day two: monday, part one.
"You stole her bag?" That was the very first thing Grant and Bex said when they returned back to our apartment and I had recounted the the story of my actions the the club. They were both overcome with a little awe, except Bex's bordered on the impressed side and Grant's teetered towards shocked and scandalized.
The paisley print backpack was small, almost like a rucksack. The fabric was worn and patched and the colors had faded from a seemingly fluorescent green and blue to a pale teal and navy. The ends of the straps were frayed, like somebody had been pulling at them. In one glance, I could immediately tell that this was not just a bag, it was a storyteller.
The three of us sat around the bag in silence as if we were patiently watching a work of art, but with the fragility of a bomb squad. I was at a stalemate: I got the bag from The Girl (as she will henceforth be referred to) but what now?
"So," Bex's raspy voice broke through the quiet, "are you going to open it?"
"WHAT?" Grant exclaimed, leaping up to his feet and startling Bex and I. "You can't open it! You have to take it back!"
Bex and I exchanged a look of disbelief. "You're taking the bag back," Grant repeated. "Tell me you were planning on taking it back." He looked at me with serious eyes.
The unresponsive looks on our faces prompted him to add, "...You're going to take it back to the club, return it to the bouncer, and stay away from a life of crime, right?"
Ignoring his freak out any the notion of rules being broken, Bex said, "Open the bag." Grant opened his mouth to counter, but she quickly replied, "Chill, Grant. He already stole it. What's the problem with taking a little peek?"
His eyebrows furrowed, a sign of surrender. "The problem is," he said through gritted teeth, "Zach's already committed theft. Why up the ante with invasion of privacy?"
"Who's gonna find out?" she quipped with a shrug. "Are you gonna call the police on us?" She laughed.
Grant frowned, crossing his arms across his chest furtively. "I repeat, theft and invasion of privacy." He sighed before stating, "I want no part in this. I'll be in my room." He gave us one more disappointed shake of the head before grabbing some aspirin and retreating away.
When the door to his room closed, Bex turned to me and said, "Well?"
As evident, I had been silent through this whole ordeal. On one hand, I agreed with Grant that, yeah, committing (a minor) theft was still wrong. But, as Bex said, I might as well go all the way. Questions rushed through my mind, namely what could possibly be in the bag? What could happen if I looked inside? Or why the hell did I even take it?
Then, the bag came flying at my face. Aptly catching it, I looked over to Bex with a dumbfounded expression. She raised an eyebrow and said, "Go for it, mate."
That was all the encouragement I needed. Within seconds, I had emptied out the contents of the bag. There wasn't as much as I expected, but man, was it unexpected. My eyes ran over the treasure, taking in every single object:
- A worn copy of Catch-22 by Joseph Heller.
- A scratched fourth generation purple iPod, containing music from The Libertines, Nova Social, and Air Traffic.
- A ticket receipt for a show featuring Atticus and the Finches.
- An empty package of Fifty Nifties candy.
- A feather masquerade mask.
- A collection of various makeup, expired MetroCards, and other bits of trash.
You might consider that list and think, "What's so special about that? Sounds like a bunch of random stuff to me."
But what you should be thinking, "What are the chances, if there were any, that there is a girl who dances madly at underground music clubs, read one of the greatest books of all time (in my not so humble opinion), listens to some really excellent music, eats discontinued candy, and will be going to one of the most hyped up shows in the greater tri-county area?"
I'll tell you the chances: slim, next to zero, nearly impossible.
But what were the chances that I would be in possession of that very girl's backpack?
"What's in the bag?" Grant's muffled voice from his room echoed, though I was too distracted to mock his hypocrisy.
"Tosser!" Bex rolled her eyes. "Nothing important, just some junk."
"Junk?" I repeated in disbelief. Did she not see the amazing array of belongings, representing some of the heights of culture as I knew it? I waved the copy of Catch-22 in her face. "This is not junk!"
Probably fed up with being out of the conversation, Grant emerged out of his room with a floss in his hands. Whenever Bex and I are doing something that could be classified as suspicious, he uses dental hygiene as an outlet. Poor guy, great teeth.
He peered over the goods before saying with a disapproving tone, "Looks like junk to me."
My stomach clenched and I could feel my heart beat in my throat. They were both painfully blind to what was in front of them. "Not junk," I argued, "there's my favorite book, a ticket to see my favorite band, an iPod featuring some of my favorite songs, a bag of my favorite candy—"
"—and no wallet," Grant finished for me.
I had to suppress a cough. In my bewilderment over the fact that somebody had scarily similar taste to me, I missed the fact that there was one thing missing: any identification as to who that person may be.
Shit.
"So now," Grant managed to say as he flossed with more vigor than needed, "you can't even return the bag back to her. You stole, looked through her stuff, and now you've dug yourself in a hole. I hope you're pleased with yourself." In case you're curious, Grant usually sounds like my nagging mother when he lectures me.
"I didn't dig myself in a hole," I replied sheepishly, more to myself than to him. Soon, I was reminded of the time in the ninth grade when I decided to say "fuck it" and ditch school for the day and go to Coney Island by myself. In the span of a few hours, I had successfully spent all my money on hot dogs and ride tickets that I didn't have enough to get back home, and stupid me, I forgot my student MetroCard at home. There I was, stranded on Coney Island of all places, no money, no phone, and to top it off? Grant told me that we ended up having surprise school festival that day, complete with free food of nearly every culture, music, and a day away from history class.
That was digging myself into a hole. But this? This was different. It had to be different. Right?
Bex was unnervingly quiet through Grant's continued spiel on my irresponsibility, a sign of scheming.
"...I'm telling you, we should just go back to the Monte Carlo and pray that somebody's still there so we can get this bag and this crime off of our chests. How much is everything in that bag worth? Maybe $100. Yeah, they can bust you for that. I don't want to be an accomplice, you could still get jail time. Before we know it, we'll be knee deep in some rough convicts who haven't felt the touch of an outsider in a long time—"
"Let's track her down," Bex said suddenly. Her voice was snap and domineering, a light bulb had most definitely gone off in her head.
"What?" Grant and I replied in unison.
Bex hopped up from the couch and started pacing the room with a wicked spark in her eye. "You said it yourself, Zach. It's your favorite book, your favorite candy, your favorite band...your favorite everything. Why let this kind of person just walk away?" She paused and nodded at me. "This is some freaky, serendipity style business. What if it's a sign from the universe?"
She was met with silence. Grant looked at her with a dumbfounded expression. "Who the hell are you and what have you done with Rebecca Baxter?"
"I'm serious!" she pressed on. "You've got to admit, we don't even know her first name and she's already better than all three Nadines." That wasn't much of a compliment, the Nadines were pretty vapid, and that was putting it lightly.
"It could be the beginning of something great, yeah?" she coerced me. "And, why not? It'll be fun."
"Okay," Grant started hesitantly, "assuming that you're on to something and not on something, we all try to find the girl. How do we even do that?"
That was the million dollar question. It was very clear from her frown that Bex was too caught up the idea of a city wide search for one person, possibly so she could use all of her wannabe private investigator skills.
Sighing, I figured that it was nothing but that, an idea. Still, there was a little part of me who wanted to believe her words; that extraordinary people really did exist in the realm of my life and not only that, but I could be a little extraordinary too and find them. Maybe there was more to life and girls than just Nadines and other nameless faces. Being stuck in a hole wasn't the half of it. But, it was only when I rested my head on the book that something peculiar caught my eye.
"Purchased from Babbling Books, where the pages come alive."
I knew that store. A rundown book store in midtown, right across from a more thriving Barnes and Noble's. Personally, I liked the rustic charm of Babbling Books and they were never too crowded like the competition. Plus, the workers always gave discounts to the regulars, which I assumed was a small bunch.
And then a light bulb went off in my head.
The Girl shops at Babbling Books. Someone at Babbling Books might know the Girl. That someone could lead me right to The Girl.
"Babbling Books," I announced, much like yelling 'eureka!' "We've got to go to Babbling Books, she'll be there. I know it." But at that very moment, I realized that it was nearly four in the morning and my body was operation on low battery.
Bex and Grant seemed to be very aware about the time as well, as she was half asleep on the couch and he looked much too comfortable on the floor.
"In the morning," I clarified to them with a yawn as I grabbed a pillow from the couch. Stretching out on the floor and letting the sounds of their snores and the noise from outside become my lullaby, I quickly fell into a sleepy daze. My last thought before slumber was I couldn't help but think of the image of a girl realizing her bag was missing and a boy digging himself out of a hole.
an:
- once again, thanks for all the feedback :) it's great!
- okay, so i lied. there is no macey in this chapter. well, there was, but i had to break it apart because it was starting to get very rambly and a rival to "harry potter and the order of the phoenix" in length. but rest assured, macey's in the next chapter.
- i wasn't even planning on updating this today. but, ff decided to be a wanker and not let asha and i update "the art of tomorrow", so i figured why not? let's be productive, gang.
- reviews are cooler than any polar bear could hope to be. what a jerk, that global warming is.
bye,
em!
p.s.: why asha is the worst person to go to for a crisis:
"i'm not a doctor, but i'm prescribing you a nice healthy dose of SHUT THE HELL UP and STOP YOUR BITCHING."
