by Alyssa Cole
She’d lucked into a rent-controlled apartment right out of high school, and her part-time job at the Institute’s upscale dining hall paid a great hourly wage for waitressing work, but the phone had still been a big chunk of her budget. A chunk that could have gone toward paying off the remainder of her undergrad loans, or at least some of the interest. She’d had a good rate locked in, but then her loan had been sold to some random company intent on fleecing every sucker who hadn’t been able to pay for their college education on the spot. The thought of all the money she owed and would owe to various government entities made her want to put the phone safely down and jump into the compactor chute herself.
And who would really notice if you did, except for bill collectors? And Portia?
She headed back to her apartment, scrubbed her hands in the sink of her tiny bathroom, and then collapsed onto her futon.
She winced. I really need to get some memory foam in my life.
She had enough money saved to make the futon upgrade, but her brain rejected the expenditure, placing it on a pedestal as something the future Ledi, who had enough money to make such purchases without triple-checking her bank account balance beforehand, could buy. Ledi didn’t know how much money would be enough, but she was sure she was nowhere near that goal.
She stretched and closed her eyes against thoughts of money and her uncertain future. Her body ached from hours on her feet waitressing at the Institute, and her brain was mush from studying and trying not to worry about her practicum.
She’d told herself not to get too excited when Kreillig had offered her the summer internship because excitement was just another name for expectation, and expectations were the fastest route to disappointment. But then she’d read a blog post on girlswithglasses.com about minimizing your accomplishments. It had asked readers to leave their latest accomplishment in the comments, and under the guise of web community semi-anonymity, she’d posted I GOT A FUCKING AWESOME INTERNSHIP!! She’d reveled in the likes and encouragement from fellow commenters, but now she felt like she was paying for it with the torture of waiting for Kreillig’s response.
And then there was the spammer who thought Ledi was delusional enough to believe she was princess material . . .
Frustrated squeaking from the corner of her apartment broke through her daze, and she sprang out of bed, spurred by the quick, sharp guilt of disappointing someone—or something—dependent on her for survival.
“Sorry! Shit, you must be starving!” She hurried to the small cage near the room’s sole window, which provided a spectacular view of the brick wall of the adjacent building. It wasn’t much to look at, but Gram-P and Gram-N had once been destined to become slides under some researcher’s microscope, so she was pretty certain they appreciated it.
The two white lab mice hopped up excitedly, their small pink hands pressing against the glass as she approached. It was a Friday, which meant she’d brought them some high-fat chow from the lab.
“Yup. It’s the good stuff,” she said, grabbing the sandwich bag from her backpack and dropping the pellets through the mesh at the top of the cage. They squeaked appreciatively and ran to gather their meal.
“What do you guys think?” she asked, leaning on the wall beside the windowsill.
Two sets of beady pink eyes looked up at her. Gram-P stopped chewing the pellet he held in his paws, as if waiting for her to go on.
“Do I look like princess material to you?”
Gram-N turned his back to hunt for more chow, and Ledi had to agree with him.
She didn’t know why the Thesoloian scammers had decided to target her, of all people. She looked around her tiny apartment. Clean but obviously secondhand furniture she’d acquired from Goodwill stores and curbs on garbage night. Postcards and cheap prints she’d framed to give some personality to her living area, and one really nice painting that had been a gift from Portia. Like most of her life, her interior decoration had been borne of other people’s scraps. The scammers obviously needed to refine their search criteria.
Or maybe they were right on target.
The selfishness of your parents . . . She hadn’t thought about her parents in so long, but the emails from this Likotsi had made her start to wonder again. She’d almost replied, almost, then reminded herself that this was how they lured people in. Maybe there was some database of kids who had aged out of foster care without being adopted or reunited with family members that these assholes were trawling for victims.
Ledi took a deep breath around the jumble of emotions coalescing in her chest, a sensation she hadn’t felt since she was seventeen and sitting in her college dorm room, watching parents of every kind move their kids in. She’d lied and said her parents had already left when people asked where they were; it was easier than dealing with the pitying looks she got when she told the truth. Several of her undergrad classmates had graduated thinking her parents were alive. It hadn’t mattered; those people had been part of the outside environment of college life.
Ledi pushed away the aggravating thoughts.
The emails were more than mere annoyances. They were a reminder of what she had lost. She was an adult now, making her way in the world and doing a damn good job at it, but part of her would always be the four-year-old hiding in the closet of an unfamiliar foster home unable to process that she’d never see her parents again.
She remembered her father’s dark skin and the way his smile seemed like it made the world turn. She remembered that her mother smelled of flowers and cocoa butter, and the way it felt to be squeezed tightly in her arms. But that was it, apart from a few shards of memories that sometimes came in dreams and splintered if she grasped them too tightly. She didn’t know who they were, or who she was, and each one of the emails reminded her of the heart of the matter: she was alone.
Gram-P squeaked and hurried to the side of the cage closest to her. He pressed his paw against it, as if sensing her sadness. She gave the glass an appreciative stroke with a fingertip and sighed.
It doesn’t get more pathetic than this, Ledi thought, pushing off of the windowsill and taking the few short steps that carried her to the kitchenette. Being comforted by Mus musculus.
Her phone vibrated but she ignored it, knowing it was either another annoying email or Portia texting to see if she’d changed her mind about meeting for drinks. Both possibilities held the same appeal for her, since Portia still considered The Hangover her template for a fun night out.
Ledi glanced at the phone, the glow from the screen catching her attention. Maybe she should go out. She hadn’t done anything fun in a while, and hanging with her best friend was healthier than talking to mice. But the thought of fake banter with strangers at a bar, or worse, Portia asking her what was wrong, made the decision for her. Talking about what was happening with Kreillig and with her spammer would make it too real, and Portia would of course try to fix things because Portia was invested in fixing everything that wasn’t herself.
Ledi reached for the freezer. She’d spend the night with Ben and Jerry, who didn’t ask questions and stayed off the sauce unless you were talking rum raisin. They wouldn’t drag her into any shenanigans, and they certainly wouldn’t judge her for indulging in the childish fantasy that maybe, just maybe, the scammer from Thesolo was telling her the truth.
LEDI AWOKE FROM dreams of Bonferroni correction rates to the sound of jackhammering. Her alarm hadn’t gone off yet, meaning it was way too early or too late for any kind of construction to be happening. She could call 311 to complain, but they wouldn’t do anything anyway. It was the placebo pill of emergency numbers. She pulled the pillow over her head.
The sound started up again just as she was drifting to sleep, and she realized it wasn’t outside. The pounding was coming from inside the house, so to speak.
“Ledi! I have to use the bathroom!” a familiar voice called outside her front door.
Oh fuck.
Portia. At Ledi’s door in the middle of the night instead of at her own
Brooklyn apartment. Again.
Dammit. There goes my REM sleep.
She was so tired that she almost cried at the loss of precious sleep. She could pretend she wasn’t home, but doing that would have two possible outcomes: (1) one of her neighbors would be woken up instead, possibly resulting in a scene; (2) Portia would wander off, leaving Ledi to worry whether she’d made it home okay. Both outcomes resulted in loss of sleep, so opening the door would save her time and energy, and maybe a visit to the ER.
That’s what friends are for, right?
She crawled out of bed and undid the column of locks on the door. The distinct odor of old Irish pub smacked her in the nostrils when she opened the door, and she scrunched her nose.
“Are you okay?” she asked out of habit. It was the same thing she replied first thing in the morning after waking up to drunk texts. Portia looked okay, though; better than okay.
One day Ledi would do a case study on how her friend was always so pulled together, even at her hot messiest. Portia’s slim-fitting ivory pants only sported a few stains, and her tailored brown blouse was just wrinkled enough to be fashionable. Her earrings, necklace, and bracelets were a mix of refined classic and chunky boho chic that suited her perfectly. Her rust-gold ringlets were popping, her edges were flourishing, and her light brown skin was clear and smooth, apart from a smattering of freckles.
The only thing off was her eyes. They were full of the wariness that often arose after a few drinks, even when she was supposedly having fun. It was something that Ledi hadn’t been able to understand in all their years of friendship. She hadn’t been able to persuade Portia to talk to someone whose job it was to understand, either.
“I’m fine. I hope I’m not bothering you,” Portia said in a soft, only slightly slurred voice as she squinted into Ledi’s studio. “I just hadn’t seen you in a while, and I got worried when I was texting and calling and you didn’t respond. The after party wasn’t too far from here—well the after-after party, which was just me and the artist at his apartment—so I decided to stop by and see if you were still alive.”
Portia grinned and shrugged, and a bit of Ledi’s annoyance dissolved. A tiny bit. A microscopic bit. Ledi had been too busy to meet up for the last few weeks, despite Portia’s persistent requests for dinner, drinks, and invitations to various artsy events. And Portia had been worried—no one besides her had really worried about Ledi since she’d transitioned from foster care to living on her own. But showing up drunk on a friend’s doorstep in the middle of the night wasn’t cool, even if it was well-intentioned; and this wasn’t the first, or even the fifth time it had happened.
Ledi had talked to Portia both as a friend and as a soon-to-be health care professional. During each discussion, a chastened Portia promised to take it easy with the partying and a frustrated Ledi explained that she wouldn’t keep dealing with drunken hijinks; both of them swallowed the lies easily because what was the alternative?
“Ledi?” There was the slightest twinge of panic in her friend’s voice.
Ledi sighed.
“It’s the middle of the night, so, yes, you’re bothering me. But since you came to make sure I didn’t get serial killed, it’s okay I guess,” Ledi said, stepping aside to let her in.
It’s not okay.
Portia stumbled into the apartment, making a sharp right to maneuver herself into the bathroom that had seemingly been built for a contortionist.
Ledi walked over to her tiny kitchen. She filled a bottle with water and dropped in an effervescent multivitamin that would help stave off a hangover. She stood for a moment, watching the bubbles through the clear plastic and listening as her toiletries were knocked off of their shelves in the bathroom. The weight of a question she tried not to ask herself too often settled over her.
Wouldn’t it be nice if someone took care of me, instead? In her experience, unless they were getting a paycheck, no one was interested in that particular task.
The toilet flushed and there was the crash of something hitting the tile floor. Ledi cringed.
“I also wanted to make sure you were okay, after the whole Clarence thing,” Portia continued their conversation seamlessly as she stepped out, rubbing her hands on her pants. She pulled out her sleek phone, which was at least three generations ahead of Ledi’s and double the size. “I have to replace your candle. I’ll order one now and it’ll arrive tomorrow. And you really need to get some new hand towels. I’ll add those to the order.”
Ledi blinked.
Candle? Okay, that’s what the breaking glass had been. Towels? The ones she had were fine. Clarence? She’d already put that short-lived relationship out of her mind; an ill-timed pop-up text from his side piece had revealed his true nature. A few weeks of freedom from his boring finance industry stories had proven what a blessing Melissa “I’m naked and waiting” S. had been.
“Um, thanks? But Clarence is history. He’s been filed away in the Annals of the Journal of New York City Fuckboys.” She handed Portia the bottle. “Along with ninety-five percent of your hookups.”
“Good.” Portia ignored the poke about her own dating life and instead flopped onto the futon and began scrolling on her phone while sipping from the bottle. “Should we kill him? I’d help you hide the body. You know my family owns land all over the northeast. Oh, look at these hand towels with little microscopes on them!”
She held up her phone toward Ledi.
“No need to kill Clarence—having to live with himself is punishment enough,” Ledi said, and then leaned down to examine the phone. “And the towels are cute but I can buy my own.”
“Why? I said I would pay for them. And we should still shank him,” Portia said around a yawn.
Ledi shook her head. Portia might kill for her, but she would do it with some kind of fancy steak knife from Tiffany’s or wherever rich people shopped for cutlery, not a crude shank. Or if she did use a shank, it would be some artisanal weapon she’d crafted at one of her workshops, made with salvaged beach glass or something.
Portia was a perpetual student, trying anything that interested her, then moving on when the next thing caught her fancy. She could afford to coast, choosing where and how seriously to pursue her studies on a whim. Ledi tried not to resent that, and mostly succeeded. Portia hadn’t asked to be Richie Rich any more than Ledi had asked to be a Little Orphan Annie.
Ledi climbed into the bed beside Portia, jerking a portion of her blanket from under her friend. She could sleep for a little while longer. She’d be having biostats for breakfast with her study group, and then a long shift at the Institute awaited her, with more studying capping off her night—and more grinding her teeth about her internship if Kreillig didn’t get back to her.
“Ledi?” Portia tugged the blanket out from beneath her and pushed it toward Ledi.
“What’s up?”
“I didn’t really bother you, did I?”
Ledi was still annoyed, and she didn’t want to encourage bad habits, but part of her was glad Portia had stopped by. She’d been consumed with school and work, and she’d forgotten how good it was to interact with someone who had nothing to do with either.
“No. You didn’t.”
Portia responded with light snores; she was already asleep.
Ledi sighed and stared up into the darkness; she was wide-awake. She hadn’t given much thought to her most recent break up, but now she wondered why Portia had worried Clarence would return—Ledi had never expected him to hang around to begin with. She was like a faulty piece of Velcro; people tried to stick to her, but there was something intrinsically wrong in her design. Twenty plus years of data, starting from that first foster family, supported that hypothesis. Hell, Portia’s late-night drunk visits were worrisome, but Ledi was still shocked each time that her friend cared enough to stop by.
Is that why you put up with it?
Ledi shifted on the futon, rolling away from the uncomfortable thought but not quickly enough to evade another one: it’d b
een a relief when she’d found out about Clarence’s cheating—he’d proven her Velcro hypothesis correct. And when he’d shrugged and said, “It’s not like you love me,” he hadn’t been mistaken. Her social cell membrane had kept her heart intact.
Still . . . she wondered what it would be like to let someone in. Not Clarence, who’d been a Break Glass In Case of Emergency kind of boyfriend, but someone who might actually prove her hypothesis wrong.
That would be terrifying.
Ledi tossed and turned, as if wriggling free from the thoughts that threatened to bind her, and Portia grumbled on the other side of the bed.
She was fine on her own. She always had been. And if no good guy ever made it past her barriers? Well, that’d be fine, too.
Just fine.
She stared at the ceiling, willing herself to sleep. Her brain had other ideas, taking her on a guided tour of all the work she had to complete and explaining how inability to do so would result in complete and utter failure. Finally, like a rat on a wheel going full tilt, she exhausted herself with all the ways she could fail and the repercussions of each possibility, and began to slide into sleep.
Oh god, yesss, this is so much better than sex, who needs a man? she thought as she was tugged into the sweet darkness of slumber—and then her phone vibrated.
She groaned into her pillow, her body heavy with fatigue, and reached for the phone.
Sender: [email protected]
Subject: Time Is of the Essence
Ms. Smith,
I know that you have received my messages—I can see that they have been read. I do not know why you ignore my attempts at contact. It is imperative that you respond at once or—
