Chasing Power (Hidden Talents)

by Pearson, Genevieve

  “Nathan isn’t the only person come to town,” I said, and quickly told Meriah about the three strangers. Leaving out the part about the puking.

  “They sound like kids on a spring break road trip. Why would you worry about them?”

  This gave me pause. I’d never told Meriah about my instincts. I tended to keep that part of my life hidden as it seemed a little woo-woo. These kids rang the alarm bells stronger than anyone I ever encountered, sure, but how to explain that?

  “They just gave me the willies, I guess,” I said, leaning back in the chair. “Too perfect.”

  “Perfect girls give me the willies, too.” Meriah laughed. “They spend way too much time on their hair.”

  #

  At home, my mom was in kitchen with dinner. She gave me a kiss on the head and launched in to a tirade about the latest employee at the theater, a projectionist who kept coming late to work.

  “If I have to go up there to start the movie,” my mom said, pulling the burgers out of her bag of fast food (fast food is a staple at our house. Thursdays are burgers from Big Al’s), “Then that’s fifty percent of his job right there. But can I dock fifty percent of his pay for that? No. Why? Well, that would just make me a terrible boss now, wouldn’t it? Ugh.”

  She collapsed in the chair and gave me a funny look, “What happened? You look like something happened.”

  Here came the tough part. If my mom got wind that Nate was in town, she’d be hunting him down and running him right back out again. Plus, my mom was stressed. I wanted to tell her, but at I also wanted to eat before the fries got too soggy to digest. And I wanted a chance to figure things out for myself before she decided to figure them out for me. She sat down on the couch and I sat next to her. We both reached for the sodas, and sighed as we took sips, then laughed. We’re kind of similar that way.

  My mom looked a lot like me, add eighteen years. It was in the coloring that my dad came out. My mom had darker skin and black hair common for her Hispanic origin—my dad must have been white. My skin was slightly paler than hers, my hair was chestnut brown to her black, I had green eyes, where she had brown, and curls where her hair was straight. That came from my dad, too, she said. I would not know, seeing as he did not ever bother to look us up after I was born. Surprisingly, my mom did not harbor a grudge about this. He never lied to her, she said, so why should she be angry?

  I was angry. A little. Or I was when I was fourteen and being angry was in vogue. Now it’s graduated to one of those annoying things in life you’ll never have an answer to, but have learned to live with. Sometimes I worried he had some weird genetic disorder that would manifest in me, but it hadn’t happened yet.

  “Do you have work tomorrow?” my mom said, interrupting my food-based stupor.

  “Yep. Eight to four again.”

  “Want to carpool or would you rather waste gas?”

  “I can drop you off at the theater if you like, before I go.”

  My mom nodded. She owned and ran the movie theater downtown. As boss, she could technically arrive whenever she wanted. But if she didn’t want to have to stay late, she’d have to arrive early. Carpooling with me was her way of making sure she didn’t accidentally sleep in.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Kyrie?”

  I nodded. She gave me a long look, then suggested we watch some TV before bed.

  #

  Eight o’clock class is the worst. Early enough that you don’t feel like you’re sleeping in, but too early to partake of that special feeling that happens right after dawn, the feeling like it’s just you and the planet and since you’re both up this early, you might as well get some stuff done. Instead, you’re just tired and annoyed. I slumbered into class, yawning along with the rest of the students. Later in the day, I might have an appreciation for chemistry, but the teacher had a monotone that made it impossible to pay attention. I half-dozed until class ended. Then it was time to go to work. I drove across town, pulled my vest out of the locker, and checked in.

  Different schedule, same routine. Some days I felt like I was stuck in a hamster wheel, running my little legs off in the hopes I might someday break free.

  #

  “It’s not so bad that you’re getting older! Losing your eyesight just means you can’t see all those wrinkles! Happy Birthday!” Greeting cards are supposed to show people you care, right? Then why are so many of them like little nuggets of meanness wrapped up in a pastel envelope?

  As apparent punishment for being sick at work, I was stuck at my least favorite job, stocking the greeting cards. Not because the sayings are annoying, but because it’s tedious and means going through every slot since customers love mixing up the envelopes and putting cards back in the wrong slot. On the one hand, it’s why I even had a job. On the other, tedious.

  And now that pukey feeling was back. A giggle rang out and I turned, seeing the exact same shoplifters from the day before. Ready for another go at petty theft, no doubt. Well, good luck, girls, I thought, I’ve got your number now and the second time will not be the charm.

  And then I noticed who they were talking to. And then once I saw him, he was impossible not to notice. The brown-haired boy from yesterday. Tall, broad, with a jaw that made him look like the love child of the Brawny Man and Captain America.

  “Miss? Miss!”

  The voice registered, but honestly, said voice was not as interesting as Hotty McEvil.

  “Carrie? Hello?”

  “Keer-ee-ah,” I said, emphasizing the middle vowel. Normally, I don’t care if people mispronounce my name, unusual as it is, but I was annoyed at the distraction.

  “Like the song?”

  Turning, I leveled a glare at my interrupter. Not very good of me, customer-service wise, but I was not feeling myself.

  “Yes, I was named after the pop song,” I said. “Exactly.”

  “Why would your mom do that?”

  Because when you’re eighteen and pregnant and unmarried and homeless and that song comes on the radio, it holds a lot of spiritual and emotional meaning to your immature and overwhelmed little self. But I didn’t say that. Instead I shrugged. “Lots of parents name their kids after songs.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, uh, it’s pretty, now that I think about it. Sorry if I was rude for asking.”

  I sighed. Now, who could stay upset at someone so darn polite in the face of my peevishness? I smiled at the young man in front of me. Not so young—another college kid. He just seemed young in comparison to the mature Adonis I’d been ogling. And he looked familiar—I’d had a couple of classes with him in high school. His name hovered somewhere in the back of my brain, but I couldn’t place it yet.

  “How may I help you?”

  “My brother, actually, would like your help. Isaac?”

  A little boy of about four, with freckles and curly, sandy blond hair that matched his older brother’s, clung to What’sHisName’s leg, sucking a thumb. He did not seem to want my help. He seemed to think I was the most terrifying thing he’d seen since the clowns at the carnival.

  “Isaac,” the older brother prodded, and kind of gave the kid a gentle nudge in my direction. The boy peeled himself away from—God, what was his name?!—and approached me.

  “Srry,” he mumbled, and skittered back.

  “Hunh?” I said. “Why?”

  Logan! Ha! That’s it! Dammit, had I remembered that a minute ago, I could’ve had a witty response to his pointing out that I was named after a song: “Oh yeah?” I could’ve said, “At least I wasn’t named after a comic-book character.” Or an Airport. No, comic-book character was better. Yeah.

  “Srry I st…” His voice trailed off.

  “Excuse me?”

  The little boy looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. Logan reached forward and grabbed his brother’s shoulder, which seemed to help the poor kid.

  “Sorry. I. Stole. The. Car. Sorry.”

  “You stole a car?” I said, a little impressed. “Why are you telling me?�
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  The kid fished something out of his pocket, a little die-cast racer. Oh, that kind of car.

  “They said you were the person to talk to about this sort of thing,” Logan said. “Inventory control consultant.” That had to be the assistant manager’s work, by means of trying to reduce the line at customer service.

  “I guess so,” I said. “But I’ve never had someone return something willingly.”

  “You are now.”

  Logan gave his brother a push forward and the kid hurriedly handed me the car. I looked down at it. It was covered in crumbs from his pocket and was no longer in its packaging. I wasn’t sure what to do with it. It was only worth two bucks. I had two bucks in my purse, I figured I could pay for it at the end of the day.

  “I forgive you. And since you were good and apologized,” I said, “Why don’t you kee—”

  My grand gesture was overridden by Logan firmly shaking his head “no” behind his brother’s back, “—eep in mind that, you, uh, shouldn’t steal because stealing is bad,” I finished lamely, pocketing the car.

  Logan smiled at me. Suddenly, I felt warm, good. He bent down to his brother. “Since you’ve done the right thing now, why don’t you go run along and find your sisters. I think they’re picking out popsicles.” Nodding, the little one ran off. And then it hit me—this guy’s name wasn’t Logan, he was one of the Logans. Of the at least ten kids and still going strong Logans.

  The Logans had a reputation for being poor, super-religious and living on the edge of the map, even for this nowhere town. All had various shades of blond hair and the same sort of farmer look. I’d only thought Logan was his first name because that’s what everyone at school called him—Logan. They called his sister that, too. As though there were too many to recall any one specific kid’s name. Good thing I hadn’t made my clever comeback. It would have sucked.

  The Logan in front of me had dark blond hair and chocolate brown eyes. He wore a clean, but worn plaid shirt and jeans, both in a style much better suited for a man in his middle age. The out-of-style clothing, coupled with his quiet disposition made it clear why he hadn’t been on the roster of popular boys at my school.

  Reaching in to his pocket, Logan pulled out a couple of bills and handed them to me. “That should cover the car,” he said. “I know you probably can’t re-sell it now, but I wanted him to learn his lesson.”

  I took the money and slid it in the pocket with the car, nodding. That made sense. Silence stretched out. Logan smiled, rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, and stood there.

  “Uh, anything else I can help you with?” I asked.

  A high-pitched squeal punctuated the air. The ear-splitting attack-shriek of an adolescent female; I knew it well from the eighth grade. Spinning on my heel, I was in time to see the shorter of the two teen girls slap her friend. The Tall Girl grabbed her cheek, stunned. Then the she hissed—I kid you not, she hissed, like a cat—and grabbed Shorty’s hair, yanking her head back.

  “Girls,” Logan yelled. “Lay off! Someone’s going to get hurt!”

  “Probably me.” I sighed. Running forward, I grabbed Tall’s arms, trying to disconnect her from Shorty. I was rewarded with a swift kick in my shin from Shorty.

  “Get outta my way!” she yelled. “I’m gonna kill her!”

  I was in it now, trapped inside a whirling tornado of manicured nails, grasping fingers, pointy elbows, and pointier teeth. Extending my arms, I pushed them back, trying to distance them from each other and me. Tall grabbed the collar of my shirt, trying to yank me out of her way. But she was too slight to have the power to pull me anywhere. Instead, she propelled her own self forward, and for a moment she hung there, out of balance. And then she lost her balance, sliding to the ground. But her grip on my shirt held firm. Unbalanced by the weight, like a scale tipping, I crashed to the ground on top of her. Taking advantage of her edge, Shorty began to kick us madly, landing blows on our faces and stomachs.

  “Hey! You don’t kick someone when they’re down! Didn’t you ever learn to fight fair?”

  That was Logan, grabbing Shorty from behind, pulling her away from us. Screaming, she dropped and turned, weaseling out of his grip. Still zeroed in on her once-friend, she turned back toward us. Seeing her coming, Talls pulled her leg back, getting ready to kick. But Shorty evaded the kick at the last minute and Tall’s foot collided with Logan’s groin instead. Groaning, he staggered backward.

  That did it.

  I’d been going easy on the girls at that point, but now they were causing collateral damage. Pulling myself up, I reached out with my left hand and planted it, palm down, on Tall’s shoulder.

  “Don’t move,” I ordered. Shorty continued attacking us. Ignoring her kicks, I reached out with my right hand, grabbed her one stable leg, and yanked. With no means to support herself, Shorty crashed to the ground. I placed my right hand on her shoulder. Now both girls were pinned.

  “Stay,” I commanded. “No more fighting.”

  Normally, my voice is light and sweet. I know how to pitch it just so, though, so I can sound intimidating.

  Both girls were surprised. Shocked out of their fury. I stood, grabbing their earlobes as I did, one in each hand.

  “It’s time for you two to leave.”

  As the surprise wore off, they yelled and hollered, pinched, slapped and fussed, but I was determined. I didn’t release them until we were clear of the store. “Fighting isn’t part of the Smiley’s experience!” I yelled after them. “So consider yourselves unwelcome!”

  The girls, rubbing their ears, hurled one or two more insults my way, and hurried away. For two girls just ready to kill each other, they also, oddly enough, continued sticking together. As I turned to head back in to the store, I stopped in my tracks. Beyond the automatic doors, standing next to the Dollar-Holler, the brown-haired brawny man watched me. Smiling. I frowned, and he inclined his head, giving me a slight salute. He turned and walked away. Weird. Had he been the reason the girls were fighting? It wasn’t possible to work two girls up to exchanging blows just by talking to them…was it?

  “I’m impressed.” Logan appeared next to me. “You handled them like a pro. And I should know, I’ve dealt with my fair share of sibling battles. You’re much stronger than you look.”

  “They’re just kids.” I shrugged. “Heaven help me the day I can’t throw a couple of adolescents out of the store.”

  I knew I looked slight, but I’d always been pretty strong. Strong enough that I’d learned to hide it. Acceptance of anyone who didn’t conform to type in this town? Not high. Not high at all. Logan gave me a look. A weird tilty-headed expression. Was that admiration?

  “Look,” I said, “I really should get back to work.”

  He turned red, bright red, mumbled something—an apology?—and backed away hastily. And I did what I said I would: I went back to work.

  Which was not easy, let me tell you. With all of the excitement of the first few hours, the next hour or so dragged by in agonizing slowness. I did catch a lady sneaking a full-sized ham out in a baby stroller. I caught her not only because of the whiff of guilt, but also because no baby would be bundled up that much this time of year. Late spring, even with the overcast, the heat was beginning to settle heavy over the town.

  I ate my lunch on the curb outside the store, watching the gray clouds roll by. Dramatic skies and a stiff warm breeze reminded us all that storm season was not far off. Then again, in this part of Texas, thunderstorms were always just around the corner. Par for the course.

  Back inside, I got switched from door duty to stocking the checkout aisles with candy and impulse buys. This way I could hover, just below eye-line, and do more scouting for shoplifters.

  “Kooky Pow cereal. Wheat bread. Carrots. Chocodiles. One gallon skim milk. $17.89.”

  I followed along under my own breath. Stocking aisle five put me in the perfect place to hear Serena at her normal station of aisle six. Childlike, with a round face and pig tails that emph
asized it, Serena had a tendency to relay whatever she was scanning in a half-whisper under her breath. Repeating the items to myself helped keep me from going insane having to listen to her mechanical recitation. Some regulars actually liked this and would seek her line out on purpose. Others were not so entertained by her equal opportunity announcements of purchases, uncomfortable with the idea that she would tell everyone that along with your three hundred thread-count sheets, you were also buying a box of sized medium Durex condoms and a pack of peanuts.

  “Mars Bar. Seventeen Magazine. Socks. $12.78.”

  It was interesting what people would buy, though. I grabbed an empty box of Almond Joy and pulled it off of the shelf, reaching back to my little cart of candies to look for a full one. I stopped when my stomach seized with that same kind of gut-wrenching nausea as yesterday. Ugh, not again.

  “Duct tape. Rope, twenty feet. Shovel. Garbage bags. Tic-Tacs.”

  Creepy, right? Ever-so-slowly, I eased over to the place my shelf joined the cashier stand, peaking over the top so I could get a better glimpse of the person. The redhead from yesterday, one of the four, only now, seeing him up close, he seemed stranger than ever. His face was so pale as to have a slight greenish cast. His hand clutched the pay stand and the blue veins lining it shone through his nearly-translucent skin. He watched his items go by with large, colorless eyes, deeply set and shadowed in his face. Hard, but feminine features, a sharp jaw, and a mop of red hair made him as visually arresting as his three peers—for my queasy stomach left no doubt in my mind that he was somehow associated with the other three I’d seen yesterday.

  “Do you think you could help me, ma’am? Mizz…Serena?”

  Serena looked up sharply from her recounting. She’d just mentioned industrial-strength bleach and a mop.

  “How can I help you, sir?” she said. Her hand went up to cover her nose and I got the feeling that his breath must reek.

  “I’m not from around here, actually. And I’m supposed to meet a family friend—some sort of cousin, I don’t know, my mother wanted me to catch up with her—and I’m afraid I lost the address, and she’s unlisted.”