The Girl Who Would Be King(31)

Later, my hair in a fluffy white towel, I dig through my bag looking for new jeans and a t-shirt and cuss at the bag when I remember that I never managed to get my cat suit back from whoever had it, whoever stripped it off me in the desert. I kick at the bed in frustration. Before fully committing to my t-shirt and jeans I go digging through the bag of loot from Melvin’s safe. Inside his bag there’s a separate, smaller plastic bag, which has a bunch of the stuff he stole from my room including my first stolen necklace and miraculously, at the bottom, my cat suit, folded nicely. I pull it out and try to shake it free of wrinkles. It’s a mess, covered in old blood and there’s a huge tear where my abdomen is supposed to go. There’s also a rip in the calf, a bunch along the shoulder and neck, and tons on the back, I guess, from where the dogs attacked me. I don’t know what the hell Melvin could have wanted with a cheap nylon cat suit covered in blood but the potential creepiness gives me a slight chill and makes me gladder than ever that I put a bullet in him.

I fold the suit back up, happy to have it, regardless of its condition and pull on jeans and a black t-shirt. The cat suit would be better, but this will do. It never occurred to me until I saw the flyer with those words ‘strongest woman alive’ that there might be others like me, but now that I’ve thought about it, I can’t get it out of my mind.



The show is in a massive run-down warehouse, but I can tell it just from the size of the crowd and the shitty signage that it doesn’t come close to filling the space. It truly is just a sideshow of freaks, and not really a circus or carnival or fair or whatever they call them. I pay at the window of a makeshift booth and walk in among aimless sheep all headed toward a main stage. I try to follow some posters that go in the opposite direction, but a wiry punk-looking kid not much older than me stops me and kind of ushers me back the other way. I point toward the other posters and the smaller stage I’m heading to at the other end of the warehouse.

“Miss, the main stage is behind you. The show will be starting in a few minutes.”

“I’m not interested in the tattooed dude. I came to see the strongwoman.”

“Sorry then, doll, but she’s not on tonight.”

“Why not?”

“She only does the weekend show. The bigger show that includes all the acts. This is Monday, only the big names go on tonight, she’s not on until Friday.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” I pull out the flyer from my back pocket. “It doesn’t say that on here,” I complain, thrusting it at him.

“Yeah, it does. See here at the bottom. ‘Not all acts available at all shows’.”

“But it doesn’t say which damn acts,” I say. He shrugs his shoulders like it is the least of many problems in his life, a ‘sorry’ that he doesn’t mean at all. I think about punching him in the face. But I take a couple deep breaths and decide not to; he’s not what I’m here for. I start to walk away and then turn back. “What’s her name?”

“Whose name?”

I roll my eyes. “The strongwoman.”

“Lena. Her name’s Lena.”

“Thanks,” I walk away and think about heading out, still having no interest in pierced and tattooed freaks that, at best, have a high tolerance for pain, until I see a woman in a white corset top and pristine white leather pants leaning up against a wall talking to a guy with a giant head. She’s extremely fit, with the biggest arms I’ve ever seen on a woman in real life. I look at the flyer. Same short dark hair with a single curl on her pale forehead, same broad shoulders and narrow hips. Same thin lipped smile and dark eyes. I take a seat in the back, close to her and her big-headed friend. When the lights go down and the music starts pounding, the bass echoing up through my metal seat and, colored lights dance across the stage, I hear her speak to her friend.

“Ugh. I can’t watch this show another time today. I’m going to go out for a smoke.” Her friend nods and I watch her duck out a side exit. I wait a few moments and follow her out. She’s walking through the parking lot to a field, cigarette already lit. Once she gets to the open field it’s dark enough that the burn from her cigarette is the brightest thing around. When I’m close enough that I know I’ll startle her I call out.

“Hey, Lena,” I say. I’m surprised she doesn’t jump. She just turns around coolly.

“Yeah?” But her eyes narrow as if she had expected to recognize me and now doesn’t. “Who’s that?” she asks, squinting a little bit.

“I’m Lola.”