Stalk the Moon

by Jessica Lynch

  I tense when he calls me love. As much as I do want to, well, pet his blanket, I’m not down with being hit on by a man old enough to be my dad. Especially since I’ve seen him checking out countless girls at the market all morning.

  So, yeah. Time for me to go.

  Stealing a glance up at him, ready to haul my ass out of here, I’m taken aback at what I find. The lecherous, hungry stare I’d expected isn’t there. His handsome face relaxes into a gentle look instead, a sweet one, almost fatherly.

  Okay. Maybe he realizes I’m too young for him, too. More likely, he realizes I’m not his type. Since he doesn’t seem to be all that picky, I’m not sure what that says about me.

  I relax, suddenly at ease. He grins down at me. The smile makes him look kind and a little mischievous. Why was I so spooked by this guy before?

  Leaning in, he whispers, “Would you like to see what’s under the cover? You might find that such a treasure interests you even more.”

  It never occurred to me that the blanket isn’t for sale, or that its purpose is simply to cover up something better. Before I can tell him so, he’s already moving past me, reaching for the bottom edge of the blanket. With a touch of flourish and a jolly laugh, he pulls the blanket back, rolling it carefully until he reveals—

  “Oh,” I breathe out. “It’s beautiful.”

  The mirror is almost as tall as I am and rests on two large feet shaped like pointed talons. The gilded sides are gleaming bronze, with only the slightest patina of tarnish to show its age. It's old. Really old.

  The late morning sun glints off the glass, striking me right in the eyes. I blink rapidly, moving to my right so I can see without being blinded again.

  My hip bumps into the man’s thigh. Oops. I hadn’t even realized he’d come back around to stand next to me. Not liking how close we are, I start to slip away when motion in the mirror catches my attention. I stop, staring at my reflection.

  Our reflection.

  We’re standing side by side. This man is at least two heads taller than me, his silver hair a stark contrast to the sleek black waves that I hastily tamed with a ponytail this morning. My skin is so washed-out and pale compared to his deep tan, I’m a closer match to the blanket he holds in his arms.

  I look like a little kid next to him. And I feel like one. In a world where I don’t have responsibilities, where I don’t have to worry about little things like rent and clothes and if I want to eat, I could own this mirror. I’ve never desired anything more.

  But it has to be priceless. And I arrived at the flea market with $130 and two protein bars.

  Tucking the blanket under his arm, he places his hand on my right shoulder. I feel a jolt when his palm touches down against the thick fabric of my hoodie. That’s some strong static electricity considering I can feel it through two layers.

  “Husband.”

  There’s a warning note in that single word. I look over my shoulder. The woman who stalked behind this man all morning is looming behind us now, her arms crossed over her chest again, a disapproving frown twisting her beauty. Eyes like diamonds, ice-cold and an eerie light blue in color, are narrowed on the point where his hand touches my shoulder.

  If looks could kill, I’d be a goner.

  He follows my gaze, turning lazily, as if it took him a second to realize she had said something. With a charming smile that doesn’t quite hide the hard look in his eyes, he waves behind him at the mirror. “She’s only interested in making a purchase.”

  Turning back to me, he says, “Don’t mind my wife. This is a business transaction. She won’t bother you.”

  Weird choice of words, but I think I understand what he’s getting at. For such a beautiful young woman, it’s pretty clear how fiercely protective of her husband she is.

  I ignore her. If she wants to glare daggers at my back, I can’t stop her. “I don’t know how much you’re asking for this mirror, but I’m pretty sure I could never afford it.”

  “Come, little one. Haggle with me. Strike a bargain. That’s what these sales are about, after all.”

  He has a point. Last year I talked a seller down from his initial bid of fifty dollars to a mere five bucks for a vintage Bambi stuffed animal. Sure, Dudley peed on it within days of me buying it. That was still an excellent deal.

  “What’s your asking price?”

  “What can you afford?”

  “I only brought like a hundred bucks with me.” I doubt that will be anywhere near enough. “Do you take credit?”

  He shakes his head.

  Didn’t think so.

  “My treasures are just that: treasures. If I wanted money, I could do better than some rinky-dink suburban junk fair. No, what I have to offer is worth far more than money.”

  With a purr in his voice and a gleam in his eye, he edges toward to the mirror. He runs one slender finger along the bronze frame. It’s so nice, I can’t even be mad he insulted the flea market. His mirror is by far the best thing I’ve ever come across before.

  “Then again,” he says, and suddenly I’m holding my breath, “for the right buyer, I would accept any price. Move closer. I want to make sure the mirror suits you.”

  A part of me bristles at being told what to do. I do it anyway. Standing right in front of the mirror, I face my reflection. Then I blink.

  For a second, I wonder who that girl wearing my hoodie is. I mean, I know it’s me but… wow. My hair is shining, my eyes big and bright. My pale skin has a vibrant, healthy sort of glow when it isn’t compared to the deep bronze of his complexion. I look good.

  God, I have to have this mirror.

  His reflection joins mine again. He wears a satisfied look, one that causes his wife to huff loudly behind us. If I turn my head a fraction, I can make out her glare from the other side of her husband. I pretend I can’t. I’ve learned through the years never to let those predatory types smell my fear. If she doesn’t get the reaction she’s looking for, she’ll lose interest and leave me alone.

  “Yes. Yes. I knew it from the first moment I saw you.” His words are a murmur meant for my ears alone. “The blanket called to you, and I’m sure the mirror will serve you well. If you want it, you can have it.”

  “Really?” In my excitement, my voice squeaks.

  He grins.

  Clearing my throat, I try again. “I mean… wow. Thanks.”

  “Wait.” He holds up his free hand. The grin fades as a serious mien comes over him. “Answer this first: do you give me your word, swear to me you’ll use it?”

  Did someone slip an ice cube down the back of my sweatshirt? His tone makes me shiver as I nod, holding my breath again. Come on. Let me have the mirror and then you and your creepy wife will be nothing except an interesting story I tell my co-workers when I go back to work next week.

  His lips thin. He shakes his head. “No. The words. I have to hear you say them.” His light eyes seem to flash. “Do you swear?”

  That was weird, but okay. “Um— yeah. I guess. I mean, yes. I swear.”

  “A vow’s a vow. Your word is your bond.”

  Is it me or was there an ominous clanging sort of finality to his statement?

  Just me? Okay.

  The man goes on before I can start second-guessing his eagerness to make a deal. “Now, I’m not in it for the money, but perhaps you can afford to spare your hundred dollars? To make it fairer. And then I’d be willing to part with two of my treasures.”

  “Two?” I echo.

  He nods, lifting the blanket high so I know what he means. “What do you think?”

  I have a weakness for two things in life. If it’s soft, or if it’s sparkly, I have to have it. The mirror is the sparkly. The blanket’s so soft, I want to wrap myself in it and never take it off. For a hundred dollars and a promise I would use them, they could be mine.

  What do I think? I think I have to make this buy before the man realizes he’s basically giving away this priceless antique—not to mention the softest blanket ever—a
nd changes his mind.

  I stick out my hand. “I think you have a deal.”

  We shake, the static shock no less painful even though I’m ready for it, and then both the blanket and the mirror really are mine. The seller even helps me carry the mirror to old Sally, though his wife dogs his every step as if she thinks I might try and stick him in my trunk instead. I hold the blanket pressed against my chest, burying my nose in the fluff while enjoying the faint spicy scent that clings to it.

  Driving home with my blanket on my lap and the mirror strapped securely across my back seat, I smile in satisfaction. I have the mirror, the blanket, thirty bucks left over, and a protein bar in case I get stuck in traffic.

  I’d call that a successful hunt.

  3

  By the time I get home, it’s starting to get dark out.

  It takes me longer to get back than it should’ve, and not only because I stopped for lunch at a nearby diner when my stomach reminded me that I never got my meatball parm. I’m worried about driving too fast. What if I’m forced to stop short and something happens to my mirror? I ride my brake the whole way.

  Sure, I get my share of honks and one-finger salutes—plus a couple of weird looks when people see the mirror lying behind me—but it’s worth it when I get it home in one piece.

  I live in a split-level condo in Central Jersey. A married couple and their three kids have the bottom floor. I’m right above them, two flights up, and it’s more than enough space for me and Dud.

  My place has two small bedrooms, a bathroom, and a balcony that overlooks the back alley of Vincenzo’s Pizza. Sure, the view’s not the greatest. Rent’s cheap, though, and it’s all mine.

  I glance up at my condo. Christmas lights twinkle from my living room window, even though the holiday was over two months ago. I like them. They sparkle.

  Sally huffs and wheezes and finally turns off as I coast into my spot. I pat her hood affectionately as I climb out of the car. Weak streams of steam billow out from under the hood, dancing in the early evening breeze. The weather has dropped a good fifteen degrees since I left Manville. I pull my hoodie closer.

  Winter in New Jersey is usually unbearable and this year is no different. The remains of last week’s storm litter alongside the curbs, grimy and dirty and gross. My feet sink in the grey slush. I kick off the wet muck, already feeling the chill seeping in through my tennis shoes. The half-melted snow lands on the street with a squishy thud.

  Walking around to the other side of Sally, I peek through the window. I can’t leave the mirror in the car. After promising the man at the flea market I would use it, I don’t have the heart to leave it behind. It never occurred to me that five foot me would have to wrestle with a four foot mirror that probably weighs as much as I do.

  Only that is exactly what’s going to happen.

  It’s times like these when I wish that my only roommate isn’t a cat. Or that I don’t have a stubborn streak a mile wide. I could have asked Mr. Singh for his help—their minivan is parked next to Sally so I know they’re home—but I’m going to do it on my own.

  What can I say? I’m not used to relying on anyone else.

  Halfway up the first flight, I decide it weighs more than me. The gilded frame is awkward and I end up hugging it to get a better grip. I come close to dropping it half a dozen times but, after dragging it up two flights, the mirror finally finds its place of honor in the far corner of my bedroom.

  I smile at my reflection. My ponytail is listing to one side. I worked up a sweat while dragging this thing upstairs and tiny tendrils of loose hair stick to my forehead. The tip of my ears and my nose are Rudolph-red from the cold. Satisfaction gleams in my dark eyes.

  The other Noelle winks back at me.

  Just as I’m finishing washing my dinner dishes, I hear the telltale swing of the cat door, followed by a thump, and the heavy plodding of four massive paws on the kitchen tile. I turn and look down when I feel weight brushing up against my ankle.

  “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” I say, then I laugh.

  Dudley stops his greeting rub and stares up at me, unimpressed. Apparently, he doesn’t appreciate my humor.

  “Get it? You’re a cat and you— never mind. Hungry, Dud?”

  The big, fat orange tabby sits on his haunches at my feet. His amber eyes watch me dolefully, scolding me in that eerie way he has. He’s my pet, sure. Still, I’ve never gotten past the feeling that he’s the one in charge.

  And I know. Asking Dudley if he’s hungry is like asking an insomniac if they’re tired. Dumb question.

  I reach down and scratch him behind his ears with soapy hands. “Okay, buddy. It’s dinnertime.”

  The water is still running. I turn to rinse the soap off of my hands. I guess I take too long. A swat and a nudge to my ankle tells me to make it snappy.

  “Mew.”

  For a big boy, he has the softest little mew. Friggin’ adorable, it’s what won me over in the beginning, back when I foolishly thought I wasn’t a cat person. Silly Noelle.

  I dry my hands against my pants then show them to my cat. “Sorry, bud. Had to wash the soap off. One can of Friskies, coming right up.”

  Phew. The Friskies smell like rotten fish. I hold my nose with one hand as I scoop the wet food out of its can and onto Dudley’s dinner dish.

  It’s an awesome dish. I absolutely love it. It’s probably one of my favorite things I bought at last summer’s market. It has little pink paws on it. Sure, Dudley is a boy cat but, despite the way I betrayed him by getting him neutered, he’s secure in his masculinity. At the very least, he’s never peed on it. For Dud, that’s saying something.

  When he finishes eating, he plods after me and joins me in my living room. It’s where I keep my television. I don’t have cable so I live and die by my Netflix subscription.

  I’m currently in the middle of binging Supernatural. I don’t have to go back to work until next Monday. Spending my next few days with Dudley, Sam, and Dean sounds pretty good to me.

  Since I love soft things, I assume everybody else does too—because they should—and, yes, that goes for my cat. I bought Dudley a cozy kitty bed with a heating pad built inside to keep him warm. He curls up inside his bed, I turn the heat on, and he’s asleep in minutes.

  I watch a couple of episodes, snuggling up in the blanket I bought at the flea market. A little before eleven, I start to feel my eyes droop. I’m normally a night person, staying up all hours. Not tonight. I got up super early to take the trip out to Manville this morning. My bed is calling my name.

  Covering a yawn with my hand, I let my blanket slide off my shoulders as I head back to the kitchen.

  Once all of my dishes are put away and the counters are wiped, I shuffle back into the living room to retrieve my blanket. Dudley opens one eye, sees that I’m up, and climbs out of his bed.

  Perfectly trained as I am, I take my cue and grab the bed while he stretches. I bring both the blanket and the kitty bed into my room. Dud follows behind me, climbing back into his bed the second I put it down.

  Grabbing a nightgown from my dresser, I drag myself into the bathroom to get ready for bed. I showered this morning so I settle for washing my face and brushing my teeth before changing into my nightgown.

  It’s a pretty white one, all sheer material and lace decorations on the sleeves and the chest. It falls to my knees, sleek and cool against my skin. The heat in my bedroom tends to work too well and I like to wear loose nightgowns to keep from getting overheated. It’s something I’ve gotten into the habit of doing, like wearing my bra to bed, though that might just be pure laziness on my part. It’s not like I have any tits. I’m a B-cup in my dreams.

  I kick my slippers off, leaving them behind in the hallway. It bothers me to have things on my feet when I sleep and I’m too tired to put them away. I always worry that I’m going to trip over my slippers if I have to pee in the night. I haven’t yet so, once again, I leave them in the middle of the hall. Score another
point for the lazy. Besides, if there’s one thing I can pride myself on, it’s my balance.

  I shuffle into my room. Just as I’m about to turn out the light, something flickers off to my left, like a shadow flashing here and back. My hand freezes on the switch.

  What was that?

  I turn my head a fraction, glancing at my new mirror. A dark, looming shape is reflecting in the glass. It looks like a silhouette of a person, which is absolutely impossible since I’m the only one in my house and I am nowhere near the mirror.

  I do a double-take, scanning the room to make sure that I’m not crazy and I really am alone, before I move to stand in front of the glass to get a better look.

  The other Noelle shakes her head. I agree. For a second there, I could’ve sworn I saw something in the mirror. I’m more tired than I thought.

  A piercing yowl splits the air. My heart jumps into my throat. I spin around. Dudley leaps from his bed, all of his thick orange fur standing on end. He looks twice his size as he hisses and spits. His fangs are bared, one paw in the air, swatting at something I can’t see.

  “Dudley!”

  His amber eyes are big and wild. He doesn’t see me. He’s battling his own reflection. He darts toward it and I have visions of him crashing into the mirror and knocking it on top of him.

  There was no time to secure it earlier. I didn't trust the decorative feet so it’s currently propped up against the wall. If it falls on Dudley, it’ll hurt him.

  I dive for him and he dodges me easily, rumbling so loudly that, for the first time ever, I’m actually scared of him.

  What the hell is wrong with my cat?

  “Dud?”

  Dudley is technically a stray cat, just one who has adopted me as his human. After the first few times I found him making himself at home in my home, I gave in and got him a cat door. I figure he’ll find a way in anyhow. At least I can pretend I’m the one who invited him.

  He never bites. He never scratches. He takes his flea medicine like a champ and endures his annual trip to the vet with a sort of pained acceptance. He only ever cries when I’m late with his meals or I’m too slow with turning his heated bed on. Dud is the most laidback, chill cat I’ve ever met.