by wildbow
The next mood booster was the fact that I’d gone to school. It sounded dumb, rating that as an accomplishment when others did it every day, but I had been very close to just not going again. Having skipped a week of afternoon classes and three days of morning classes, it was dangerously easy to convince myself to just skip one more. The problem was, that just made the prospect of going to class again that much more stressful, perpetuating the problem. I’d broken that pattern, and I felt damn good about it.
Okay, so I had to admit things weren’t a hundred percent perfect as far as school went. I’d talked to my art teacher, and she was giving me until Tuesday to hand my midterm project in, with a 10% deduction to my mark. I’d also probably lost a few marks in various classes for being absent or not handing in homework assignments. One or two percent, here and there.
But all in all? It was a huge relief. I felt good.
I caught the bus to the Docks, but I didn’t head to the loft. I made my way up the length of the Boardwalk, until the shops began thinning out and there were longer stretches of beach. The usual route people took was driving in through a side road outside of town, but for anyone hiking there, you had to take a shortcut through a series of very similar looking fields. My destination was just far enough away that you’d think you’d maybe missed it.
Officially, it was the Lord Street Market. But if you lived in Brockton Bay, it was just ‘the market’.
The market was open all week, but most people just rented the stalls on the weekends. It was fairly cheap, since you could get a stall for fifty to a hundred dollars on a weekday and two hundred and fifty to three hundred on weekends, depending on how busy things were. The stalls showcased everything from knick-knacks handicrafts put together by crazy cat ladies to overstock from the most expensive shops on the Boardwalk, marked down to ten or twenty five percent of the usual price. There were ice cream vendors and people selling puppies, there was tourism kitsch and there was a mess of merchandise relating to the local capes. There were racks of clothing, books, computer stuff and food. If you lived in the north end of Brockton Bay, you didn’t have a garage sale. You got a stall at the market. If you just wanted to go shopping, it was as good as any mall.
I met up with the others at the entrance. Brian was looking sharp in a dark green sweater and faded jeans. Lisa was dressed up in a dusky rose dress with gray tights, her hair in a bun with loose strands framing her face. Alec was wearing a long sleeved shirt and slim fit black denim jeans that really showed how lanky he was.
“You weren’t waiting long?” I asked.
“Forever,” was Alec’s laconic response.
“Five minutes at most,” Brian smiled. “Shall we?”
We ventured into the market, where the best the north end of Brockton Bay had to offer was on display. The worst of the north end was kept at bay by the same uniformed enforcers that you saw at the Boardwalk.
While Alec stopped at an isolated stall featuring cape merchandise, I commented, “I guess Rachel can’t exactly hang out with us, huh?”
Brian shook his head, “No. Not in a place like this. She’s well known enough that she’d catch someone’s eye, and from there, it’s only a short leap to figuring out who the people she’s hanging with are.”
“And if she saw that, she’d go ballistic.” Lisa pointed to a rotund old woman carrying a fluffy dog in her arms. It was wearing a teal and pink sweater, and was trembling nervously. I didn’t know my dog breeds well enough to name it specifically, but it was similar to a miniature poodle.
“What? The sweater?” I asked.
“The sweater. The dog being carried. Rachel would be up in her face, telling that woman it’s not the way a dog should be treated. Screaming at her, maybe threatening violence, if one of us didn’t step in to handle things.”
“It doesn’t take much, does it?”
“To set her off? No it doesn’t,” Brian agreed. “But you gradually learn how she thinks, what pushes her buttons, and you can intervene before a situation happens.”
Lisa added, “The big trigger for Rache is mistreatment of dogs. I think you could kick a toddler in the face, and she wouldn’t flinch. But if you kicked a dog in front of her, she’d probably kill you on the spot.”
“I’ll, uh, keep that in mind,” I said. Then, double checking that nobody was in a position to overhear, I figured it was as good a time to ask as any, “Has she killed anyone?”
“She’s wanted for serial murder,” Brian sighed. “It’s inconvenient.”
“If the courts actually gave her a fair trial, if she had a good lawyer, I think she’d get manslaughter at worst, maybe reckless endangerment. At least for the events that happened then.” Lisa said, her voice pitched low enough that nobody else in the crowd would pick it up, “It happened just after her powers manifested. She didn’t know how to use her abilities, or what to expect of them, so the dog that she had with her grew into the sort of creature you’ve seen the others become, and because it wasn’t trained, because it had been abused, it went out of control. Cue the bloodbath. In the time since then? Maybe. I know she’s seriously hurt a lot of people. But nobody’s died at her hands since we’ve been with her.”
“Makes sense,” I said, distractedly. So that’s one. Who was the other murderer in the group?
Alec returned from the stall wearing a Kid Win shirt.
“I like it,” Lisa grinned. “Ironic.”
We continued our roundabout walk through the market. We were still on the outskirts, so there weren’t many people around us. Those that were around us weren’t likely to overhear, unless we used words, names or phrases that would catch their attention.
“Where do we go from here?” I asked.
“It’s just a matter of handing the cash over to the boss later tonight.” Brian picked up a pair of sunglasses and tried them on, “He takes it, does what he needs to with the papers, and gets back to us with our pay. Clean, untraceable. Once we’ve picked up our share, we kick back for a little while, plan our next job or wait for him to offer us another one.”
I frowned, “We’re putting a lot of trust in him. We’re giving him a pretty big amount of money, and we’re expecting him to come back and pay us three times that amount? Plus whatever he feels the papers are worth? How do we know he’ll follow through?”
“Precedent,” Brian said as he tried on another pair of sunglasses, lowering his head to examine himself in the mirror that was hanging from the side of the stall. “He hasn’t screwed with us yet. It doesn’t make sense for him to to pull a fast one, when he’s already invested more than that in us. If we were failing most of our jobs, maybe he’d keep the money to recoup his losses, but we’ve done well.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “I can buy that.”
I felt kind of conflicted about the ‘take it easy and wait’ plan. On the one hand, taking a break sounded awesome. The last week had been intense, to put it lightly. On the other hand, it sort of sucked that we wouldn’t be out there on another job, since I’d be waiting that much longer for a chance on getting more details on the boss. I’d just have to hope I could find something out tonight.
“Come on,” Tattletale grinned at me, grabbing my wrist, “I’m stealing you.”
“Huh?”
“We’re going shopping,” she told me. Turning to Brian and Alec, she said, “We’ll split up, meet up with you two for dinner? Unless you want to come with and stand around holding our purses while we try on clothes.”
“You don’t have any purses,” Alec pointed out.
“Figure of speech. You want to do your own thing or not?”
“Whatever,” Alec said.
“You’re a jerk, Lise,” Brian frowned. “Hogging the new girl to yourself.”
“You get your morning meetings with her, I want to go shopping, cope,” Lisa stuck out her tongue at Brian.
“Alright,” Brian shrugged. “Fugly Bob’s for dinner?”
“Sounds good,” Lisa agreed. She turned to me,
eyebrows quirked.
“I’m down for Fugly Bob’s,” I conceded.
“Don’t spend so much you draw attention,” Brian warned.
We parted ways with the boys, Lisa wrapping her arm around my shoulders and going on about what she wanted to get. Her enthusiasm was catching, and I found myself smiling.
Murderer. I had to remind myself. One of these three was a murderer.
Shell 4.2
“We’re updating your wardrobe,” Lisa decided, after we’d left the boys behind.
“What’s wrong with my wardrobe?” I asked, a bit defensively.
“Nothing, really. It’s just very… you. Which is the problem.”
“You’re not making me feel better, here.”
“You’re a cautious person, Taylor. I like that about you. I think it’s an essential addition to the group dynamic,” she led me to a collection of stalls where there was a lot of women’s clothing, and quickly drew three dresses from a rack.
“Brian’s cautious.”
“You and Brian are similar, but I wouldn’t say he’s cautious. He’s… pragmatic. You both are. The difference between you two is that he’s been doing what he does for three years, now. Two years of experience, before he joined the group. So a lot of what he does is automatic. He doesn’t give a second thought to the little things he’s done dozens of times already. He takes a lot for granted.”
“And I don’t?”
“You’re observant, detail oriented and focused. More than any of the others. You watch, you interpret, and then you act with this careful, surgical precision. That’s a strength and a flaw.”
“What does this have to do with my clothes?”
“Your personality is reflected in your fashion choices. Muted colors. Brown, gray, black, white. If you are wearing something with color to it, you’re wearing it under a sweatshirt, sweater or jacket. Never anything that would stand out. Never showing much skin. While most people our age are picking clothes with the intention of defining an identity for themselves, fitting into a clique, you’re focused on staying out of sight and not attracting attention. You’re being too cautious, overthinking things you don’t need to, always making the call to play it safe.”
“And you want to change that.” I sighed.
“I’m suspicious you’re capable of surprising everyone, yourself included, when you drop your guard, start being bolder and improvise. Not just when circumstances force you to. I’m not just talking about clothes, you know.”
“I kind of got the drift.”
“More to the point, I’m seeing you alternate between the same two pairs of jeans every day, when you got a paycheck for two grand five days ago. If I don’t make you buy clothes, I don’t think you’re going to.”
“My dad will wonder where I got them,” I protested, as she folded a pair of blouses over one of my arms.
“You borrowed them from me. Or they don’t fit me anymore and I gave them to you. Or you can keep them at our place and leave him none the wiser.”
“I don’t like lying to my dad.”
She ushered me into a curtained off area that served as a change room. Through the curtain, she told me, “I envy you that. But if he hasn’t figured out the reason your wardrobe has shrunk so much, chances are he’s not going to notice if you have some new clothes.”
I was halfway through pulling off my shirt when that sunk in, “What are you talking about?”
“Come on, Taylor. I’d suspect you had some problems going on even without, you know… a little bird whispering in my ear.”
I hurried to pull on the first dress in the pile, then opened the curtain, “You’re going to have to be a little more specific, before I can confirm or deny anything.”
“Not that one,” she waved at the dress, a plaid number, predominantly red and white. Annoyed, I shut the curtain.
From the other side of the curtain, she explained, “At first I thought your dad was abusing you. But I dropped that line of thinking pretty quick after I heard you bring him up in conversation. It had to be a major part of your life that’s sucking, though, and if it’s not home then it’s got to be school. Brian and Alec pretty much agree with my line of thinking.”
“You’ve talked about it with them,” I dropped my hands from the buttons of the dress and let my head thunk against the shaky plywood wall of the change room.
“It came up when we were talking about you joining the group, and we never hundred percent dropped the subject. Sorry. You’re new, you’re interesting, we talk about you. That’s all it is.”
I finished doing up the buttons of the dress and opened the curtain, “Ever think I didn’t want you prying?”
She undid the top button. “What you want and what you need are two different things. Cornflower blue is a keeper. Throw that one over the top.” She pushed me back inside and shut the curtain.
“What I need is to keep…” I struggled to find a way of wording things that wouldn’t raise red flags for any eavesdroppers, “these two major parts of my life separate.”
“The suckish part and the non-suck part.”
“Sure, let’s go with that.” I found a top and a pair of low-rise jeans in the pile of clothes.
“I could help make the suckish parts suck less,” she offered.
I swear my blood turned cold in my veins. I could just see her showing up at school, taunting Emma. I think the prospect of facing down Glory Girl again would spook me less. I struggled to do up the top button of the jeans, which wasn’t made any easier by my agitation. It took thirty seconds to get the button done up, and I swore under my breath the entire time. Where in the world had Lisa found jeans that were this tight on me? When I had them on, I opened the curtain and confronted her face to face.
“Having me try on clothes is fine,” I told her, doing my level best to keep my voice calm, “But you interfere directly in my problems, and I’m gone.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
She looked a little hurt, “Fine.” Pouting a little, she waved a hand in the general direction of my clothes, “What do you think?”
I tried to adjust the collar. I liked the abstract design on the right side of the shirt, but the v-neck collar came to a point near where my ribcage ended and my stomach began. “Top is cut too low, jeans are too tight.”
“You need to get used to showing some cleavage. Like I said, be bold in your fashion choices.”
“I’d be fine with showing some cleavage if I had anything to show,” I pointed out.
“You’re a late bloomer?” she tried.
“My mom was a B-cup, and not always then, depending on the brand of bra. And that was after she went up a partial size being pregnant with me.”
“That’s fucking tragic.”
I shrugged. I’d been resigned to being broomstick thin and flat as a board pretty much from the point I’d started puberty. I just had to look at the genetics on either side of my family to know what I was in for.
“And my condolences about your mom. I didn’t know.”
“Appreciated.” I sighed. “I’m vetoing the shirt.”
“Fine, you’re allowed, but we’re keeping the jeans. They show off your figure.”
“The figure of a thirteen year old boy,” I groused.
“You’re taller than a thirteen year old boy, don’t be silly. Besides, whatever you look like, whatever your body type, there’s bound to be someone out there who thinks you’re the hottest fucking person they’ve ever seen.”
“Fantastic,” I mumbled. “There’s a sketchy pedophile out there with my name on him.”
Lisa laughed, “Go, try something else on. But throw the jeans over the top. I’m buying them for you, and if you never wear them, I’ll have to be content with you feeling guilty about it.”
“Find me the same jeans one size larger, and I’ll wear them,” I negotiated. Then, before she could protest, I added, “They’re going to shrink
in the wash.”
“Point. I’ll go look.”
Things continued in that vein for a little while, with Lisa doing a little shopping for herself, too. We stuck to talking about the clothes, and it was clear that Lisa was carefully avoiding the earlier topic. When we finished, the woman at the cash totaled it up on a notepad and passed the slip of paper to us. Four hundred and sixty dollars.
“My treat,” Lisa said.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“A bribe in exchange for your silence,” Lisa winked at me.
“About?”
She glanced at the cashier, “After.”
It was only after we’d left the stall well behind, the pair of us laden down with bags, that Lisa elaborated. “Do me a favor and don’t go telling the gang how badly I let things slip, as far as Panacea being one of the hostages. If they ask outright, you can say, I won’t ask you to lie. But if they don’t ask, maybe don’t bring it up?”
“This is the silence you’re buying?”
“Please.”
“Alright,” I answered. I would have without the gift of clothes, but I think she knew that.
She grinned, “Thanks. Between them, I don’t think those guys would ever let me live it down.”
“Would you let them, if the tables were turned?”
“Hell naw,” she laughed.
“That’s what I thought.”
“But about our earlier conversation… last I’ll say on the subject tonight, promise. If you ever decide you do want me to directly interfere in any of your personal stuff, just say the word.”
I frowned, ready to be annoyed, but I relented. It was a fair offer, not pushing anything. “Okay. Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“Then that’s settled. Let’s go eat.”
Fugly Bob’s was fast food of the most shameless kind, sold out of a part-restaurant, part-bar, part-shack at the edge of the Market, overlooking the beach. Anyone who lived in the area had probably eaten there once, at some point. Anyone with any sense then waited a year to give their hearts a chance to recuperate. It was the sort of place with burgers so greasy that if you ordered takeout, you could see through the paper bag by the time you got home. The specialty burger was the Fugly Bob Challenger: if you could finish it, you didn’t have to pay for it. It probably went without saying that most people paid.
