by Julia Kent
“Ask for what you need.”
I try. Words fail me.
Jolene turns to a table next to her, covered in small wooden boxes. Each holds a different set of energetic substances: flower essences in one, essential oils in another, mineral drops in a third, dried herbs in a fourth, and so on. I don't know what's in the other boxes, because Jolene has never given me anything other than those first three, but now she reaches for a bright red box.
This is new.
Opening it, she extracts a crystal, a muted purple form that is lumpy and unpolished.
“Before I give this to you,” she says, cradling it, “I ask that you do not seek out its name.”
“Why not?”
“I cannot tell you. It is my only request, though. Hold it on the right side of your body. Weave the light around you for protection. Do Celtic knots and envision them in blue while holding this.” Warm fingertips slide against my open palm as she hands it off.
Heavy and light at the same time, the crystal does... nothing.
Normally, I sense energy in a stone with as much power as a crystal. A low-grade hum, a warmth, a tingling, or a heaviness that belies its actual weight.
Hollowness is all I sense. A nothing feeling that disturbs me.
I want it out of my hand.
Jolene is perceptive, her eyes on mine. “What do you sense?”
“Nothing. It's empty.”
“Yes. It holds space.”
“What does that mean?”
“You have too much right now, Fiona. You have the gratitude of so many in this realm. All those children are unharmed because of you. Your attacker is harmed at your hand–”
“Foot, technically,” I mutter.
“Foot.” She smiles. “But taking so much on has left you with no space. The energy is piled in layers that tangle and twist, serving no one. It's trapped.”
“That's why I come here. So you can help me release it.”
A firm no comes from her head shake. “This is different.”
The stone's nothingness pulls me down, making me feel dark and cold.
“Different?” The soles of my feet itch to go back outside.
“Only you can do what needs to be done. In the moment when your body knew what to do, it was the vibration–the higher one that let you access your wise self–that guided you. Now that you're no longer in crisis, the energy of everyone around you is clouding that central self. You need to hold space. I can't do that for you.”
“But this crystal can?”
“If you let it.”
“This is not what I wanted to hear.”
“You don't trust space to take you where you need to be?”
“I don't–I don't know. I thought that nature abhors a vacuum.”
She smiles. “Space isn't a vacuum.”
“You want me to carve out emptiness.”
“No, space.”
“What's the difference?”
“That is for you to discover.”
“This feels very cryptic!”
“When we change our patterns, everything feels like a mystery. Because it is. That's what living fully feels like. One big, joyful mystery.”
I'm starting to identify with Perky, who thinks Jolene is full of nonsense. My irritability is understandable–and completely manufactured by some piece of me that doesn't want to do the hard work Jolene is pointing me to do.
Self-awareness is a double-edged sword. After a while, I can sense when one self inside me is fooling another self. You would think the clarity would help.
Instead, it just threatens the piece of me that is avoiding pain.
“Fiona,” she says gently. “You are in the middle of a massive identity shift. Old Self and New Self. Part of your struggle is that you've tried so hard to close Old Self off.
“Old Self?”
“Feisty.”
I bristle. She catches it, instantly.
“See? You put up a wall when someone calls you that. Why?”
“Because I hate it.”
“You hate yourself?”
“No! I hate the nickname. I'm not that person anymore.”
“Aren't you?”
“I'm not! I don't shave my head or do kickbox training or pour myself into stripping all the color out of life so I can put up walls! I don't put up a shell of anger and hold people back by refusing to participate in the world. When I was younger, that's all I did! I poured myself into being kickass.”
“Can't you be kickass now?”
“Preschool teachers aren't kickass.”
“You were. You are. Why can't you be both?”
“Because… because… ”
“Spoiler alert: You can. You must. Otherwise, the fight you fight won't be in the world. It will be inside yourself.”
“You're saying I have to go back to being shitkicking Feisty? The girl who dropkicked Fletch when he tried to kiss me in seventh grade?”
“Fletch.” The way she says his name sends shivers up and down my spine.
“What about him?”
“You see him through the eyes of your Old Self. But I think New Self is starting to pay attention to him.”
“What? No! He's just–he's popped back into my life. It's all Mallory's fault.”
“What did she do?”
“I'm a bridesmaid. Her fiancé, Will, asked Fletch to be a groomsman. So now I'm stuck in the wedding party with a guy I've actively avoided for nearly seventeen years.”
“That's a lot of energy to spend on someone.”
“I'm not spending any energy on him. I'm avoiding him.”
“Avoidance uses plenty of energy. More than we think.”
“I–”
The crystal in my hand begins to pulse.
Either that, or my blood pressure is skyrocketing.
Bzzz
“Oh! I'm so sorry,” I gasp. “I forgot to turn the ringer off.” My phone feels hot in my hands as I drop the crystal and tap on the screen. “My date. It's a reminder.”
“You have a date with Fletch tonight?”
“Fletch? What? Of course not!”
“Are you sure?” Clear eyes meet mine.
“I think I would know if I had a date with Fletch.”
“Fair enough.” Smiling, she stands, reaching for both my hands. “Rejecting Old Self causes you pain, Fiona. Embrace her.”
“She stands for everything I don't want to be.”
“But she is you. And she helped you when you needed it most. When your classroom needed it. That Old Self joined forces with New Self and defended vulnerable people. You should be proud.”
“Proud?”
“Yes. Proud. Have you told your selves how proud you are of them? All of them?”
“Proud.” Mom and Dad have said it. Sharon and Roy did, along with Mal, and Perk, and half of the town. All the classroom parents.
But not once has it occurred to me to say it to myself.
“I'm proud of me,” I whisper, closing my eyes, my seventh-grade self with bony shoulders, baggy pants, and a bound chest rising up, standing taller, heels anchored and knees unlocked.
“Say it again.”
“I'm proud of me,” I intone, this time envisioning my current self, pink glasses and lilac-platinum hair.
“Say it to all of the pieces of you until it feels true.”
Bzzz
She laughs. “And go have your date with Fletch.”
“It's not Fletch!”
She smiles and repeats, “If you say so.”
The table at Beanerino has a few advantages:
It's in a quiet corner.
It's not too close to the bathroom.
It's not under a stereo speaker.
And most of all, I'm out of Perky's line of sight at the barista counter.
“I can't believe you picked up a shift just so you could scope out my date with Tom,” I hiss at her as she brings me a giant mug of chai, cinnamon sprinkled on top in a pattern of latte art that–hol
d on.
“Is that a penis?” I accuse, peering closely at my cup.
“Yes. Glad you can still recognize them.”
“HEY!”
She smirks. “You said the dude has a man bun, right?”
Soft jazz plays from the coffee shop's speakers, the glow of streetlights outside making the inside feel more sophisticated. After five p.m., Beanerino turns into a wine bar, a change the owner, Thiago, made about six months ago. You can still get the full menu of coffee and tea drinks, but also grab a glass of pinot noir or Chablis.
Raul comes over, holding a glass of water, looking around the sparsely occupied shop. Wednesday nights are pretty slow. Two couples sit near the windows. One lone woman sips a glass of white wine at the counter, reading on her phone.
“Man bun, right?” Raul says to me with a twinkle in his eyes.
“You told him? Perky!”
“I told everyone.”
“That's not a good defense!”
“Who said I needed a defense?”
“Don't you feel a shred of guilt for violating my privacy?”
“Uh,” Raul interjects. “Have you met Perky?”
Breathe, I remind myself. Just breathe.
“You two need to give me and my date some privacy,” I inform them both.
Raul looks at my drink. “Is that a penis?” His big, brown eyes cut over to Perky. “My dad did not send you to artisanal latte art classes so you could draw genitals in the milk!”
“Genitals were half the class! You should see my clitoris!”
“I have no desire to see your–you know!”
“Why not? It's beautiful!”
Raul turns redder.
“And it tastes like heaven,” she adds. “A little bit of cinnamon, some vanilla, and–”
Raul turns a dusky shade of red, an adobe color that sets off his topaz eyes. “Perky,” he says in a low voice. “Remember the sexual harassment training?”
“Not my actual body part–I meant my artistic rendering on a latte!”
“I will take a pass on both,” he says firmly.
A tall man in a suit walks into the coffee shop. Long face, pinched, slightly worried expression. He's familiar, but I can't place him. The woman at the bar turns, glances at her phone, then gives him an expectant look.
“Cheryl?” he asks. She beams, pushing a long wall of blonde hair off one shoulder and onto her back as she stands. An awkward hug ensues.
First date. App date.
“Isn't that the asshole cop from the emergency room last week?” Perky says out of the corner of her mouth. The guy settles in at the counter, Raul moving off to wait on him.
“I think so. Now leave.”
Two women, not together, trickle into the shop. Business is starting to pick up. A guy alone at a table looks at his phone, then at the women.
“Why would I leave?”
“Because you'll scare off Tom.”
“Man Bun's name is Tom?”
“See? Leave.”
“Look at him. Go, dude! Get up the courage,” she says under her breath, the random guy’s unasked-for cheering section.
“What are you doing?”
“The wine bar is nothing but a meat market. This is where all the men on that dating app tell women to meet them.”
“What?”
“We need to rename Beanerino the Bootycallerino.”
“Perky!”
“What? It's not my fault Man Bun asked you for a first date where there's more jizz in the bathroom stalls than in a dirty sock at Boy Scout camp.”
“PERKY!”
The door opens. I look over, searching for Man Bun... I mean, Tom.
And instead I see Fletch.
“Fletch?” I gasp as Perky smiles and walks away, abandoning me in my time of need.
“Hey, Fiona. What're you doing here?” He looks down at my drink. “Nice penis.”
“Excuse me?”
He points to my chai latte. “Perky did a good job. I was in here last week and she made some beautiful flower patterns on my latte.” He frowns, then his eyebrows shoot up. “Hold on. Those weren't flowers, were they?”
I laugh.
“Wow. And they seemed so... detailed. And gorgeous.”
My sides are splitting.
“Please... stop... flowers...” I gasp.
“That latte did give me a sudden desire to go to a Georgia O'Keeffe show, though.”
I rush to take a sip of my chai latte and make the penis go away. Fletch watches me, mouth spreading into a wider grin, his green eyes shining as he crosses his arms over his chest.
It's only then that I realize he's wearing real clothes. A crisp, light purple dress shirt, open at the neck, tucked into khahis. He has actual leather shoes – and not for weight lifting or cross-training – on his feet. His hair is styled but not sticky, and he has a close, clean shave.
His aftershave is divine.
“You're not in workout gear. Or a paramedic's uniform,” I say as I blot the foam on the tip of my nose, wondering if it's ruined my makeup.
“And you look lovely tonight. A little overdressed for a Beanerino latte with Perky,” he says, waving to her from across the room as she swings a hand towel in the air like she's a date-night air traffic controller.
“I have a date.”
“So do I.”
“You don't have a man bun, do you?”
He looks down at his crotch. “Is that like camel toe for guys?”
Bzzz
I look at my phone. It's Tom.
Running late. Couldn't get a train that had room for my bike. Be there in ten.
“Your date ditch you?”
“What? No!” I lick my lips, tasting sugary penis residue. “What about you? You're meeting someone?”
“Blind date. New app.” He shows me his phone. It's the same app I'm using.
My heart sinks. “You didn't use a fake name, right? Call yourself Tom?”
“No. Why?”
“Whew. For a moment there, I thought the app matched us up. That would be crazy.”
He laughs. “Nah. I'm not here to find a Fiona. My date's name is Cassie.”
Soft jazz changes over to a darker funk orchestra. “Huh?”
“Cassie Jones.” Craning his neck, he looks around. “Dark hair, longer than yours. Beautiful profile shot. Says she likes–”
“You… how… you're not really here for her, right?”
“I am. She's been sexting with me for days. You think I'd pass up an offer to meet her here at Beanerino? This place is where dating app desperadoes come for quick sex. Don't touch anything in the bathrooms,” he whispers under his breath.
I look up at Perky. Did she sneak into my app and sext with Fletch, posing as my alter ego?
“Uh, I hate to break it to you, but I'm Cassie Jones.”
“What?” Shock makes his jaw drop. He leans in. A whiff of his aftershave makes me swoon.
“I'm Cassie.”
“You're the one who's been sending me all those beaver shots?”
“Beaver?”
“Naked pictures of your–”
“I KNOW WHAT A BEAVER SHOT IS,” I say a little too loudly.
Perky snickers.
I'm going to dropkick her so hard.
“And no, I did not send those to you!”
“Then who did?”
“Perky!”
“Yes?” She's suddenly there, bringing Fletch a black coffee. “Depth charge, just how you like it. Added some macchiato-level foam to cut the strength.”
“Thanks.”
“Perky, did you send crotch shots to Fletch?”
“What? God, no. Why would I do that? My phone's tainted enough. I would never send naked pictures of myself to anyone, ever.”
“I mean beaver shots of me!”
“Of you? When would I have taken pictures of your vagina?”
Two guys at a table nearby lean in. So does a woman.
“Not my vagina!
Your vagina posing as my vagina!”
Fletch takes a long sip of his coffee and watches us.
“My vagina doesn't need to pose as anyone else's vagina, thank you very much. It has its own identity and has no need to be Fiona's Fake Flaming Lips.”
Fletch sputters, shooting the tight blob of foam on his coffee all over my neck.
“That's the strangest pearl necklace I've ever seen,” Perky says as I snatch the hand towel from her apron and mop myself.
Deep breath, I tell myself. Deep breath. Reaching into my pocket, I grasp the lump of crystal Jolene gave me.
And I ask for space.
Or a giant sinkhole.
Either will do right now.
“Why on Earth would you ask me that question, Fi? Why would I use my vertical taco to pose as your flesh tuxedo?” Perky seems genuinely confused, and Fletch is now doubled over, half grunting about his scalded uvula, half wheezing with uncontrolled laughter.
“Because Fletch claims he's here for a date with Cassie Jones!”
“Who is Cassie Jones?”
“MY FAKE PROFILE! I'M PRETENDING TO BE CASSIE JONES, REMEMBER?” I shout, all pretense at calmness long gone.
Unfortunately, as I shout that out, the front door opens and in walks a guy with a man bun. He stares at me.
“Tom?” I manage.
“Shortest first date ever,” he mutters as he leaves, the door closing slowly, the sound as the air pressure equalizes sounding not unlike a queef.
“Oh, my God,” I say, head in my hands as Perky half punches Fletch.
“Hey! You’re up to something. Why did you just sabotage Fiona's date?”
“I did nothing!” he protests. “Just told her my date is Cassie Jones.”
“The app matched you two? You're Tom the Man Bun?”
Fletch can't stop howling. He has one of those contagious laughs, and if I weren't so discombobulated, I'd laugh, too.
“Not Tom,” he gasps. “But the app suggested 'Cassie' to me this morning. I immediately realized who it was and swiped left.”
“What? Why would you swipe left? I'm a good catch!”
“And she sends great beaver shots,” Perky adds.
“You're not helping.”
“No one sent me shots of any animal, mineral, vegetable, or flower,” he says, giving Perky major side eye. “I'm just messing with you.”
