The Girl Who Would Be King(110)

“Yes, it’s funny,” she says. “Nobody has ever really taken me shopping before. I mean, not since I was a child. I’ve always really taken care of myself. I didn’t know how I’d feel about being taken care of, but it’s kind of nice.” It’s a big deal, I think, that she says this to me, and so I acknowledge it by not saying anything. I don’t want to break the spell. I take three of the bags and Liz takes one. On the way out of the department store, Liz talks me into buying a fifteen hundred dollar black leather motorcycle jacket and a two hundred dollar grey t-shirt for myself. She must be rubbing off on me. The jacket is badass but I regret the t-shirt almost immediately. Two hundred bucks and it will probably disintegrate the first time I kill a freaking henchman in it.

I buy a few pairs of jeans and some non-two hundred dollar t-shirts elsewhere in the mall. While shopping for bras and crap like that, Liz and I accidentally end up buying almost identical robes – mine a dark grey silk and hers a soft lilac – but otherwise exactly the same. One of us is definitely rubbing off on the other. Since the robes are silk I’m inclined to think it’s Liz rubbing off on me. The smell of delicious fast food wafting from the food court has my mouth watering.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to be willing to eat anything here,” I say, gesturing as we walk by.

Liz turns her nose up as expected, then, with a tone that suggests she doesn’t really care one way or another says, “Well, I suppose I’d be willing to eat a corn dog if you’re hungry.” I laugh out loud.

“A corn dog?! You?! I’d pay to see that.” Five minutes later I’m sliding her a twenty and watching her devour two corndogs and a lemonade from Hot Dog On A Stick.

“Guilty pleasure,” she says, shrugging, and then adds, “We should get something to go for the henchmen, they must be starving.” It’s the first time she’s called them ‘the henchmen’ and my heart swells with pride.

On our way out I see the mall management offices, security staff and all, and decide to take a chance. I drag Liz into a game shop across the way and then, absorbed in all the toys, ask her to get me a pretzel from the kiosk directly across from the offices, not ten feet from mall security. Liz barely fusses, which alarms me, as it seems like something she would complain about, but I let her go anyway. It takes a lot of concentration to block out the screeching kids and numerous voices between us, but with effort I’m able to hone in on Liz’s voice.

“One pretzel please, butter no salt,” she says to the clerk.

“$3.05,” the girl says, shifting her weight. There’s a long pause and my heart catches in my throat.

“Don’t do it, Liz, don’t do it,” I whisper, waiting for her to speak.

“Is there something wrong ma’am?” the girl asks. There’s another long pause and then Liz’s voice.

“No. No, sorry. I couldn’t find my money,” she says, handing the clerk the twenty. I watch as the girl makes change and gives her the pretzel. As Liz walks back to me – pretzel in hand, the baseball cap partially obscuring her face – I try to understand her expression, another one I’ve never seen before: it’s defeat. I’ve won.

The ride home is long and silent as Jeckle fights the traffic and Heckle hands him bits of corn dogs and fries from the doggie bag Liz insisted we bring along.



°

As I run away from the subway and the sound of that man’s neck snapping on the train I’m besieged by memories or at least I hope that’s what they are. I’m running, headed for a park, rain pelting me unkindly, not unlike the memories, jabbing me with their truth – ugly and pretty both. I remember a whole life in seconds.

I was a blank slate, a person with no memory or place in time or space.

And in a blink, I’m Bonnie Braverman – a whole person with a whole life. It’s the name. It all comes as soon as I know my name, as if all of me is somehow tied to that name. The memories both drown and embrace me; I want to be glad for it, but now my parents are dead. A moment ago they could have been anyone and anywhere and now suddenly they’ve been dead for nearly thirteen years and I’ll never see them again. But there’s also strange relief. Not knowing who you are is a certain kind of hell. I don’t know if a person can understand how much of who you are is based on who you have been – what you have done and not done – until it’s experienced firsthand. They are inextricably linked.

And so, sitting on a park bench in the rain as people run for cover all around me, I’m crying because I’ve remembered that one of my only friends in the world was killed just for being my friend. It’s a moment that I can’t forget. Won’t forget. It has to mean something; I need it all to mean something.