by Jiffy Kate
I rack my brain for a name that suits her, but nothing comes to mind. And once again, I’m annoyed with my lack of control over my brain. I constantly feel like it betrays me these days. But instead of allowing myself to get worked up, I breathe.
Leaning up against the street sign at the corner, I inhale deeply and hold it for a few seconds, before exhaling.
I try to forget everything except the movement of my chest.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
In through my nose.
Out through my mouth.
When I open my eyes back up, I realize I’ve probably been leaning against this post for a while, because my body feels much more relaxed. The technique seemed to do the trick, and thankfully, I didn’t attract an audience. I do the sign of the cross in thanks that Mrs. Devereaux isn’t out in her garden. If she saw me, she’d be out her gate and across the street, praying for me.
Hell, maybe that’s what I need.
With that thought, inspiration hits and forces my brain into submission. I begin thinking of as many saints as possible. One of them might be suitable as a nickname for the girl at the café. I’m not saying she’s a saint, but something about her seems otherworldly, so maybe one will work. I know Mary is often referred to as Our Lady of Sorrow . . .
Should I call her Mary?
No, too common.
No offense, Blessed Mother.
As I cross the street and continue to walk down the sidewalk to my sister’s house, I resign myself to the fact that I’ll never think of the perfect name, when suddenly one of my favorite subjects comes to mind: mythology.
What about a Greek goddess?
She is beautiful.
But that might be too cliché.
What about the Algea?
It’s funny—not in a ha-ha kind of way, but in an I’d-like-to-remove-my-brain-and-trade-it-in-for-a-new-one kind of way—that I can remember something as complex as mythology, but I can’t remember events from less than a year ago. The information is still a struggle to recall, but once I do, it usually flows out.
I remember that the Algea are goddesses of sorrow and grief.
That kind of fits and it could work.
But which one?
What are their names?
I pause in the middle of the sidewalk and pinch the bridge of my nose until the information finally comes to me.
Lupe, Achus, and . . .
A smile splits my face as I recall the last one—Ania.
It’s perfect—unique and beautiful, just like the girl.
NOW THAT I’VE decided on a nickname for the girl, I feel a sense of relief. These days, the smallest successes make me happy and hopeful, like maybe I will get back to normal eventually.
With the weight of the interview off my shoulders and the pride I feel from landing a job, I’m ready to celebrate with my family.
As I walk in through the back door of my sister and brother-in-law’s house, I spot two of my most favorite people in the whole world: Emmie and Jack Walker.
“Uncle Tripp!” they both scream as I squat down to their level as they make a beeline for me and knock me flat on my ass.
My niece and nephew are the coolest three-year-olds, and the fact they’re twins only makes them more special. It amazes me how Emmie is the spitting image of her dad, Benjamin, with dark wavy hair and dimples so big they could hold a marble inside, while Jack looks exactly like my sister, Eliza. Well, he looks more like Liza did before she started dying her hair blonde, but they share the same ice-blue eyes, courtesy of my dad. Jack’s hair is more of a dark brown like mine and my mom’s. Genetics are fascinating.
“You’re here!” Liza exclaims, clapping her hands together. “A little birdie told me you have some exciting news.” Her sing-songy voice makes me smile. I look at Emmie and Jack, who are also smiling. For little people, they’re very perceptive.
“I know Mama’s already called and told you I got the job, Liza. It’s not that big of a deal,” I say, knowing how false my words are, but trying to downplay it, because I hate the attention. It makes my skin feel crawly.
“Tripp Alexander, it is a big deal,” Liza scolds.
“Well, I wouldn’t have gotten the job if you hadn’t helped,” I tell her, pushing myself off the floor and onto my feet. Emmie and Jack run into the living room, onto their next adventure.
“I merely made a phone call and suggested to Wyatt that he should interview you; I didn’t force him to hire you. But, in all honesty, I know too many embarrassing stories involving Wyatt Dubois.” She winks. My sister is a bit evil but in the best way. “There’s no way he’d ever go against me,” she says with a laugh before pulling me into a fierce hug and whispering, “I’m so damn proud of you.”
Like my mother, Eliza’s very protective—almost to the point of smothering me and she’d do anything for me: make calls, blackmail old college friends to get their brother a job . . . hover, meddle, tell little white lies when need be.
That’s what families do, right?
“Tripp Alexander,” my mom says in shock, standing in the darkness of the kitchen. “What on earth are you doing out at this time of night?”
“He wasn’t,” Liza says, walking in the door behind me, scaring the shit out of me in the process. “I called him and asked if he would come and walk me in. There was this creepy car following me on my way home, and I knew Daddy would be asleep, so I called Tripp instead.” She looks up at me nodding, urging me with her eyes to agree with her and go along with it.
Man, she’s good . . . or bad, but regardless, mom seems to be going for it. I turn my gaze from Liza back to my mom and nod in agreement, afraid to say anything because I’m a horrible liar. Had Liza not been behind me, my ass would be grounded for the next week, if not longer.
“Well . . . then, I guess that’s good,” my mom says, wrapping her robe around her tighter as she walks into the dim light of the foyer. “I’m glad you didn’t take any risks, baby. There are crazy people in this world.” She cups Liza’s cheek, planting a kiss on it, before turning to me and doing the same. After locking the door behind us, she makes her way up the stairs. “You both need to get straight to bed. It’s late.”
I let out a huge breath, relief finally flooding my body.
“What the hell, Liza?” I whisper.
“I saw you turning down Chartres and followed you home. I was hoping I’d pull in the same time as you, but I got caught by the light, and you didn’t.”
“I can’t believe you lied to Mom.” I quietly laugh under my breath, realizing she’s had a lot more practice than me.
“Oh, hush. You would’ve done the same for me. That’s what family is for.” She pats my cheek, similar to what my mom had done minutes before, but without the kiss. Thank God.
Liza might be a typical older sister, sometimes ratting me out or giving me shit, but ultimately, I know she’ll always have my back.
After Ben comes home from work and my mom walks in with the pizzas, we all gather in my sister’s formal dining room. The table is set with my sister’s “special occasion” dinnerware because she insists that today is a “special occasion.”
“Does Wyatt still wear those crazy bow ties?” Ben asks, bringing me back to the conversation.
“Yeah, he was wearing one today for my interview.” I chuckle, remembering his crazy get-up.
Liza giggles. “That boy has been a contradiction in fashion since the day I met him. Bow ties and cowboy boots have always been his signature look, along with his shaggy hair. He’s a great guy, though. You’ll like working for him, I’m sure.”
I nod my agreement as I finish the last bite of my fried oyster pizza. Working for Wyatt won’t be a problem, but taking care of customers while staring at Ania all day might be. Over two hours later and I still can’t stop thinking about her.
After dinner is over, I hug everyone and tell them good night. Tomorrow is a school day, and I have to spend some time preparing
before I go to sleep. Besides, this day has taken everything out of me, and the quietness of my space and my bed are calling my name.
Once in my apartment, I make sure the door is locked and the kitchen sink is empty before I head to my room and lay out my shorts and T-shirt for the next day. It’s a month into the fall semester, but that doesn’t mean the weather’s getting any cooler in Louisiana. It’s pretty much flip-flop weather year-round down here, for which I’m grateful.
All of my classes are on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I was anxious to get back to my studies this semester, but knowing I needed to ease back into the student lifestyle made me cut back from my usual six classes a term to only three. I’m trying not to push myself too hard, too fast, but I just want to be . . . normal again. I want it so fucking bad, I can taste it.
I double-check that my textbooks and binder are in my backpack, along with plenty of pens and pencils, before placing it by my door. While my shower heats up, I make sure my watch has the start times of my classes set up as alerts. I have the same alerts set on my cell phone because you can never be too careful.
Being late one time back in August was enough to set me straight. I swear everyone was staring and laughing at me as I tried to sneak to a seat in the back of the class. Embarrassment permeated my body to the point I couldn’t concentrate on what the professor was saying—it was paralyzing—but there was no way I was going to risk sneaking back out of the room. So, I stayed in my seat until the last person was gone, then promptly rushed home to lick my wounds.
Something that used to come so easy to me, like school, is now my own personal Everest. Every day, I plan and prepare so I don’t make the mistakes of the day before. And every night, I go through ritualistic habits to ensure the success of tomorrow. Sometimes, it’s exhausting, but I can’t give up. Not now.
Steam begins to fill the bathroom, signaling that my shower is hot, so I undress and step under the spray, letting the water wash away the day.
When I’m out of the shower with minty-fresh teeth, I attempt to control the hair on my head. I swear it doesn’t matter what direction I brush it; it still looks like I didn’t even try. It’ll just stand straight up or curl in the opposite direction. It used to drive the girls I dated crazy. I threatened to cut it once and my girlfriend at the time threatened to break up with me if I did. I guess I could cut it now. I haven’t been with a girl in over seven months, so there’s no one to protest, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. But, the longer hair has a different purpose now.
Now, it’s camouflage, something to hide behind.
Anytime I have to look at myself in a mirror, my eyes automatically zoom in on the scar that cuts just above my right eye and down onto my cheek. It looks so different than it used to. The color has faded to a faint shade of pinkish-purple, almost iridescent in the right light. It’s smooth, and now that my eyebrow has almost grown back, it’s not as noticeable. But it’s still there. I still see it. And I know other people do too. I see their looks of curiosity, and sometimes I hear them whispering. I hate the whispers the most. I hate people making assumptions about me because they don’t know anything.
With that thought, a wave of guilt washes over me, because I think I’ve done that to the girl at the cafe. I’ve spent the afternoon guessing about her situation and making up different reasons about what makes her so sad, but I don’t know anything about her . . . I don’t even know her name.
Wyatt told me that Ania doesn’t talk to anyone when she’s in the café.
I can’t help wonder if she noticed me.
Did my hair cover my scar?
If not, did she notice it?
I double-check the alarm on my clock on the nightstand and then turn the lamp off.
Sometimes, right before I drift off to sleep, I get anxious thinking about what the next day will bring, but not tonight. Tonight, my thoughts are filled with dark brown hair and sad eyes.
After grabbing a protein bar and bottle of water, I make my way downstairs to my bike, setting my bottle into the holder and hopping on. The morning is less humid and less busy. I always enjoy my ride to campus.
When I arrive at the bike rack in front of the Student Union, I hop off and lock up my bike.
While walking into my building, I spot several people I know from class, but we don’t acknowledge each other. They’re all merely acquaintances, not friends. I had friends when I was at Tulane, but they’ve all moved on. Most of them have probably graduated by now. Loyola is a much smaller campus, just under a third of the size of Tulane, which is why I switched after the accident. The smaller classes and the fact I don’t have to see familiar faces are my favorite things about this school.
As I sit down in my Intro to Courts class, I make sure to set my recorder. Without it, I would fail most of my classes. It’s hard for me to keep up with the handwritten notes, and I often forget what one class was about by the time I make it to the next. Liza helped me set up my schedule, and I’m glad I listened to her advice and only took classes every other day. It takes me the rest of the day to transcribe the recordings onto paper and go through my notes, committing to memory as much of the information as I can before the next class.
I’m grateful for the distraction of sitting in lectures today. If I had the day off, I would’ve spent the entire day worrying about training. With this being a new experience, I would’ve come up with a million ways to fail, given the chance.
Before I know it, I’m saddled back up on my bike and headed to The Crescent Moon.
As I walk in the front door, Wyatt is the only one in the dining room.
“Tripp! It’s great to see you. You ready to learn the ropes?” he asks reaching his hand out to shake mine and I can’t help but smile when I notice the polka dot suspenders and matching bow tie he’s sporting today.
“Yes, sir,” I answer, feeling a sudden onslaught of nerves. Since I have trouble remembering things, I wonder if I might need to take notes, but I don’t want Wyatt to think I’m incompetent. So, I’ll just do the best I can, and I guess, if I need help remembering, I’ll have to ask for help, even though I hate it.
After spending a couple of hours giving me the dime tour, going over policies and procedures and showing me my basic duties, Wyatt tells me to take a break at one of the tables closest to the kitchen.
Sliding a bowl of gumbo toward me, he asks, “So, what do you think so far?”
My stomach growls as I inhale the delicious aroma . . . hints of cayenne and oregano hitting my nose and making my mouth water. My granola bar from this morning is long gone. Then I remember, he asked me a question.
“I’m sorry?” I ask, looking up from the steaming bowl.
He chuckles and shakes his head, sliding into the seat across from me. “What do you think so far? About the job?”
“Oh, right. Well, it doesn’t seem too complicated, which is good . . . for me.” I take a quick bite, wincing at the temperature, but not caring, because it’s so damn good. “I think if I focus on the main tasks, keeping them in order—greeting the guests, taking their orders, bringing their food, and then the check—it seems manageable. I just worry about having more than one or two tables at a time and getting things mixed up.”
“It can take a few days to get the hang of things, but don’t worry. No one here wants you to fail. If you fail, then we all fail, and that’s just not good business. We’re all here to help, so don’t be too shy or too proud to ask, alright?”
I nod, taking another bite of gumbo.
Wyatt and I talk a bit more about what’s expected of me before he sends me to see Dixie and get my work schedule. My first real day of work is next Tuesday. It’s such a mixed bag of emotions that I’m feeling—scared, excited, hopeful . . . anxious. I always have some level of anxiety, but knowing I’m going to be thrown into a new situation with new people only makes it worse . . . especially when I think of seeing her.
Ania.
For some reason, I still can’t get
her out of my head.
I can’t remember what I had for dinner two nights ago, but I can remember her face as plain as day.
SHOVING OFF MY covers, frantically trying to untangle my legs, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and take deep breaths.
The nightmares started Friday night after I got home from the café, and got progressively worse all weekend. I tossed and turned all night. Images of failure were flashing through my mind—breaking dishes, customers yelling at me, a look of disappointment on Wyatt’s face.
Yesterday, during my classes, all I could think about was greeting customers and taking orders, going over menial tasks until it’s all I could think about. And I’m starting to think this job wasn’t a good idea.
Maybe it’s too soon?
Maybe I’m not ready?
I honestly have no idea how I’ll survive today.
But one thing I do know is that I can’t fail.
Failing at this job would mean letting down my family and I’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime. I’d also let down Wyatt, and even though we just met, I don’t want to do that, because his opinion already means a lot. And it would mean I might never see Ania again, and I might never know her real name or what her voice sounds like or why she hides behind her curtain of long dark hair.
These are the thoughts that put me on edge.
But I’m hoping they’ll also be what keep me from messing everything up.
I’ve done enough of that. It’s time for me to start pulling my weight and getting on with my life.
Dr. Abernathy always says, “If you’re not busy living, you’re dying.” I’ve been close enough to dying to know that I want to be busy living.
Just as my hand rests on the handle of the back door of the café, my phone rings in my pocket. Looking at my watch, I see I’m still early for my shift. So, I take the phone out of my pocket and answer it.