The Thirst Within

by Johi Jenkins

  “Why? What is it?”

  “Thierry,” I overly pronounce it and spell it out for him. “I think it’s French.” I don’t think; I actually already know that it’s a French name from when I googled him. At school, in the computer lab. I’d never use Fiona’s computer to google Thierry.

  John changes his expression slightly, like something bothers him. He says, “Yeah, that’s a French name,” but changes the subject, asking me what do I think about school and work so far.

  We continue the last few hours of our shift without mentioning French names, only an occasional short conversation every five minutes or so to keep the mood casual. I don’t pay much attention, though. I’m daydreaming of Thierry walking up to the door—of which I have a clear view—and holy shit, here he comes.

  “Thierry!” I say under my breath. Out of the corner or my eye I see John look at me, and then turn his head towards the front.

  “What is this! Why, it’s Tori, the worst friend and lendee ever,” he says as he walks up to my booth. He’s all smiles when he says it, so I don’t take it seriously, and anyway, I’m beside myself. I’ve been thinking about him all day, and he’s actually here. “When did you start working here?”

  “Just this week! And I’m sorry. Here! I actually have money today.” I fish some bills out of my pocket and push the money through the opening in the glass enclosure.

  “You’re no fun, Tori,” he says, picking up the cash reluctantly. “Won’t let me have my moment. How else am I supposed to guilt you for not calling me? Is that how you treat your friends?”

  “No, I just… I don’t have a cellphone, so I got this job, so that I can afford one, and then I was going to call you.”

  “You’re working so that you can afford a phone?”

  “Yeah,” I say, not embarrassed. “I have some money, but not much, and I need income to afford a phone. Friendships aren’t easy.” I shake my head and roll my eyes exasperatedly.

  “By all means, then, work! When’s your break?”

  “I only have about an hour more to go, and then I need to eat. I’m starving.”

  “I’ll take you out to eat,” he offers.

  Something clicks in my brain as I realize that he may have just asked me out on a date. My plan was to go home and have dinner. As much as I hate having dinner there, when I think that I have to work half an hour to afford the cheapest sandwich at the store—the just vegetables one—I suck it up and have dinner with the Harrises.

  “But you’ll be watching your movie,” I say, because if he takes me out to dinner I’d be embarrassed to go to a cheap sandwich joint, although something tells me he’d want to buy me dinner. I think about just accepting and risking having to pay dinner. So what if I have to? It’d be worth it just for the entertainment value. Checking out guys can be expensive. Then I remember he hasn’t ordered tickets yet. “What do you want to watch?”

  “I want to watch you eat.”

  I laugh. “Uh, cuhr-eepy!”

  “What? I already ate, but you’re staaarving”—he does a poor imitation of me—“so I’ll take you out to dinner, and since you’re saving for a phone, I’m paying for you.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts in. “That’s what BFFs do, Tori. Of course I fully expect you to pay for my dinners when I’m starving and I have no money.”

  “Of course,” I say, playing along.

  “Okay, so I’ll pick you up…” he looks at his watch. “At eight. Is that when you get out?”

  “Yes,” I say. Something bothers me just slightly. Then I remember. “But Thierry, you came here to watch a movie,” I say.

  “Did I?” He asks with a mischievous grin, and winks at me. He turns around and walks towards the door, then out the theater and into my chest to settle there and make me feel strange things.

  I turn to look at John, and he’s just staring at me open-mouthed.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “Nothing,” he says, and looks down at his register. But he looks back at me. “So you’re going out on a date after work?”

  “I—I guess so,” I say, and I fidget in my seat. A date! I don’t have makeup with me. I don’t even know protocol with the Harrises. Am I supposed to ask for permission? I’m only seventeen. But they’re not my parents…. Do they care? I’m living with them, and Uncle Roland is my legal guardian. Shit. I totally should get their approval first.

  But it’s only dinner, I tell myself. I don’t need to ask for permission. I’d definitely ask for permission if I were to go out to a party, or go out on a school night. This is just the same dinner I could have at the mall, except with an adult guy.

  I’m good at this talking to myself thing.

  6. Those Goddamn Cliché Alleys

  I actually get off at 7:45 PM, but I don’t call Thierry to rectify. First, that would require me using the box office’s line, and I don’t want his number to show up in the call history, or billing statement, anywhere; I don’t know why. Second, I would call him, if it was important, but it’s only fifteen minutes I have to wait. And third, I could actually use the time to walk to the Walgreens nearby and buy a cheap makeup kit, which I think I desperately need.

  I leave out the back of the theater and step out to the back alley that leads to the employees’ small parking lot. It’s really dark outside, and colder than I expected. The second the door slams behind me I want to open it again and take the long way to the Walgreens—around the front of the theater—because it’s better lit. But I see a figure outside, a little off to the right, and for some stupid reason I don’t want to reveal that I’m confused in front of a total stranger who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me.

  Hold that thought… the guy seems to give a rat’s something about me. His chest comes forward as if he’s checking me out. I don’t recognize him. He’s not wearing the theater’s uniform, either. He’s wearing a hooded jacket, and his hands are in his pockets. I mistook him for an employee on his break, but this guy looks like he doesn’t belong here.

  I don’t know what to do. If I walk towards the Walgreens, which is to my left, I expose my back to him. If I stay here and try to find the key to the back door which is somewhere in the bottom of my bag, and he’s a serial killer, I’m so dead. If I walk towards him, uh… I don’t want to do that.

  I take the lesser of three evils and walk away from him, walking briskly down the alley to where it meets the side street between the theater and the next building, where I fully intend to start running after I turn and I’m out of his sight. In the meantime, I dig my hand in my purse and grope around for the keys, which I then slip between my fingers as knuckle claws of sorts, and turn my hand into a fist. If this guy tries anything, I’m clawing the shit out of him.

  I hear a whistle behind me, and then footfalls, and my heart enters panic mode. The guy is following me, catching up with me, and I’m not exactly ready for this. But the alley turn is so close, only about twenty feet away—and as I look up, another figure in a wide jacket emerges from the side street, and starts walking towards me. And this one’s big.

  I can scratch this new guy all I want, but it’s not going to do jack shit.

  Fuck it. I’m dead. Or worse, my brain shows me what I don’t want to admit to myself. And for the first time in my life, I have to consider the meaning of the expression a fate worse than death.

  I slow down, and automatically maneuver to my right as if to give Big Guy ample space to walk by me. As if that’s what he wants to do. But I keep walking towards him, he towards me, and the guy behind me still behind me—I’m assuming, since I can’t hear his footsteps anymore over the angry thrashing of my heart—and I hope that my heart will actually fail and kill me before they do.

  A third figure steps out from the side street that Big Guy came from.

  I see him over Big in front of me, and this one is smaller, leaner, but he just stands there without moving. His stance for some reason doesn’t bother me. Or maybe it’s his clothes. Whatever i
t is, my brain doesn’t catalog him with the other two under “trouble.”

  And then he calls out, “There you are,” and I want to collapse with relief, because it’s Thierry.

  I see Big in front of me wince slightly, and turn around to see the person who just called. I can’t hear the footsteps behind me anymore, but Big turns his head back towards me and looks over my shoulder, probably at the guy behind me. He jerks his head to the left a little. It just occurs to me that they might be signing Thierry’s death over my shoulder. Shit. Thierry’s tall but slim, and there’s only one of him. And this guy is so wide.

  However, I feel infinitesimally better that Thierry’s here, and as I pass the big guy as though he was just a regular pedestrian, I take a peek at his face without meaning to. Reflex reaction. Big Guy is angry. What’s he going to do?

  I keep moving towards Thierry, who’s got a look of concentration on his face as though he’s trying to listen to what they might be saying to each other, but they’re not talking, so I’m confused. When I walk up to him, he puts an arm around me—imminent fate worse than death or not, I still manage to feel a thrill when he presses me against his side—and he turns us around and back towards the side street where he came from. This alley is wider and better lit. Even with the size difference between Thierry and Big Guy, I’m not scared anymore.

  I can’t help it; I put my arm around him and lean into his shoulder. He pulls me closer but doesn’t say anything. We walk the length of the building and make it to the main parking lot in front of the theater, presumably walking towards his car. Only then he gently lets go off me, and I do the same, but we walk side-by-side.

  “So, did you get off early?” He breaks the silence. His tone is warm and friendly; not at all chastising or angry or nervous, like I imagined it would be.

  “I got off at seven forty-five,” I say. “I was gonna go to the Walgreens and come back, and meet you at the theater at eight, I swear.”

  “That’s okay. I would’ve found you eventually,” he says, although I don’t see how. “What were you going to the Walgreens for?”

  “I, uh… I wanted to buy a makeup case.” I don’t know why I tell him the truth. He hasn’t made any advances towards me other than offer me his friendship, and as much as my heart begs me to consider that he wouldn’t be that friendly if he were not—unexplainably—into me, my brain doesn’t believe it for a second, and calls me an idiot for basically admitting to him that I wanted to get prettied up for our date. Our dinner, I mean, that no one has called a date yet. John doesn’t count.

  “What, for your cousin or her friends?”

  I’m confused. “What?”

  “You said you didn’t have any friends of your own. Or has that changed these last ten days?”

  My heart skips a beat, because he’s counting the days since we met. “No, I still don’t have any real friends,” I tell him. Kerin is my would-be friend. John doesn’t count.

  “Then who is it for? Not you, obviously, since you don’t need a makeup kit.”

  My face contorts into a ridiculous expression of happy pain and I can only reply, “Aww.” And just like that, the darkness of the alley and the two guys and what they may still be doing over there, and every problem at home, everything, it all completely disappears.

  “It’s true,” he says, smiling. No, it isn’t, but I’m not going to argue with him.

  “Well, thanks,” I say.

  He winks in acknowledgment. “So okay, what’s your favorite place around here?” Thierry asks me, as he stops in front of an Audi. I think that’s an expensive car, but I’m not sure. He opens the passenger door for me, and I get in. Wow. It smells amazing inside the car. Like fresh laundry, or pine trees, or spring…. I inhale deeply and try to commit the smell to memory. Then he gets in the driver side, his hands on the steering wheel, and he looks terribly cute. Young, although he’s four years older than me. There is not a wrinkle in his face.

  “What?” He asks, laughing nervously, and I realize I didn’t respond to his question.

  “Oh, nothing,” I snap out of it and lie smoothly. “I was just thinking. I really don’t know where to eat around here. I normally go straight home to eat.”

  “Okay. Then how about I just take you to a place I’ve gone by where it smells really great?”

  “It smells really great,” I repeat, for his confirmation.

  He nods. “Yes. So I’m assuming the food tastes great, too.”

  “But you’ve never been there?”

  “Never.”

  “And you already ate, so you won’t be trying it today.”

  “I fully expect a description, Tori,” he says as though that explains everything.

  “Suuure, why not.” I shrug, sit back in the passenger seat, and let him take me wherever he wants. I don’t care, as long as I’m with him.

  The wonderfully smelling place turns out to be a French restaurant only a few blocks away in the French Quarter. We could’ve walked, but Thierry drives to the front of the restaurant and gives his car to the valet. I hope it’s not too fancy, because I’m wearing work clothes. Thierry is in casual clothes, jeans and a shirt, but he could be a magazine model, so he could probably attend a royal wedding wearing just that.

  We get seated, and I relax as I notice it’s not too-too fancy. I manage to order without the need for a translator. I’m no longer starving since my stomach’s full of knots, so all I order is a salad that has fancy ingredients I’ve never seen in a salad before.

  We get a bread basket while I wait for my food, and suddenly I’m hungry again. Make up your mind, I tell my stomach. I decimate the bread while Thierry watches with fascination.

  “Tell me about yourself,” I request. Since I’m eating and he’s not, I don’t want him to just sit there.

  “I’m waiting for you to finish so that I can hear your long story.”

  “What long story?” I ask.

  “How you moved from Iowa. ‘Or Illinois. Like, yesterday,’” he says, trying to imitate me. I laugh at his attempt at a high-pitched voice.

  “It is a long story! And I’m eating.” To further prove the point, I grab another roll and butter it up. The butter is some type of delectable spread with herbs and something sweet. “So, you go first. Are you from around here?”

  He looks at me as if debating, but he concedes. “Okay. I wasn’t born here, I was born in Nice, France, actually; but I’ve been here long enough. In New Orleans, specifically, I’ve lived for sixteen years.”

  Sixteen! He was five, so young, when his parents moved here.

  “So are your parents here?”

  “No. My parents are dead,” he says in a flat voice.

  “Oh. Mine too. Any siblings?” I don’t say I’m sorry or ask how they died or how old he was when it happened. I’m sure he’s as tired of it as I am when people ask me, based on the tone of his reply. I take a bite out of my roll.

  “I have a younger brother. But he lives up North, in Chicago.”

  I’m assuming the brother was raised in New Orleans as well, but goes to school in Chicago. However, I don’t ask, because I’m not sure how much he wants to share.

  “I wish I had a sister,” I admit to him my lifelong wish. “Then maybe I’d have someone right now.”

  “Hey, now. You have me, remember?” He cocks his head a bit to the side. I die a little inside.

  “That’s right,” I say happily. “You’re my BFF. And you’re also an orphan. What are the odds?”

  He purses his lips as if debating to tell me something. “My mom died when I was little, so I never really knew her, but my dad raised me. He passed away after I’d already grown up.”

  “Oh. Then it must’ve been hard for you. I mean, my parents both died when I was four. I don’t remember them that much. And as for my grandparents, the ones that raised me, they were a bit older. They were sick for a while before they passed, so I kinda got used to the idea before it actually happened.”

  “I see.
Well, for me it wasn’t that hard. My father was actually—”

  At that moment the waiter returns with my salad, and Thierry’s distracted by the look the waiter gives me—a sort of one-over with a raised brow. I don’t understand the look myself, but Thierry’s expression darkens slightly. His expression confuses me further, which Thierry has managed to do a few times already. I shrug it off because the plate in front of me looks interesting. Even though I’m already quite possibly full from all the rolls I ate, I eat my dinner heartily.

  “Hey, so you were saying about your dad…?”

  “I forgot,” he says, and he laughs.

  “That’s okay. So you and your brother never had to live with foster parents?” I ask him, between bites. Never with food in my mouth, per Nana Fran’s rules of dining.

  “No,” he says. “We were both of age when my father passed away.”

  Oh. Then they must have lost their father recently, if his brother had to be at least eighteen, and he has to be about twenty or younger. But I don’t say anything.

  “No grandparents?” I ask.

  He takes a second and looks up, as if trying to remember what happened to his grandparents. “I never met my maternal grandparents. I did meet my father’s father; he died when I was still in France. As for his wife, my paternal grandmother, I don’t really remember her.”

  “Aw,” I say, taking a break from chewing. “Grandparents can be fun. The only problem is they die too early….” I frown. “I was raised by my grandparents near the Quad Cities in Iowa. After they died, my aunt took me in.”

  “Ah, that would be Illinois, around ‘like, a week’ before I met you,” he says, and does the same terrible girl-voice impression that I’m assuming is supposed to be me.

  “You know, it’s freaky the amount of information that you retain,” I observe.

  “That’s what BFFs do. But I’m right, right? You moved with your aunt… to Illinois?”

  “Yeah, with my Aunt Marie. I don’t think she liked me that much. She basically kicked me out, and asked my uncle Roland to pick me up.”