by Laura Burton
“You think this is funny, huh? Well, let’s see you laugh when I call the cops…”
She pulls out her walkie-talkie and I stand there with the oversized bag of Cheetos in one hand and my shopping in the other, too stunned to move.
“Excuse me, can I help?”
I jump and then lock eyes with a businessman standing beside me. At least, he’s got that business-y vibe about him. He’s wearing a dark coat over a crisp suit, and his wavy dark hair is slightly oily in the harsh store lights.
He waits, blinking at me, holding a laptop bag in his arms like it’s his baby. My gaze flickers to his veiny hands and I notice the absence of a wedding ring. I don’t even know why I looked––probably because Chessy’s incessant questions about bumping into the man of my dreams are on my mind.
It’s just occurred to me that the modern-day Xena warrior princess and I are blocking the exit. She looks at the businessman with her brows knitted together like one black caterpillar across her forehead.
“No need, sir, this woman thinks she can get away with a free snack, is all. I know exactly how to deal with her. You can move along,” the woman says, her voice curt. Her slick black hair is scraped back into a bun so tight the skin around her eyes looks stretched. She mutters into her walkie-talkie. “I’ve got a Code Orange here, requesting backup. Over.”
Code Orange?
I glance at the Cheetos bag and fail to suppress a laugh so it turns into something along the lines of a cough and a snort. Thankfully, there’s no snot bubble this time.
The businessman eyes the woman with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, then his hazel eyes land on me.
“It was an honest mistake,” I start to explain to this sympathetic stranger. “I’ll go back and pay for them now, it’s not a big deal…” The woman is having none of it. “If you can’t do the time, then don’t do the crime. You can’t weasel your way out of this, ma’am. You have to face the consequences of your actions.”
The businessman clears his throat. “Diane. May I call you Diane?” he asks, gesturing to the name tag on the woman’s shirt. She bristles, probably annoyed by the casual tone of his voice. But then the businessman offers her his hand. “I just want to thank you for your service to this country.”
Diane’s face softens and she lowers her walkie-talkie. “How did you know?”
“Someone with such dedication to the rules and that perfect posture must have experience in the military.”
Diane cracks a smile and then proceeds to tell us all about her life, listing countries like she’s at a party, trying to wow everyone with how traveled she is. Iraq. Afghanistan. Sierra Leone.
The man just nods and hums as he listens. Meanwhile, my phone is vibrating in my pocket, and I can’t help but wonder if I can put the Cheetos back and make a run for it.
But then Mr. Businessman cracks a joke, hands Diane a ten-dollar bill, and tops it all off with a wink. “This will cover the Cheetos and a little treat for you, the most valuable staff member here.”
Diane squares her shoulders and puffs out her chest, her cheeks a rosy and uncharacteristic pink. “I am valuable. Thank you for saying that. It’s so hard to be appreciated these days.”
Finally, she looks at me and her smile fades. “I guess it is your lucky day after all,” she says with a slight huff. “All right. You can go. But you better think twice about stealing next time, I won’t be so lenient on you if I catch you again.”
I nod and march through the doors, eager to escape the pungent cloud of garlic. But as I enter the parking lot, and head for the line of taxi cabs, loud footsteps approach me from behind.
I swivel at the sound of “Wait!” and notice the businessman has caught up to me.
“Oh, right! Sorry.” I say, pulling out my wallet. But he places a big veiny hand over mine and the touch is like an electric zap to my senses. I gulp and look up into a huge grin. “No, that’s okay. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right,” he says.
As I stare up at him and start to form a reply, the heavens open. All of a sudden, we’re standing in heavy rain.
“I’m fine. Thanks for helping me out back there!” I try to shout over the rain. Then I glance at his hand, still resting on mine, and he lets go, as if suddenly realizing he hadn’t taken it away.
“So, are you having a party tonight?” he asks, ignoring the giant dollops of rain splashing on his expensive suit. I look at him in wonderment for a second, curious to know why this stranger went out of his way to help me and is now making chit chat in the middle of the rain.
“Something like that,” I reply. Then a cab rolls up alongside the curb.
“Need a ride, ma’am?” the driver calls out through an open window. I drag my gaze away from the businessman and nod to the cab driver. “Yes, thanks.”
“Here, let me open the door for you.” The businessman pulls open the cab door and I slide in with as much grace as a baby gazelle walking for the first time. My groceries spill on to the next seat and my stomach clenches at the landslide of Hershey bars and ice cream tubs rolling into view.
“Well, I’ll see you around, I guess.”
I turn and look up at the businessman. For some reason, he looks dejected. “Bye,” he says. I wave when he shuts the door, and as the cab pulls away, I crane my neck to catch one last glimpse of him. He’s still standing there in the pouring rain, looking my way as if he’s just sent off a lost puppy.
I chew my lip, processing the event. The guy was cute. Better than cute. But he looked at me like I was something to pity, not an eligible bachelorette to hit on. Maybe I do need a makeover. Maybe then I’ll stop being so invisible and start to attract more opportunities. The column could be just the first step to bigger things. And maybe the next time a cute guy saves me from a situation, he’ll ask for my number too.
I put my phone to my ear and wait for the click. “Helen? I’m in.”
I sit back and clamp my eyes shut, replaying the odd events of the day. Well, as mortifying as it was to be accosted by an ex-military supermarket security guard––over a bag of Cheetos, no less––at least no one I knew saw me. And my mystery businessman/hero is just a guy I’ll never see again.
Right?
Chapter Four
Wyatt
People think I’m not observant because I’m autistic. But that’s not true. In fact, I pay really close attention to all sorts of little details that other people seem to miss.
That might be why I love the Jason Bourne movies; I can relate to his ability to memorize number plates, catching anything that seems off, and his need to scope out exits.
Sometimes, I struggle with the unwritten rules of social situations; Like, when it’s a good time to start––or stop––talking. Or how long I’m supposed to hold eye contact for, before I’m allowed to look away and reduce the pressure build up inside of me.
Today though, the details were very useful. I could see that the security guard in front of the store was ex-military. She had a poker straight posture and meticulously black shoes, but it was her no-mercy approach to the lady with the Cheetos that really gave it away.
I’m surprised at how smooth I came across; I can finally say watching the entire James Bond franchise has come in handy.
I learned everything I know about women from movies, and my parents are always quick to tell me that isn’t necessarily a good thing.
But when you grow up feeling like an outsider – a square peg in a world of holes – you’ve got to find a way to cope and learn how to be a little less square.
If people were like numbers – with patterns, hard and fast rules and structure – I’d be fine. In my experience, they’re as consistent as dragonflies. They dart from one emotion to the next, and jump from topic to topic in conversations. After a day out, I’m horribly exhausted.
But dinner with Logan and his family was different.
Their home is like something out of a magazine; everything has its place. The cream colored carpets and
walls seem like an odd choice for a couple raising a baby, but I didn’t spot a single stain anywhere.
When we sat at the table, with piles of food steaming in front of us, I noticed Logan take Josie’s hand. The two of them beamed at each other for a moment, and the baby babbled in the highchair.
My parents must have seeded a thought inside my head, because seeing Logan and his family fertilized it. A certainty hit me with stunning force.
I want that.
I want someone to hold my hand and sit on the couch with me as we watch movies together. I want to take someone to Comic Cons, and cosplay as a family.
It’s like all of the things my mom said suddenly made perfect sense. It all just… clicked.
I don’t want to bury myself in work for the rest of my life. Sure, I’ll be surrounded by piles of gold and a string of achievements, but I won’t leave a legacy behind.
So what would all the effort have been for? If not to be able to pass it down to a son, or a daughter?
My brain spirals into deep thoughts and I have to pinch the bridge of my nose to stem the throbbing in my temples.
Then, for some reason, I start to think about the cute woman at the supermarket. Her mousy blonde hair was in those high buns most women like to wear these days. She had dark rimmed glasses and wispy flyaway hairs framing her face. There was something unapologetic about her that I really liked.
Even with Diane – the straight-laced security guard – looming over her with bulging eyes, the Cheetos woman seemed completely unfazed by the situation.
It was refreshing to see someone take a stressful situation in stride. And when I touched her hand, it was like I was stuck. Her warmth was so intense; I couldn’t even feel the freezing rain soaking us. Now I’m kicking myself that I let her go.
I could’ve asked her for her name, or her number. But instead of speaking up, I just froze. Next thing I knew, she was being driven off in a taxi, never to be seen again.
I need to be more assertive the next time I connect with a woman like that. If I’m ever going to have a family of my own, I can’t just let prospective dates ride off into the sunset in a taxi.
Next time, I’m going to man up and make a move.
Chapter Five
Lucy
Helen texted me an address with specific instructions to show up to the photoshoot looking like I normally do for any day at work.
So, I pull on my favorite black sweater, pull my hair into a messy bun that sits like a bird’s nest atop my head, and yank on the chunky boots I’m pretty sure went out of fashion a decade ago.
The taxi cab trundles down a road riddled with potholes. A sinking feeling in my stomach makes me gulp as I look around at the deserted office buildings, towering like concrete giants and covered with graffiti.
The car stops outside an old warehouse and now I wish I had taken up Leila’s offer to come with me.
“Here you are, ma’am.”
There’s a cluster of white vans and trailers parked out front but not a single soul to be seen.
I only hope I’ve not unwittingly become an unfortunate bystander in some blockbuster. Because this looks like the perfect set up for an ambush to me, or maybe some kind of entrapment. Any minute now, a SWAT team will come charging in from all directions, while a group of terrorists come marching out of the warehouse with their guns blazing.
Man. I watch too much TV.
I hand the driver his money and hold my breath. I pick up my bag slowly and drag my thumb along the stitching. “Thanks,” I say through an exhale, knowing I’ve stalled long enough.
As I get out of the car, an icy wind slaps my cheeks. I take it as a sign from the universe to pull myself together.
Come on, Lucy! This is not a big deal. Everything is going to be totally fine and soon you’ll be writing your own column and looking back on this day with a laugh.
As I approach the front doors, my knees start to shake––clearly the rest of my body didn’t get the memo that now is not the time to freak out.
But nerves can’t be helped.
I grit my teeth and reach for the door, but before I can grip the handle, it flies open and hits me square on the nose.
With a howl, I clutch my face and squeeze my eyes shut against the searing pain spreading to my cheekbones.
“Sorry.” I blink tears out of my stinging eyes at the gray-haired man who walks past me like he didn’t just smash a steel door into my face.
A flood of people streams out after him, talking to each other at high speed. No one pays any attention to me. If it wasn’t for the apology, I’d think the event just killed me and I’d become a ghost.
The pain dulls enough for me to shake my head and sniff like a dog. Then I walk in with my head held high, determined to keep whatever is left of my dignity intact.
“Are you Lucy? Tell me you’re not Lucy.” An older woman marches toward me. Her bony shoulders are jutting out like she’s got shoulder pads on, and her waist is so small, I’ll bet if she turned sideways she’d disappear from view.
“Yes, I’m Lucy,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound like my own. I sniff again, wondering why I sound so stuffy, like I’ve just come down with the world’s worst cold. The woman circles me like a shark, and her dark brown eyes flick up and down me as she takes me in.
“This is what I have to work with? This is what he flies me out from Paris for?”
The woman crosses her arms with a tut and looks at me like I’m something gross and sticky on the floor.
“Are you Noelle, the stylist?”
I realize she must be the woman Helen told me to meet.
She rests slender fingers on her collarbone and dips her head to give me a patronizing smile.
“Darling, I am the best in the business. But even I don’t know if we can pull this off. What in heaven’s name have you done to your face? You look like you’ve done three rounds with Mike Tyson.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. She huffs at my blank look and pulls out a compact from her purse. “Look.” She opens it up and holds the mirror in front of me so I can see myself.
I suck in a sharp breath. Two ugly bruises have appeared under my eyes and my nose is three times bigger than its usual size.
“I think I need to go to the hospital,” I say, leaning in and tenderly pressing the bridge of my nose. But the woman snaps the compact shut and raises a finger to me.
“Oh no, you don’t. We’ve got work to do. Now come on, we’ll just have to do the best we can and then let Photoshop do the rest.” She stalks off and flicks a hand over her shoulder, gesturing for me to follow.
My eyes start to sting again and my throat closes up. I resist the urge to run for the door crying.
Not only am I going to have my picture taken in an old warehouse permeated with the faint smell of rotting fish, but I’m going to have to do it with a broken nose. Well. It might not be broken. I tap it gingerly with my index finger, testing the pain level. It’s not crazy bad. But it’s not great either. And terrible is an understatement for how bad it looks.
Whispers fly around as the men and women standing around watch me pass by. A group of men setting up the backdrop and lights give me weird glances, but at least they don’t make any comments.
Noelle gestures to a young woman, who I assume is her assistant. The girl scurries forward with a makeup bag.
“Fix this.”
There’s no airs or graces. No chair to sit on or mirror with fluorescent lights. Just this young woman looking at me with big apologetic eyes as she dabs powder over my face and cheeks.
To my relief, she’s gentle, and for that I could hug her.
I mean, if I was a huggy kind of person. Which I am not. Not usually, at least. But I could be, after the way today has started off.
Before I know what’s happening, Noelle steers me to stand in front of a big white sheet and face the single camera guy. One. Uno. Not hundreds. I don’t know why I pictured something more. Of course this
is the set up I get for my makeover. Helen will have cut as many corners as possible to keep the cost down.
But I’m curious about who paid for Noelle, the bossy old lady, to be flown out from Paris for this. She mentioned a he. I wonder if he is the new owner Helen was talking about.
And if so, why would he put so much effort into getting the best… whatever her job title is… to oversee the shoot, and then let Helen pay nickels and dimes for the rest of it?
“Now, just look at the camera lens and think about the worst day of your life,” Noelle barks at me. “I want you to pretend you’re utterly miserable.”
Well, that’s not going to be difficult. Because that’s today. Hands down. Noelle has declared my favorite clothes “hideously bland”, I have a busted up face, and a maddening ache in my temples.
Worst day of my adult life. Easy.
And so, yes, I am pretty dang miserable. I figure anyone in my position would be too. Even Chessy, who has the kind of personality a Teletubby would be jealous of, would say this whole situation stinks.
I look glumly into the oversized camera lens and listen to Noelle’s sounds of approval.
“Ah. Perfect. Now I can see why they picked you. These pictures are coming out just as we need them. You look absolutely dreadful.”
I try not to take offence, especially as I think Noelle is trying to pay me a compliment.
But the thought of being picked because I made a great before picture is totally depressing.
After what feels like an age of hot lights and endless pictures, Noelle calls it a day, and I exhale with relief.
At least it’s over. Now I can get a cab to the hospital and take the rest of the day off.
I think I have some leftover ice cream I can dig into as well.
Noelle slashes my plans with one sentence.
