by Jeff Altabef
He didn’t buy it, and when we started round three of the exact same argument, I had to walk away. Still, a certain undercurrent flowed below the surface of our conversation.
Troy isn’t a Chosen. No matter how special he is, he can never truly be one of us. We’ve avoided that discussion so far but those issues lurk just below our words. So I hugged him and left him by himself, and our most important conversation remains unspoken... for now.
I’ve never been much of a shopper. Most of my clothes are casual—shorts, T-shirts, jeans, and an occasion sweatshirt or sweater—typical Arizona wear. Still, I look forward to shopping with Akari. It feels normal—even if it’s a mirage, even if it’s only a few hours at a store.
I forget about my role as a Chosen, the disappointment on Troy’s face, and all the struggles we still have to face as Akari and I take a cab to Bloomingdales on the Upper East Side.
Her eyes widen as we get out of the car—Bloomingdales takes up an entire city block and towers six stories high. She speaks with a breathless I-can’t-believe-my-eyes quality in her voice. “Is that one store? It’s a bakemono.”
“Bakemono?”
She shrugs. “Oh... I think the word is... monster.”
I grin. “Yes, it certainly is. It’s an American monster called Bloomies.” I point to a black art deco sign with white letters on top of the main entrance. “There’s one back home in Arizona, but this one is way bigger.”
We cross the street and she hesitates at the entrance. “We only have one general store in my village. People have to mail order everything except the basics.”
I open the door and smile. “Welcome to America.”
We move from the main entrance and down three steps, into a vast open space filled with circular stalls, sales people, and customers who race around at a frantic pace. Akari gasps beside me, and I can’t imagine what she’s thinking.
A certain pattern emerges before us, as if the sales area is transformed into a dance floor and all the dancers circle the floor in one direction. The stalls on the main floor are filled with jewelry and cosmetics.
This is the wrong floor for us, so I grab her hand and pull her into the dance. “We need to find a directory.”
We let the momentum of the other people pull us toward the shiny gold elevator doors. A directory can’t be too far off from them.
We find one in front of the elevator bank. “We have to go to the third floor.”
When the elevator doors open, we cram in with the eclectic mix of people: two older women with gray hair, fancy dresses, gold necklaces, and a cloud of perfume that hovers over them; one guy in his twenties with a mohawk, a sleeveless T-shirt that show off arms covered with tattoos; two young men with suits and ties; and one mom with a double stroller, rocking twins who are either on the verge of sleeping or crying.
Akari looks uneasy as she shrinks against the back of the elevator. Her eyes flash from side to side and her breaths comes in short bursts. Luckily, the guys step off at the second floor and no one new jumps on. When we get to the third floor, she’s frozen, so I yank her around the stroller and through the cloud of perfume.
We stand off to the side of the elevator bank. “Are you okay?” I ask.
She’s still gasping for air and her body trembles. It takes a few minutes before her breath steadies and color returns to her face. “I’m sorry... I get these... panic attacks.”
“Have you always had them?”
“Not always. The first time was when one of the fishermen in the village told us that my father went missing. The walls closed in on me and I couldn’t move or breathe. I thought I was about to suffocate, but air finally came. The attacks were bad for a few years after that. My grandmother helped me deal with them.”
“What did she do?”
Akari looks away. “It’s stupid.”
I grab her hand. “You can tell me.”
“She’d say I was stronger than the fear. She’d repeat it over and over again. I’d listen to her voice and start to think positively. After a few minutes, I’d start to breathe in the same rhythm as her voice and eventually I’d break through.” Her voices jumps and her eyes turn electric. “Don’t tell the others! I don’t want them to think I have a problem.”
I smile. “There’s something wrong with all of us, but this’ll be our secret. I promise.”
“Thanks, but I haven’t noticed anything wrong with you.” She shoots me a half grin. “Connor drinks and Blake needs some confidence, but you don’t have any obvious problems.”
I laugh. “Oh, there’s plenty wrong with me. You’ll see.”
We drink water from a water fountain and turn our attention toward shopping. The third floor isn’t as crowded as the main one. It’s separated by designers as if they each have their own island with their own flag. The names don’t mean much to me: Burberry, Canada Goose, Dylan Gray, Eileen Fisher.
“Where do we start?” Akari looks lost.
“We have time. Let’s float around.”
We wander among the islands like castaways adrift on a raft. Akari pulls out dresses at random—nothing we should buy or can wear to Swiss Bank, but it’s fun to watch her face light up. She smirks at a particularly horrible electric blue piece littered with silver sequins, a plunging neckline, and virtually no back.
“I bet that would make quite a stir if you wore it back home,” I joke with her.
She laughs. “My own grandmother wouldn’t recognize me. Heck, no one would.” Some of the hard edges in her face soften when she laughs.
“It’s good to see you joke. Most of the time you seem angry.”
She waves her hand at me. “I’ve always had a quick temper. Besides, in my country women are still supposed to be submissive to men.” She lowers her voice. “Sometimes I’m not quite as angry as I seem. It helps me get my point across. Otherwise they won’t take me seriously.”
“So, it’s an act.”
She lifts her finger to her lips. “Not always, but every now and then. Don’t tell Blake.”
I chuckle. “He’s certainly scared to death of you.”
“He’s not so bad.” Her eyes sparkle. “But if I’m stuck as some kick-ass Chosen, I’m not taking crap from anyone. There has to be perks for this crazy situation we’re in.”
We continue to wander among the designer islands, and Akari’s enthusiasm becomes infectious. We both pull off the racks dresses we love or hate or really can’t decide how we feel about. Finally, we spot a designer that has blouses and slacks that Mom would wear to work. We sail in that direction and find some items, which are mostly boring but serviceable and workable. All the clothes are locked to the racks, and every time I try to catch the eye of a salesperson they conveniently look the other way.
Akari catches on right away. “I guess we don’t look like customers. We’ll have to corner one.” She points at a saleswoman firmly planted in a neighboring island. “I’ll scoot around to her other side and flush her toward you. We’ll meet in the middle and grab her.”
Akari’s plan works, and when trapped, the saleswoman has no choice but to help us. She’s all bubbly and says, “How can I help you?” and “Let me carry those for you.”
We find clothes that fit and look almost pretty on us. I pay for them with cash. Now that we carry Bloomingdales bags, we’ve passed a seriousness threshold, so the people at the shoe department can’t wait to help us. Their friendliness is fake, but it feels good to have them fawn over us.
On our way out of the store, we pass the perfume stalls and an overeager saleswoman sprays Akari in the eyes.
Her face turns red. She swipes the bottle from the saleswoman, sprays her in the face, and growls, “How do you like it?” with each spray.
After a half dozen spritzes, I grab the bottle from her before security comes over. I hand it back to the ash-white woman, who probably wishes she had never come to work that day, and pull Akari outside.
I chuckle. “So, were you really angry or just putting on a
show?”
She laughs. “The first three times I sprayed her, I was angry, but the look on her face made me keep going. Did you see how her mouth dropped? I bet she swallowed half the bottle.”
We hail a cab and my head splits open like someone has taken a nutcracker to it. The auras switch on and my mind races into hyper-drive. I try hard to shut it down, but I can’t control it. My arms and legs tingle and energy flows through me. My body has been set on fire and flames lick my skin. Pitchers full of sweat pours out of me, and then....
The auras and weird sensations switch off as suddenly as they started.
Akari asks if I’m fine, so I complain about carsickness.
Blake paces the dining room with his hands stuffed inside his suit pants pockets, while Akari folds small pieces of paper into perfectly shaped horses.
She’s already created a full-sized herd.
“It’s after eleven o’clock. Where can he be? We only have one chance at this. We can’t be late.” Blake huffs for the third time in the last ten minutes.
No one has seen Connor since we returned from dinner last night in China Town. Generally sullen during the meal, he didn’t say much. He disappeared into his room when we went back to the Inn, mumbling about a football match on television, which made no sense because of the time difference between New York and England. Any match would already have been over.
Connor is not the only person missing.
Sydney didn’t show up this morning either. She left a note for Troy that she’d meet him by the Consulate. I’m not sure what she’s up to, but she was supposed to go with him in a Zip Car.
Instead, Troy trudged off on his own to start the stakeout without her. I’m not happy with him spending the day with the super-beautiful, flirty, perfume-wearing Sydney, but that’s a whole lot better than having him around sulking with an “I told you not to trust the drunk” look on his face.
“He’s going to mess this up if he doesn’t show soon.” Blake stops pacing and fiddles with his gold tie, flipping it against his white shirt.
“Yes, yes, he certainly will.” Stuart frowns. “Imbibing spirits is a nasty habit. It makes one so unreliable.”
I glare at Stuart. “He’s fine. I’m sure there’s an easy explanation. I’ll find him.”
“Yes, certainly,” says Stuart. “If you can’t locate him, I suggest you go on without him and we hope for the best.”
I shoot Blake and Akari a half-hearted smile. “We’ll meet you at Swiss Bank by twelve. Don’t worry so much.” I clasp Blake on the shoulder and try to sound confident, doing a poor job of hiding my worry about Connor, who could be anywhere.
I leave the Inn and mumble, “Now what?”
I picture Connor’s face in my mind’s eye and start walking the streets. Moving swiftly, I make turns without thinking, the pull stronger and more confident than that first time I searched for him. Still, my eyes are drawn to the window of every bar along the way, and I wonder whether he’s inside watching a soccer match, drinking himself into a stupor, and getting into a fight. I thought we were beyond that, but he’s still a mystery and anything can happen in mysteries.
Oddly, I stop outside of a huge Barnes & Noble bookstore on 17th Street. There’s no bar nearby or other place he might have settled into, so my gaze returns to the bookstore. He has to be inside.
The first floor has more toys than books, so I ignore them and follow my instincts up the escalator to the third floor. This area holds stacks of the less popular books: literature, poetry, and college textbooks. Three people stroll about, taking hesitant steps as if they’re lost.
Connor sits on the floor in one of the isles, his back against a bookshelf, holding a paperback in his hand. He wears a navy suit and white shirt, but no tie. The clothes transform his good looks and make him appear older and more refined. His shaggy hair still drops below his eyes, but he could pass for someone in his twenties, a college student on an interview maybe.
I stroll over, press my back against the bookshelf, and slide down until I’m sitting next to him.
He doesn’t look up, and a full water bottle is perched between us like a neon warning sign.
I smile and bat my eyes at him. “So, do you come here often?”
He grins and closes the book. “That’s the best line you have? Complete rubbish. How’d you find me?”
“You don’t think I came here to look for you, do you?” I point at my chest in an exaggerated show of indignation. “No way. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d do some reading, maybe buy one of the latest bestsellers. I’m a big Ruby Standing Deer fan.”
“Right.” His eyes flicker between the full water bottle and me.
I breathe a little easier knowing he hasn’t drunk any alcohol yet. “So, what’s up? Just thought you’d do some reading?”
He smirks. “I only have three hobbies.” He ticks them off with his fingers. “Football, and there are no bloody matches on, drinking, and reading. It was a close call between those last two, but I found this place and thought I’d try reading.”
“How’s that working out?” I glance at the water bottle.
“I know what you’re thinking. It’s not that I’m a drunk or anything. It’s just that....” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I always end up drinking when I’m pissed, and this whole situation really turns my head inside out. I mean, what were my parents thinking when they injected me with that DNA? I was only a baby. How stupid were they? Then they go ahead and get themselves killed running from a Seeker and leave me with the cold-hearted vicar so.... What? So I can grow up as an orphan and work for the bloody pub owner, spend all my time carting around kegs and cleaning up after the drunks.”
His face heats up and turns a light shade of pink when he stops himself. His left hand shakes when he places it on the bottle. His eyes stick to it.
I place my hand on his.
After a few moments he locks his eyes with mine. They’re ringed with red and burn through me. “I’m a bit of a mess. I want to be angry with my parents, but I’d forgive them in a heartbeat if they were still here.”
“I’m sure they did what they thought was right.”
He snorts. “Bloody good choice. They’ve placed the weight of the world on our shoulders. What’s this world ever done for us? It dumped me at a pub. Left me with no one. I’ll tell you the truth. I almost didn’t come to New York. I had my mind made up to take the gold coins they gave me and find an island to spend my time. Drink myself from sunrise to sunset.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Curiosity at first. I wanted to see the others. You know, others like me. But once I met... once I met you, I couldn’t leave you holding the bag with Akari and Blake while I took off to build sand castles. That’d make me a right big wanker.”
I chuckle. “You’re still a wanker, but I’m happy you stayed. I’m sure I couldn’t do this without you. Besides, my grandfather used to tell me that the heaviest burdens were given to the strongest people. I know you’re strong. You don’t have to drink.”
He curls his hand around mine and lifts if from the bottle. “You sure you don’t want to run to Fiji with me?”
I laugh—a nervous type of giggle that I’m not fond of. “No way. I hate sand. It gets between your toes and in your hair. Do you know how long it takes me to wash sand out of this much hair?” I flip my long black strands at his face. “Forever. That’s how long. I still have some sand in there from my trip to the beach three years ago.”
He smiles and we stare silently at the books around us for a few moments.
He’s not the only one who uses a crutch. We all do. Blake hides behind his family’s wealth and Akari uses anger to mask her true feelings. My crutch is the worst of all. I use Troy. I know I have to send him away before he gets himself killed, but just the thought makes my chest tighten and my stomach churn.
If Connor can find the strength to stop drinking, can I find the willpower to turn Troy away?
“What about you
?” he says. “Why did you let me win in The Underground when we were training with the swords?” He tightens his lips and shakes his head. “Don’t deny it.”
I sigh. “I don’t know.”
“Did you think I’m too fragile to lose to you?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s silly, really. I just don’t want to stand out from everyone else. I’m tired of being different.”
“You’re the strongest among us. Everyone knows it.”
“So you don’t mind if I crush you like a tin can?” I smirk at him.
He snorts. “It’s only temporary. Next time I’ll best you fair and square. So long as you promise not to go easy on me.”
He holds out his hand and I shake it. “Deal.”
“We had better get a move on. Blake’s probably wet himself by now.”
“Not so fast.” I release his hand and swipe the book he had put down. “What were you reading, anyway?”
“Give me that!”
I hold the book away from him, and the pages flutter open. A passport-sized photograph floats to the floor.
“Who’s that?” I reach for the photo.
“Michelle, the pub owner’s daughter.”
My fingers clasp the edge of the picture. It’s facing downward so I can’t see her. The world seems to stop in the same way I imagine it does for a terminally ill person who faces the reality of her situation for the first time, staring at a grim-faced doctor with bony features and sad eyes that hide behind metal frames. Just the sullen expression from the doctor should tell her all she needs to know, but she holds out for the slightest whisper of hope, fleeting and temporary as smoke. Once the doctor explains the dreary situation to her, the hope dissipates in swirls as if never really there, because, of course, it wasn’t. It was an illusion the entire time. Just like this connection I’ve manufactured between us.
“Go ahead,” he says. “You can turn it over.”
I don’t want to flip over the photograph and see the perfectly beautiful Michelle with her curly blonde hair, small button-nose, and moon-shaped blue eyes. Still, that whisper of hope floats above me, so I turn the photo over. It takes me a full minute to focus on the face that smiles back at me.