The Girl Who Would Be King(29)
“No! I’m telling you it was SO gross…Yeah, a spike through his thing…YES! I swear Julie…”
My ears perk up and I lean over to look at her, eyebrows raised.
“Well no…I didn’t get a picture. They made us turn our cell phones off, duh, otherwise it would be like all over YouTube and crap. But I have the flyer…no, of course it doesn’t show that, but it shows… other stuff…” she gets quiet, listening to her friend. I stand at the counter, drumming my fingers impatiently on the Formica, while I lick cupcake off my hand. The girl pretends not to notice me, so I throw a Skor bar at her. It hits her right in her bleached blonde head and she sits up.
“Hey!” she says, looking pissed and rubbing the back of her head with her free hand, though it couldn’t have possibly hurt.
“Yeah. HEY. Can I buy this crap or what?”
“Uh, yeah, can you hold on a freakin’ second?”
“Yeah, um, I’ve already been holding.”
She sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes, making her instantly at least three times less attractive.
“Jule – I gotta go. Yeah, I’ll call you back,” she stands, the flyer still in her hand and she starts ringing me up, hitting the keys extra hard, I suppose so I will know how extra annoyed she is. She’s probably my age, but I feel a lot older.
“What were you talking about…Molly?” I ask, reading her nametag.
“Um. Like none of your business.”
“What is this?” I ask, snatching the flyer from her hand with lightning speed.
“Hey!” she shouts for the second time. She’s shocked, but also maybe a little scared and it quiets her down considerably. I’m always surprised by which people have good instincts and which don’t. I wouldn’t have pegged peroxide-brained Molly as even knowing what instinct is, but she’s feeling like prey very suddenly; it comes off of her in waves that I can almost taste. It’s the kind of thing that can save a person’s life, maybe. I look away from Molly and her large prey eyes and examine the flyer. It’s for a carnival sideshow and front and center is a man tattooed head to toe and pierced dozens of times. But that’s not what really catches my eye. There are over-the-top stage names for all sorts of freaks, and on the bottom left it says, ‘Strongest Woman Alive!’ I look back at Molly.
“Where was this?”
“Uh. Phoenix. I was in Phoenix this weekend to see my brother…the address is um…at the bottom,” she trails off and looks away. I stare at the words ‘Strongest Woman Alive’ like they’re written in my own personal language, one that nobody else can understand. Molly shifts her weight uneasily. “Your total is $19.01.”
I drop a twenty on the counter. It’s crumpled from my palm. I hadn’t realized I’d been squeezing it. “I’m taking this,” I say, holding up the flyer, and grabbing my plastic bag of treats. She opens her mouth as if to protest but must think better of it because she only, casts her eyes to her shoes silently.
Back on the road again, I’d hoped the words from the flyer would fade away, but if anything they burn brighter in my brain.
Just outside of Barstow, I see the sign for the I-40 headed for Needles, which is the direction I would need to go for Phoenix. Without hesitating I take the exit. It’s going to take me in the opposite direction of Los Angeles, but there’s nothing specific driving me to L.A. anyway, and since reading those three words I pretty much can’t think of anything more important than being in a room with the ‘strongest woman alive.’
Should be interesting.
°
It’s still early when I find myself standing outside his house, across the street, under the shade of a big tree. When he emerges from the front door the sight of him hits me like being doused with ice water. He looks just like our father. Tall and broad shouldered but slim with dark, thick, almost unruly hair. He has a strong, handsome jaw line and skin much more olive than mine, which is pale and pinkish. I want to run up to him, embrace him, escape with him, and never have to talk about what has happened to us. But I resist. I’ve long ago forgiven him for not coming to rescue me, but my sin seems much greater than his; it always has.
I tail him from a safe distance, my exceptional sight making me particularly good at it. We walk for nearly fifteen blocks, until he comes upon a big elementary school with a small, mostly asphalt yard. Kids are hustling into the building as a long, loud bell rings out and as Jasper draws closer he breaks into a jog. I cross the grounds filled with swings, a jungle gym, and basketball hoops, heading for a bank of windows on the ground floor. The second to last window has an overflowing rowdy bunch of kids – maybe second graders – and Jasper bursts through the door smiling and out of breath. Some of the kids shout his name and I can’t help but smile at the sound of it. He has a hell of a time calming them down and getting them all in their chairs, but it all seems in good fun. I watch as they take turns coming up to the front of the class and talking about the most important person in their lives. Some of them have drawn pictures or brought props like photos and toys to represent their person. It’s mostly a hilarious parade of pets and parents with a couple of best friends and uncles thrown in until a kid named Noah, serious but with a mischievous glint in his eye, comes to the front of the class. I can tell from Jasper’s expression that Noah is one of his favorites. He’s smiling even before Noah starts.