the two levels

by Jonathan R. Miller

  Give them some time?

  But my momma needs help now, not as soon as possible.

  “Even the people on the second floor?” I ask.

  “Just give us some time,” the woman answers. “Someone will be up to check on the second floor really soon.”

  “But I don’t have any time,” I say.

  “I understand,” the woman says, nodding.

  The woman doesn’t understand.

  She doesn’t understand at all.

  I need to go now.

  I need to leave here, sneak into the Supply Room next door, and get Momma what she needs.

  I don’t say anything else.

  Soon, another kid—a short boy with hair so blonde it’s practically white—raises his hand to ask the woman a question.

  “How do you breathe inside there?” he asks, his eyes wide.

  I don’t hear the woman’s response.

  As she speaks, I slowly back my way out of the circle. Everyone—the kids and the grownups—seem to be focused on what the woman is saying.

  I need to go.

  Right now.

  While everyone is busy paying attention to other things.

  I wait until I think no one is looking, and then I slowly turn and walk away.

  I go to the corner of the room near the stack of folding chairs, pick up my backpack from the floor, empty it out, and take one last look over my shoulder before slipping quietly out the back door—the door on the opposite side of the room from where the crowd is gathered.

  • • •

  The hallway is completely empty.

  The long, tube-shaped lightbulbs in the ceiling are humming softly—that’s the only sound I can hear.

  Actually, not the only sound.

  If I try, I can also hear voices and laughter coming through the closed door to the Rug-Rat Room, but only barely—it’s like I’m listening with earmuffs on. The sound of other people doesn’t make me feel better anyhow. It only makes my side of the door seem even scarier.

  I look both ways and then start walking to the left.

  The Supply Room is next door, so it doesn’t take me long at all—only a few seconds. As I get closer, I see that the door has been propped open with a black rubber stopper.

  I stop walking.

  I need to think.

  The door is already open, and that is a good thing.

  But if the door is open, that also means that someone might be inside.

  That would not be good.

  If I do see someone else inside the Supply Room, what am I supposed to do?

  What will I say?

  Before I can make a decision, a brown-haired woman with tan skin steps out of the open door to the Supply Room. She’s carrying two brown paper bags, one in each arm. Her lips are bright pink, her cheeks are bright red, and her eyelids are bright blue, all of which looks pretty nice, in my opinion.

  The woman stops and stares at me.

  “Oh. Hi, there!” she says.

  She looks just as surprised as I feel.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “What are you doing out here all alone, girlie?” She looks over my head like she’s searching for something behind me.

  Uh oh.

  It’s happening. I don’t what I’m supposed to say.

  “I don’t know,” I answer.

  The woman smiles. Her teeth are, like, the whitest things I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

  “You know what? I don’t know what I’m doing out here either,” she says. “It’s one big mystery. So I guess we’re in the same boat, the two of us, aren’t we.”

  “Um. I guess so.”

  “Okay,” the woman says. “So what can I do for you? Did you need something?”

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  The woman doesn’t say anything. She stares at me with a strange half-smile.

  I think I should keep talking. But I’m still not sure what to say.

  “My mom needs something from in there.” I point toward the open door.

  The woman turns and looks at the door like she just noticed it for the first time.

  “Okay. Do you know what she needs?” the woman asks.

  I nod. “Yeah. I think so.”

  The woman shrugs, steps to one side and nods toward the Supply Room. “Go for it, girlie. Just make sure you close the door when you’re finished.”

  • • •

  Once the woman is gone, I hurry into the Supply Room and crouch down behind a stack of cardboard boxes. I wait there, peeking at the doorway once in a while.

  My entire body is shaking.

  I don’t want to do any of this anymore.

  I just want to be home again.

  Soon I start to cry. I don’t even try to stop this time. It’s too hard to keep fighting against myself.

  • • •

  I’m not sure how long I spend huddled behind the boxes, but it feels like forever.

  No one comes through the Supply Room door.

  I need to move.

  It’ll be better than just sitting here, waiting for something bad to happen.

  Eventually I wipe my eyes, get on my feet, and start walking around the room.

  It looks almost the exact same as the Rug-Rat Room—like a big carpeted dining room—but it’s only about half the size. It has the same glass chandelier on the ceiling, the same grey folding chairs lined up in a rack along one wall, and the same long tables with folding legs leaning against the opposite wall.

  Other than its size, the one major difference—and the reason I’m here, after all—is the stacks of products piled on the floor, organized by type.

  I move quickly from pile to pile, looking for medicine and bandages that I can bring back to Momma. Every once in a while, I find some of the things that Mr. Emmanuel wants—stupid stuff like watches and necklaces and rings—but I ignore it all, at least for the moment.

  I’m going to find supplies for my momma first.

  Afterward, if there’s any room left over in my backpack, then I’ll find supplies for his momma, second.

  After searching for a few minutes, I find what I’ve been looking for:

  A giant red first-aid kit with a white plus sign on the lid.

  It’s much bigger and better than the kit I found in the camping store. When I open it, I see everything I could possibly want:

  Band-Aids.

  Rolled up bandages.

  Germ-killing cream.

  Aspirin pills in a bottle.

  It’s perfect. I can’t believe it!

  The first-aid kit even fits in my backpack if I push down on it really hard.

  Now that I have what I need for Momma, I focus on gathering Mr. Emmanuel’s things (because I promised I would):

  Five gold watches.

  Seven small boxes with diamond earrings inside.

  A computer tablet.

  Three cell phones.

  I zip up the backpack and put it on—it’s much heavier now.

  But even though I’m carrying a thousand pounds, I feel as light as a feather right now.

  I actually did it.

  I found the things that my momma needs.

  Now I’m going to go back upstairs, give everything to Mr. Emmanuel, and then he’s going to help her. And once she gets better, we’ll be able to leave the mall for good, and I’ll never come back here again, not even to go to Chili’s restaurant.

  I walk toward the open door, carrying my newfound treasures on my back.

  As I get closer, I hear two different voices coming from the hallway—voices of a man and a woman. The voices sound angry, like the two people are having a conflict with each other.

  One of them sounds a lot like Mr. Jim.

  Panicked, I turn around, run back to my hiding place behind the cardboard boxes, and crouch down, burying my face in my hands.

  “Fuck that,” the man says.

  Now I’m sure that it’s Mr. Jim.

  “You can’t be serious,” he says. “Fuck t
hat. Why should we have to wait even one more minute? Much less an entire day.”

  “Like I told you. It isn’t my decision,” the woman says.

  Her voice sounds weird, like it’s coming from underneath a blanket.

  Maybe she’s wearing a plastic jumpsuit with a hood, like the one I saw the woman wearing in the Rug-Rat Room. Maybe it’s the same woman, even.

  “We’re going to get you out of here as soon as possible, but the transfer protocols take time to implement. It isn’t magic,” the woman continues.

  “You need to start listening to me,” Mr. Jim says. “Your ‘transfer protocols’ aren’t even necessary. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “Sir—”

  “Don’t fucking ‘sir’ me,” Mr. Jim says. “Just look at the security tapes. They’ll tell you the story—we haven’t been in contact with the second floor. Period. We’re all clean down here. Let me send you the video files covering all the time we’ve been locked up in here.”

  “I know this has been unimaginably difficult, but it’s just one more day we’re talking about. Two, at the absolute most—”

  “You’re not understanding what I’m telling you. You need to stop wasting time talking and start watching. The tapes don’t lie,” Mr. Jim says. “We haven’t been mixing with the fucking natives. They have their floor; we have ours. Which means that we should be getting out of this shithole right goddamn now. I should be able to walk out the door, free and clear.”

  The woman doesn’t say anything.

  Suddenly I hear footsteps in the hallway—they get quieter and quieter, like someone is walking away.

  “Where the fuck are you going?” Mr. Jim asks. “Hello?”

  I don’t hear a response.

  The footsteps keep getting quieter.

  “Perfect,” Mr. Jim says. “Fuck you all the way to hell, then, bitch.”

  I wait.

  I listen as hard as I can.

  But I don’t hear anything else.

  After what feels like hours, I stand up, walk slowly to the door of the Supply Room, and peer out into the hallway.

  It’s completely empty.

  I don’t wait there any longer.

  I run as fast as I can.

  I make my way to the Employee Only exit and burst through, entering the main mall, gripping the backpack straps with both hands.

  I don’t see anyone else.

  Some light from the sun is still shining through the skylights, making long shadows out of everything—the signs, the benches, the railing above me.

  I run down the middle of the first-floor walkway, searching desperately for a way up to the second level.

  • • •

  By the time I make it upstairs to Macy’s, I’m about to cry again.

  I’ve never been this afraid before.

  Not in my entire life.

  I’m afraid because I always have to run and hide so I’m not seen.

  I’m afraid because I have to take the things I need without anyone else knowing.

  I’m afraid because Momma is hurt and Daddy is somewhere far away.

  I’m afraid because I feel like I’m all by myself, even if I’m near other people.

  But do you know what’s really weird?

  Even though I’m afraid, I’m also kind of happy somehow.

  I’m happy because I met a new friend. Hadley.

  I’m happy because I did my goal—I gathered everything that Momma needs to get better.

  I’m also happy because the rescuers are finally here.

  And the woman in the plastic jumpsuit said that we’re getting out of the mall soon—just one more day, maybe.

  Yep. I’m afraid and happy.

  Neither one, exactly. So both.

  I pull open the heavy glass door to Macy’s and squeeze through.

  The sights, sounds, and smells of the second-floor village wash over me like a wave.

  I see men, ladies and kids like me, all with dark skin, dark eyes, and clothing in almost every color of the rainbow: green, red, blue, orange, and yellow.

  I hear the sounds of men and ladies talking, laughing, or doing their chores. I hear the sounds of kids having fun together.

  I smell vegetables cooking and the smoke from cigarettes.

  I run through the store, passing by the Culinary Center, the cosmetics section, the clothing area for regular girls like me, and the clothing area for grownup girls. It feels like everybody stops what they’re doing to stare at me as I go by, but I don’t even care about that anymore. I’m trying to find the boys’ fitting rooms—that’s where my momma is, and that’s what I need to focus on right now.

  The problem is that I can’t find my way. I can’t remember where the fitting rooms are.

  I slow down. Running around isn’t helping me if I don’t know where I’m running to.

  I come to a stop in the middle of the men’s shoe section. There are people all around me, but I don’t recognize any of them.

  Maybe I could try and talk to one of the grownups.

  But, on second thought, maybe I shouldn’t.

  What if the stranger acts unfriendly toward me?

  What if we can’t even understand each other’s languages?

  “Ey, pikin,” a voice calls out, making me jump. “Jasmine. Mi girly-girl.”

  I know that voice.

  I turn around.

  It’s Mr. Emmanuel.

  He trots over to me, smiling really big.

  “Did you do my shopping for me, girl?” he whispers. “Tell me you put in some good work downstairs. Some real good work. Go on.”

  I don’t say anything.

  I nod my head.

  Mr. Emmanuel reaches out with one of his long fingers, hooks it through my backpack’s shoulder strap, and tugs. His smile gets even wider.

  “All right, girly. All right,” he says. “I can tell that you brought some good things back home. Let’s see what you got for me, pikin.”

  Mr. Emmanuel tries to pull the backpack all the way off my shoulders, but I squirm away before he can.

  “Don’t,” I say, taking a few steps back.

  Mr. Emmanuel is only thinking about his own stuff.

  I don’t like that.

  He should be thinking about helping my momma, not acting selfish.

  Mr. Emmanuel’s eyes open wider and his smile disappears. All at once, he lunges toward me and rips the backpack from my shoulders as quick as a snake strike.

  “You’re not about to tell me don’t,” he says, shaking his head from side to side as he unzips the backpack. “This fucking white girl trying to tell me something? Shit. When I want to do, I do. There is no don’t for me.”

  I don’t say anything.

  I can’t.

  I rub my arm where the backpack strap scraped it.

  Before I have a chance to stop and think, I burst into tears, both because my arm really hurts and because Mr. Emmanuel is scaring me right now.

  I can’t stop. My tears feel hot against my cheeks, like my eyes are erupting lava.

  I watch as Mr. Emmanuel digs through the backpack for a while.

  “Is that all?” he asks finally. His voice is much louder than it was before.

  I wipe my eyes and nose with my shirt collar. “All what?” I ask.

  “All you got from downstairs,” he answers. He reaches into the backpack and pulls out a fistful of gold watches. “Just this, only? I need more than this, pikin, to make any difference for me.”

  “I’m sorry. I tried my hardest.”

  “No,” Mr. Emmanuel says, shaking his head. “I want to know why. Why this only?” He throws the watches into the backpack, zips it closed, and swings it onto one of his bony shoulders. “Tell me now.”

  Mr. Emmanuel looks really, really angry at me right now.

  I start to panic.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell him.

  Why did I only get the things I got?

  How did I decide to pic
k the things I picked?

  I can’t remember why or how anymore.

  Then it hits me.

  Maybe I don’t have to answer Mr. Emmanuel’s question.

  Instead, maybe I can give him the good news.