience gasped as a whole, wrenching sympathy in every single expression.

  Fight or flight.

  Full panic now.

  Flight.

  Yanking up my petticoat and the bottom half of my dress up to my waist, I ran off the stage.

  A blurred Josh tried to stop me, but I ran past him toward the exit. At least I was close to home.

  “Jeraline!” I heard his voice, but I didn’t stop.

  I ran all the way home, nearly tripping up the stairs from the amount of fabric I held in my hands and arms. Racing inside the apartment, I let the skirt fall to the ground so that all I wore was a bodice and elastic-waisted petticoat.

  Shame, terror, rage, sadness pushed down on my chest, making it difficult to take in air. I ran into my room and slammed the cutting table against the wall in anger, hearing the snaps of the metal legs as they bent in ways they weren’t supposed to.

  It wasn’t enough.

  I still hurt.

  I threw my sewing machine off my desk, my hands shaking violently now.

  I needed to stop.

  I needed to breathe.

  I needed to calm down.

  I needed to cry.

  Falling on the chair, I put my head down on the now empty desk and sobbed. Everything that had happened to me, that I had done, washed through me and came out in tears, forming small pools on the desk’s surface.

  A hand on my shoulder.

  I turned to see Olivia, her child’s face watching me with sympathy. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  The only answer I gave was a choking sob.

  She stayed like that for a while, her hand on my shoulder while I cried. “This isn’t just about the runway show, is it?”

  I shook my head, my insides twisting further at everything I had experienced: my parents being killed, the gun, the attack, the echoes of gunfire. Grandma was gone.

  I was alone.

  But it was about the show as well. It had been my hope, my salvation, my way out. Now it was gone. “I really, really lost, didn’t I?”

  Olivia tried to make me feel better. “You have no idea how they’ll judge this contest. The runway show was probably for fun or publicity.”

  “Well, I gave them some good publicity,” I cried. Taking a deep breath, I slowly began to calm myself, to regain some kind of composure. “I’m losing it.” Then I thudded my head back on my desk, dramatically. “And Josh was there.”

  Olivia nodded in understanding. “Everyone has a moment like that once in their life.”

  “I just seem to have more of them.” My tears dried up, and I was left with an aching stillness.

  Olivia stared at me with genuine concern but was apparently at a loss for words.

  “What am I going to do?” I asked, knowing she couldn’t give me any answers.

  She disappeared, and I was left sitting at my desk, staring at my sewing machine and broken table on the floor.

  No, really.

  What was I going to do?

  The Hidden Corner sign loomed before me like a harbinger of the horrors to come. I didn’t want to work today. I’d have to face Josh. He’d seen me in my underwear! So did a hundred other complete strangers, but Josh?

  It hurt.

  A lot.

  Not even the gigantic plaster book spines cheered me up this morning, because the thought of walking in there and seeing Josh’s pity for me was too much to bear.

  I should just quit.

  No.

  I lived by myself now. I needed to pay the bills. And I needed to return Josh’s photo.

  What if I got caught? That thought was more humiliating than having my skivvies displayed to an entire warehouse full of people.

  I had reached the front door. Time to get this over with.

  Walking in, I immediately saw Josh at the cash register.

  Look away. Look away. Look away.

  “Hey there.” His voice carried over the rant inside my head.

  I chose to ignore him completely and hurry to the back room. Once there, I plopped my backpack in the locker and was about to take out the stolen picture of Josh when I completely chickened out and zipped my bag shut. Stuffing the backpack into the locker, I shut it. Maybe I could take it out later.

  I might as well tackle the current issue full-on though, so I joined Josh behind the counter at the second register.

  I felt his stare, but I didn’t look at him.

  “You were great yesterday.”

  Excuse me? Was that some kind of joke? I whirled to face him, to see if there was any sarcasm or teasing involved, but his eyebrows were all crinkled with concern.

  Yup.

  Pity.

  He continued, “I think you’ll win anyway. If that girl hadn’t tripped . . .”

  “Let’s not relive it, please.” That sounded harsh. But I couldn’t listen to a play-by-play of the disaster that was yesterday.

  “Sorry.” Josh lowered his eyes, seemingly mortified at causing me any more pain.

  “It’s okay.”

  And the strangest thing happened.

  The whole incident suddenly became funny.

  I smiled. “At least they won’t forget me.”

  Josh smiled back.

  There was a giddy rush between us.

  “Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?” Josh asked.

  “What?” Was this real? Did he actually ask me that?

  “Dinner. Tomorrow night?” Josh appeared hopeful.

  Hopeful.

  For me.

  To say yes.

  “I . . . uh . . . yeah, sure.” He for sure knew I liked him now. Yup.

  “If you don’t want to, it’s okay. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Josh backed up a step, unsure.

  Fix this!

  “No, I’d love to.” The words rushed out.

  Josh’s shoulders relaxed with what I could only describe as relief. Relief! Relief that I had said yes!

 
“Good. I’ll pick you up at five.” Josh smiled.

  I was sure I was about to say or do something completely embarrassing that would change Josh’s whole stance on wanting to have dinner with me, but I was saved by Rachel when she arrived at the counter and said, “Jeraline, can I talk to you in the back room?”

  Not ominous at all.

  “Of course.” I swallowed hard.

  I smiled briefly at Josh as I left the counter and followed Rachel to the back room.

  Once inside, there was an awkward chunk of time where Rachel stood there staring at me, as if she was unsure what to say.

  Oh man.

  She was going to fire me.

  I was too weird even for her. Too awkward. Too something.

  Finally, she spoke. “I heard about what happened yesterday . . .”

  Another awkward lapse of time as Rachel searched for what to say.

  What had she heard? Who had told her? Why did she care?

  “Maybe if you had made the dress stronger—”

  No.

  This was the very last thing on the planet I needed to hear right now. Was she honestly trying to make me feel worse? Was she that evil?

  I interrupted her before she finished. “Just stop. Yesterday was hard enough as it was.”

  And she stopped. Her eyes expressed that she understood completely. Dare I say it, she looked apologetic?

  “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to stop myself with you. I honestly don’t know why—”

  “I don’t want to talk about yesterday with you.” Bold. I had been bold. So unlike me.

  Straightening her outfit as if putting up an invisible wall between us, she pushed forward. “Well, too bad, because . . . I wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you for trying. It takes a lot of guts to do what you did, and no matter what happened, you should be proud of yourself for doing it.”

  Huh?

  I stood there in mute shock, and before I responded, Rachel swung around and walked out of the back room, leaving me to ponder what had just happened.

  Edmond materialized next to the locker with an expression of surprise. “Well, that was unexpected.”

  I barely nodded. I was still a little shocked. “That was almost . . . nice.”

  “Maybe you were right. Maybe there is a decent person in there somewhere.” Edmond motioned to the locker next to him. “What do you say? Time to return the picture? She might not fire you after all.”

  He disappeared as I opened the locker and pulled out Josh’s picture from my backpack.

  Josh. Walked. In.

  “Hey, you okay?” he asked.

  Then he saw it.

  The picture.

  Me.

  Holding the stolen picture.

  “I . . .” What could I say?

  “Is that the picture that was stolen?” Josh appeared genuinely confused.

  It was all too much.

  Dropping the picture to the ground, I grabbed my backpack and ran out the door.

  “Jeraline!” Josh’s voice followed me out, but I ignored it. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.

  In tears, I raced through the store, the front exit seemingly miles away.

  Every few feet my attacker from the alley appeared, blood gushing down his face, until I was pushing my way through hundreds of him. Finally, I busted out and reached the front door, leaving the store.

  I didn’t stop there. My feet kept pounding the pavement, running, running from everything, running from my life.

  I stopped cold when I reached the alley.

  The alley was the root of it all. The physical embodiment of everything wrong with my life. It kept pushing me down, taking away any progress I’d made. Death, guns, brutality, darkness, and fear. I had to face it. It was the only way to defeat it. It was the only way I could live.

  I plunged into the center of the alley, swallowed whole.

  Noises jumped out at every corner, whispering to me that I didn’t belong there, that I’d be consumed and devoured if I stayed a second longer.

  Everything began to spin around me, and a shadowy figure approached me, gun in hand. He began to take form, but instead of my attacker, it was the young shooter that had killed my parents.

  Gunshots and screams blasted all around the alley, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

  Then I saw them.

  My parents.

  Lying dead at my feet, blood soaking through their clothes and covering my shoes.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I slammed my hands over my ears to make everything go away.

  It didn’t.

  The noises overpowered my measly attempt to block them.

  Barking, growling, screaming, gunfire.

  I opened my eyes, the darkness closing in on me like black fog.

  I had to get out.

  I had tried to defeat it, but I failed.

  It was too powerful.

  So I ran.

  Ran out of the darkness and back on the sidewalk where I was out of its reach.

  The alley had won.

  I had lost.

  After racing the rest of the way home, I flew up the stairs and swung the front door wide, leaping into the apartment. My safety zone. Almost as if nothing could touch me here, though I knew that wasn’t true.

  Entering my room, I slammed the door shut behind me even though I lived alone . . . habit. Sitting on the floor by my bed, I pulled out the gun from underneath it. As I held back tears, my hands fumbled along the surface of the revolver, and I began to hyperventilate. I dropped the gun back in the box and slid it under the bed.

  I didn’t ever want to see it again.

  Reaching up to my bedside table, I yanked the picture of my parents down and into my lap, tracing their faces with my finger. “You must be so disappointed in me.”

  My mother stared up at me from the Empire State Building, tears in her eyes. “Jeraline, we love you. You could never disappoint us.”

  “But I shot someone. I did what was done to you. I’m evil,” I cried.

  Dad held Mom’s hand tight as he looked up at me as well. “You are not evil. You did what you had to do to survive.”

  “That’s just an excuse! I’m making you say things I want to hear! You’re not here!” I threw the picture across the room, and the glass shattered as it hit the wall.

  Everything was falling apart.

  I was falling apart.

  I jumped when my cell phone rang in my pocket. It was so surprising, I didn’t check to see who it was before I pulled it out and answered, “Hello?”

  “Jeraline?” It was Rachel.

  Yup.

  The firing.

  I sighed, knowing full well where this conversation was going. “Hi, Rachel. You don’t have to tell me. I know I’m fired.”

  There was a pause, then her voice actually sounded . . . concerned? “No . . . I . . . wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  Huh?

  “But I stole the picture.”

  “Well, I knew you did that a long time ago. I have security cameras and I live here, remember?”

  Gulp.

  “Then why . . . ?” I couldn’t fathom how she hadn’t fired me yet if she had known all along.

  “I wanted you to admit it,” Rachel said matter-of-factly. Then I swear she smirked when she continued, “And you did.”

  “Oh.” For someone who loved books, I was certainly full of words.

  “Anyway, I should have called you this morning to give you some time off. After yesterday, you need to recover and decompress, but by no means are you fired.” Then she paused, and when she spoke again, her tone was thoughtful and kind. “You love these books almost more than I do.”

  I paused.

  She paused.

  A warmth carried through the phone.

  Were we bonding? Did I like her?

  Then reality set in. “How am I going to face Josh?”

  Rachel sighed. “He’ll get over it. He should take it as a compliment.” The
n her voice went back to what I was used to, stern and commanding. “I’ll expect you on Monday.” Without another word, Rachel hung up.

  I stared at my cell phone both relieved and bewildered.

  What just happened?

  Then, eyeing the broken glass in front of me, I carefully reached over and lifted the picture of my parents, gently brushing off any excess shards. “Sorry, for throwing you.”

  Mom turned to me, shaking her head. “Clean up that mess before you cut yourself.”

  Shrugging, I stood up.

  Delusion or not, she was right.

  Time to go get the vacuum cleaner.

  Exhausted didn’t cover what I was experiencing one iota. Squeezing my hands into a fist was a monumental effort at this point and not just because I wore thick leather protective gloves. Not to mention the sun beating down on my back and neck. The hard hat kept my head safe from sunburns, but not even its bright white color reflected the heat enough to prevent my entire scalp from sweating profusely. Yup. Dripping in my eyes now.

  Roofing was hard.

  So far, my main task was scraping off the old shingles. Buster had given me a quick tutorial and handed me a tool called a “tear-off bar,” and its purpose was written right in the title. Basically, it was the same shape as a shovel, but a flatter surface at the bottom, with sharp teeth for digging underneath those shingles and popping them off. I had to admit it was pretty satisfying when I’d scoop up a giant clump of roof instead of the three or four shingles at a time that was more the norm, for me, anyway. At least the roof was flat-ish, only a slight incline, which did make it easier to stand and move around without fear of tumbling to my death (this was a still a worry of course, because . . . me), but it did take some of the anxiety away.

  One more patch left. Then done. With the scraping at least. There was still the whole roof to be reshingled. But Buster was on it. He’d clear the areas I deshingled by using a handy-dandy magnetic nail sweeper that acted like a broom with a magnet as the sweeper. Then he laid down the roofing paper and placed the new shingles down, using a roof nailer to secure them in place.

  It was all very efficient, but also very tiring.

  The upside was getting to know Buster a little more. He was a fascinating guy full of stories. From his days as a roofer and dealing with some very eccentric clients, to being a part of a theater troop in Korea (the stories of the food alone made me want to go), to his first wife, who had died around the same time Gramps had; it all added up to a life fully lived with no regrets.