by Dawn Sister
“I did that already,” I remind her.
“I don’t mean something you just threw at him while you were running away.” She waves her finger at me. “I mean a proper apology, with flowers.”
“Flowers? Yenta, flowers are for funerals.”
“Okay, beer, then, or whatever you think a man would want as an apology from another man who likes him.”
“Likes him?” I choke.
“Kit Winters.” Yenta rarely calls me anything but Lapushka, and even more rarely uses my full name. I am in real trouble now. “Are you a man or a parrot?”
I want to say I’m a parrot, because then I could fly off and hide in a tree. Instead, I lower my eyes and shuffle my feet as I reply.
“I’m a man.” I try not to sound like a sullen teenager, but I fail miserably. Yenta has this way of making me feel so much younger than I am. Sometimes it’s irritating, but most of the time I’m happy to let her get on with it, grateful that someone still wants to mother me, even when I’m such a grumpy grotbags.
Okay, maybe I do need to stop calling myself names. I don’t like it when anyone else does.
“So, now we’ve established you’re a man…” Yenta continues, a thoughtful expression on her face. It’s the look she gets when she’s planning my next move, because I am obviously incapable of doing this, especially where Mr. Spring is concerned. “What you need to do and what you should have done two days ago, but couldn’t because of the weather, is to go over to that hotel and apologise to him properly.” She steps up to me and tips her head back to examine my face. She’s quite a bit smaller than me, but she can still boss me about, like a—well, like a boss. “Brush this lovely dark hair,” she tells me, pretending to smooth her hand over the messy waves. “And flutter those mysterious green eyes and see what happens next.”
I ignore her flattery, not because I don’t have all of those things she described, but because I don’t believe they are as beautiful as she says.
“But I don’t even know his name,” I counter. “How can I go and ask for him if I don’t know his name?”
“You know what he looks like.”
“Like spring.” I sigh, gasping when I realise I’ve said this out loud.
Yenta’s eyes dance as her grin broadens. “What was that you were saying about not liking him?”
“Okay, okay, so yes, I like him. Or rather, I’m attracted to him… You know, Yenta, I’m not really comfortable discussing this with…with you.”
“Why? Because I’m a woman? Because I’m old? Because I grew up in a generation where men loving men was considered not only wrong, but illegal?”
“Maybe all of those things?” I grimace because she’s asked me too many questions at once. I can’t process them all. Her eyes stop dancing and she fixes me with a steely gaze. Uh-oh, what did I say to make her look like that? “Er, I mean, you’re not old. I’ve known people half your age that were old and doddery. You’re not like that at all.” I won’t make the mistake of calling her spritely to her face. I did that once and regretted it, even though it is a true description. “And I don’t really think of you as a woman.”
“Really?” She raises her eyebrows as she folds her arms across her chest.
“Okay, that was probably the wrong thing to say.” I grimace again and she sighs, shaking her head but resigned to my awkward apology. “You see, I’m no good at anything like this, Yenta. He’ll think I’m an arse if he doesn’t already. He already thinks I’m a twat.”
“So what do you have to lose?”
I regard her helplessly. Does she have to have an answer for every objection I put forward? And why does she have to sound so reasonable, and by default make me sound so unreasonable?
“I notice that you do not deny I am a twat.”
“Oh, stop it.” She hushes me. “I’m not being unreasonable here, Lapushka. Go over there and apologise to him. If he kicks you to the kerb, at least you’ll have tried.”
“Oh god, do you think he might really kick me? He didn’t look the violent type, but I’m not a very good judge.”
“Lapushka, stop worrying and start planning your next move.”
“Okay.” I hiss, my hands over my ears as I begin to pace. “But I need to find out his name first. I-I can’t just go in there and ask for him by description. What if they say they’ve never heard of him? Or tell me to get lost?”
“So find out his name beforehand. It won’t be that hard to do.”
“How?”
“I can’t believe I have to even say this to someone of your generation.” She huffs. “Ever heard of Google?”
“I can’t just google him by description,” I say in disgust. Yenta might be more knowledgeable than most eighty-year-olds, but she doesn’t know everything, apparently. “The internet and Siri are not omnipotent, Yenta.”
“No, but you can google the hotel where he works. Sometimes these websites have staff photos. Sometimes they have lists of employee names and job titles. Try that.”
I sigh. I’m not going to get out of this. Yenta will not rest until I’ve exhausted every avenue trying to find this man and apologise to him. If she has to, she will personally drag me by the ear into that hotel foyer and make me stand there while they parade every member of staff in front of me until I find my guy. Not my guy, obviously, but…urgh…I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Okay. I’ll search on Google tomorrow in my lunch break,” I promise her.
“Got all your contingency plans in place?” she asks me before I leave for the night.
“Yes, Yenta.” I smile as I reply. She always makes sure to remind me that I have plans in place for almost every possible outcome in a given situation. Well, all possible outcomes except Bessie crashing weddings or me landing in beautiful men’s laps.
I suppose you might call them risk assessments, my contingency plans. They tell me what I can do if something doesn’t go to plan. In any given situation, I have contingency plans covering expected and unexpected events, or as many as I can think of. They help to calm my anxiety and let me know what I can do if something goes wrong.
Because of a burglary a few months ago, I do not have a laptop right now and my phone is just a basic standby for the same reason. I could use the computer in the shop. Yenta wouldn’t mind at all, but I wouldn’t feel right using it for personal stuff, even if it was her idea to use Google.
The next day, I finish off my morning tasks, leave Yenta in charge of the shop and make my way to the library. The library is one of the few places I feel comfortable besides the shop or my own flat. No one expects you to talk in a library; no one tries to strike up unnecessary conversations. Small talk, Yenta calls it. I never could get the hang of it, so I avoid it as much as I can. For situations when I can’t avoid it, I have a contingency plan that usually involves steering the conversation towards one of my safe subjects.
“Hello, Kit,” the librarian—I can’t remember her name—greets me cheerfully. I should know her name, I mean, we talk all the time about books. We’re in the same business, almost, so we always talk shop, which suits me fine. It’s a safe subject. She knows my name. I just never got around to asking hers. Or maybe I did and I’ve just forgotten. I’m not very good with names. Does she think I’m a twat as well? She never seems to be thinking that when I’m speaking to her, but then, I’m not that good at reading expressions unless they’re really obvious ones.
“Er, hello, erm…” I smile, because Yenta says my smile always hides any awkwardness I might be feeling. The librarian smiles back. A good start. “I need to use the internet,” I tell her, suddenly remembering to look at her name badge. Ah, there it is. “Angela, please.”
Well, that was bloody awkward, but never mind. She continues to smile. I can’t tell if it’s a genuine one or a fixed one. All smiles look the same to me. But she gives me an internet log-on code and directs me to a free computer.
Computers are easier than people. They’re pretty predictable and usually do what yo
u want them to, and if they aren’t doing what you want, there’s usually an easy solution to the problem. They’re pretty black and white, with no variables to worry about.
The Google screen loads up, I type in the name of Mr. Spring’s hotel, The Cosy Casala, and wait. Nothing comes up with that name—well, nothing that is local anyway. Most of the suggestions want to direct me to timeshare properties in Spain. That can’t be right. I frown at the screen. Maybe I spelled it wrong.
“There’s two ‘S’s and two ‘L’s in Cassalla,” a voice from behind me offers.
“Oh, thank you,” I reply automatically as I type in the correct spelling. The image of the correct hotel appears at the top of the list. Humming with satisfaction, I lean back in my seat.
“You’re welcome,” the voice behind me says.
I frown. Is someone reading over my shoulder? That’s a bit rude. I turn to give the nosey git a piece of my mind and swallow the words as my eyes meet Mr. Spring’s. I jump out of my seat in shock.
“Hello again.” He grins, his spring-light eyes dancing in the bright lights of the library.
I glance at the computer screen which still shows the evidence of my search. There is no way he is going to think I was looking up the name of his hotel for any other reason than to stalk him. What other reason could I possibly have? I could splutter out a million excuses, but he’d know I was lying because people can usually tell when I am. Now what do I do? I don’t have a plan for this.
I can almost hear Yenta saying, Ask him his name, Lapushka. He’s standing right in front of you.
However, the part of my brain that is able to think rationally is frozen to a standstill because him turning up and reading over my shoulder was never a part of the plan I had made with Yenta. We didn’t factor for this, therefore I have no idea what I’m supposed to say or do. If I could just phone Yenta and ask her, but how stupid is that going to look and sound?
Hello, Yenta, it’s me. That guy I like, the one I’ve been obsessing over for the last three days, has just caught me stalking him online. Please could you tell me what to say and do now so that he doesn’t think I’m a complete and utter creep? Preferably with pictures, because my brain is seizing up.
“Hey, are you okay?” Mr. Spring frowns. Is he angry? Concerned? Worried that I’m going to beat him to death with the computer keyboard? Not that I would, but I can never tell what people are thinking just by looking at their faces. Sometimes there’s just too much information to process. Sometimes there isn’t enough. Plus, when I’m anxious, I do things that most people find quite strange, like wringing my hands together, rocking back and forth from my heels to my toes and other things that help me to calm down. Some people find that intimidating and upsetting. I try not to do it, but sometimes I can’t help it, like now, I’m flicking my fingers and biting my bottom lip.
Come on, Kit, this isn’t that difficult. People speak to other people all the time. Just open your mouth and make words come out of it.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I manage to blurt out, directing my words at the floor by his feet rather than at him. It is the completely wrong thing to say, obviously.
“What?” he asks. “This is a public library, mate. I thought anyone was allowed to come in here.”
I chance a quick peek at his face. He’s confused, I think, which is better than angry, but not by much. Maybe I can explain a bit better?
“No, no, I mean, I didn’t have a contingency plan because I didn’t expect you to be here while I was searching for you online.”
“Eh?” He looks even more confused. “Why were you searching for me online?”
I want to look at his eyes, because they’re the thing I noticed first about him, so I glance at them quickly before staring at the floor again. His bright-blue eyes are now clouded and narrowed, and his top lip is curled in disgust, or maybe just bewilderment?
Oh god, what do I do now? I think I need to explain myself a little better. I take some deep breaths and make a conscious effort to stop flicking my fingers like some crazed lunatic.
“I’m not a stalker,” I say so quickly that the words all meld into one.
“No? I, er, didn’t think…” He seems a bit lost for words, and I think I might have messed this up very badly. If only I’d had a contingency plan for this, but it hadn’t even crossed my mind that he might show up here.
I do have a plan for getting out of awkward, stressful situations though: run, run, and don’t stop until you get home. So I follow that.
I back away from him. Unfortunately, I back into one of those trolleys the librarians use to return books to the shelves. The trolley moves, taking me by surprise, then it gets stuck against the side of a row of shelves, turns and slides away from me so I do a sort of pirouette before falling sideways like a dying swan, pulling several books from the nearest shelf as I do. They fall to the floor around me with resounding, ominous thuds, and I wince as each one hits the floor. Now, not only Mr. Spring is regarding me as if I’m an alien, the entire population of the library is also looking.
I scramble to my feet and scarper before anyone can start accusing me of destroying books. Oh god, I’m never going to be able to come back in here ever again.
“Hey, wait!” Mr. Spring calls to me, but I pretend I haven’t heard and pick up my pace. I do that sort of quick walk that people do when they cross the road and realise there’s a car coming so they speed up but don’t quite make it into a run. They always look ridiculous, so I must look a right prat too.
When I get out of the door I do start to run, hoping he hasn’t followed me. I don’t stop until I get back to the shop, only to realise that I left my backpack behind at the library.
Oh god. Everything I need is in that backpack: my notebooks with all my contingency plans, my special shaped pen, my phone, my wallet, my collection of shells, my cards.
“Yenta?” I call as I burst through the shop door. “Yenta, I did it again.” I wheeze, beginning to hyperventilate.
“Lapushka?” Yenta is worried, and I don’t want her to be, but I don’t know how to stop her feeling that way when I’m feeling so out of control.
“M-my backpack.” I gasp. “Mr. Spring,” I manage to stutter out. “Stalker.”
I start pacing, rubbing my hands together. I haven’t felt this anxious in such a long time, but that’s because everything has been so settled and normal, with no surprises or any stress. Yenta’s seen me like this, but she shouldn’t have to cope with it. She’s not my mum. She’s not Harry. Harry never used to be able to calm me down either. Mum always knew what to do, but she never told anyone else how and she never wrote it down, so when she died, I couldn’t explain to anyone how they could help me. Many people just stare at me, avoid me, or leave me on my own. Sometimes they get frustrated and angry.
Is Yenta going to do that? Will this be the time she eventually says enough is enough and tells me she needs someone more stable to run her bookstore?
Oh god, I’m going to lose my job, all because I wanted to find out more about some guy who probably doesn’t even want anything to do with me. He definitely won’t want anything to do with me now.
“Sit down and take some deep breaths,” Yenta urges me, although she doesn’t touch me. She knows I can’t bear to be touched when I’m in this state. Every sense is heightened—touch, hearing, taste, sight. Touching hurts. Listening hurts. Every bloody thing hurts. “Lapushka, please.”
“That isn’t my name.” I sob, holding my hands over my face.
“I know, I’m sorry. Kit, please. Sit down. Tell me what happened. Let me help if I can.” She points to a seat as she tries to calm me.
She shouldn’t have to say she’s sorry. She calls me Lapushka because she loves me, not because she doesn’t know my name. I don’t mind her calling me that. In fact, I like it. But when I’m like this, I snap and say things I don’t mean.
“I’m Kit,” I say, sitting in the seat she pointed at and rocking as I hug myself tightly.
Sometimes I feel like I’ll float away if something doesn’t hold me down. Yenta knows this. She gets my blanket and wraps it around my shoulders. I pull it over my head and rock. Bessie appears from somewhere and pokes her head beneath the blanket to get as close to me as possible. “I’m Kit,” I repeat. “But I don’t mind you calling me Lapushka. I’m sorry I snapped at you, Yenta.”
My voice is muffled but I know she can hear me.
“It’s quite all right, Lapushka. Settle now. Bessie’s here. I’ll make us some tea and then, when you are calm, we can go back to the library for your backpack.”
“No!” I lift my head and the blanket falls away so I can see her. “I can’t go back there, not ever. I fell over and pulled some books off the shelf. Mr. Spring thinks I’m stalking him, and everyone was staring at me as if I’d done it on purpose. I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear, Yenta.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Yenta assures me. “And the librarians will know that, Lapushka. They know you and they know you wouldn’t damage a book on purpose.”
“No, no, never. But I’m still not going back.”
“What about your backpack?”
I grimace. If I don’t go back for my backpack, what will happen to it, to all my things? I can’t start all over again. Some of those shells were collected when I was on holidays with Mum. I can’t do that over again, and they wouldn’t be the same shells anyway.
“Can’t you go for it, Yenta?”
I know her answer even before she’s taken a breath to reply. She looks after me, but at the same time, she makes sure I know how to look after myself. That includes doing things that I hate doing but have to do anyway. What this means is that at some point today, after discussing the contingency plan, I will be going back to collect my backpack.
This fact both thrills me and fills me with dread. I want my stuff, but I don’t want to go back to the place where I was embarrassed and embarrassing.
Yenta leaves to tend to a customer in the shop. I take the opportunity to go over what has happened and reassure myself that everything will work out, eventually, I hope.
