September 20th, 2008
Manhattan is drowning. Or at least it sure feels like it.
The sky's pitch black now, and the brightly lit streets are bombarded by rainwater that's only minutes from rising over the curbs. It's coming down faster than the drains can handle, and every car that flies by splashes the sidewalk in waves that gotta be a foot tall.
You'd think floods this bad would be a call for emergency. But most locals might find this weather annoying at best. Especially for the poor lone business person who's walking on the bus stop in their best pants. Nobody is actually wearing a rain jacket, and I think I might've even seen a guy in his underwear coming up from the subway. At least he had an umbrella. At least I think he did. By the time I recognized what it was, we'd already crossed paths. Didn't exactly wanna look back and verify.
It takes a lot to stop New York City, and this might as well just be a speck of dust in the gears. It's just like any other night for me, too, except that today I'm seriously late, and I'm soaked. I'm also getting a headache. Raindrops have been pounding the top back of my skull since turning the corner, and every time I leave the safety of a store's veranda, I raise a hand above one of my eyes, and keep the other closed. I've walked home before, but this weather makes it take so much longer than it normally would.
The tweed in my jacket is holding so much water that it makes my every move slower. Without thinking, I grab at the fabric, water pooling in my hands, ready to take it off and throw it into my passenger seat, only to catch myself at the last second. The car's not here.
Having just spent my work break on the phone with the internship coordinator, trying to explain why he doesn't have and never had a Social Security Number to attach to his application, only to get called into an unexpected meeting with his boss, I can safely say I'm still the luckiest mouse in New York City. It'd be wrong of me to complain.
But being this small, blocks from home, and coming outside to find out my only way home is to walk through the water… eh.
Alright, alright. It hasn't been a great day.
As I trudge through waist-high water as it pools in the dips in the uneven sidewalks, the only thing on my mind is getting home. Several times, I watch the buildings I pass, tempted climb the walls, or tightrope across the mounding in the storefronts, and climb something from there. Anything to stay out of the water. But that would just eat up more of my time, even if I managed to keep purchase.
I can't risk losing my footing. I gotta stay out of the street. One wrong move could send me slipping and sliding into the nearest gutter. I can swim good, but that won't help if the pull of the currant's faster than I am. Then I'll spend the rest of the night climbing out of the storm drains. I've done it once, and I don't feel like reliving it.
As I reach the top step of the Little House, I'm brought to a shuddering stop by a clap of thunder that sounds like it right behind me. Zeus is breathing down my neck, too.
Under the temporary shelter of the porch, I slip and slide and climb the railing with my wet hands, and from there cross over onto the knob. But when I try to turn it, it stops.
The last of my patience abruptly runs out. "Oh, come on!" Why would they lock the door?
Oh. Yeah. Because George uses the key now. And human sized keys are too cumbersome to lug around, so I used to just find my way inside without one. Usually through the mail slot. Natural mouse talent, I think.
Only problem is, I haven't used the mail slot in a couple years. I don't even know if I'll fit anymore. I consider the doorbell, but it's high up above the knob, and I don't have a way to reach it. I could scour the ground for it if it was light out. I have a pocket flashlight, but it was in my trunk. Of all things I wish were different about me that actually aren't, night vision would be pretty useful right now.
On cue, 5th avenue lights up, but just for, a flash, ushering in another clap of thunder that makes me leap off my toes. I fumble crawling through the mail slot—sure enough, going in sideways, I fit just fine—and drop to the floor. So much that when I drop to the floor, I splash in my own puddle.
I land on my hands and knees and splash up to my face. The drop hits me smack in my left eye, and I stagger backwards with a shout, feeling like micro Godzilla, hit with a soldier's bullet. I rub my stinging eyes with the backs of my hands, which doesn't help because they're wet, too. A four letter curse buzzes behind my teeth, like my own thunderbolt, charged and ready to strike. I could let it out, just this once. I could even just whisper it. But I don't.
And it's there, as I leave the thunder and blitzkrieg of raindrops behind the other side of the door, as I'm gathering myself back into form, and as the curse dissolves on my tongue that my left ear pivots. Music. Elsewhere in the house, after years of neglect, the old piano, which had become nothing more than another piece of wood to dust, sings back to life, with keystrokes that tell me it's Dad's fingers at the work.
The noise calls to me, welcome and warm and familiar, almost more than the lit fireplace to my left—and that's one sight for sore eyes in itself. But it's not the sound of the piano that freezes me in place. It's the voice that's singing to it. It's familiar, too, and yet the noise itself is something I never heard before. It's surreal.
And it might be the sweetest thing I think I've ever heard.
It drawn me from the front door, into the living room, and on into the dining room. There in the neighboring room was our library. Inside, I see Dad and Martha, sitting on the bench, his back to me, and her back to his left shoulder. While our father is belting away at the keys, my six year old sister's hands are folded on her knees. I don't believe it. I don't remember the last time I've seen Martha Little complete captive about anything. Her legs are still, not swinging back and forth under the seat. And her mouth is closed for once.
I follow her gaze to the right of the room. On the bookcase, far on the top shelf, in a space left empty next to two books and a copper bookends, was the elusive singer. Margalo's perch was so far out of sight, I could've entered the room, not realizing she was there. But her voice commanded attention, and as I set my sights on her, she was crying the last verse of the song, like the performance was the difference between life and death.
This moment doesn't feel real. What might otherwise be a beautiful moment has rendered me slack jawed by confusion. A dozen questions bombard my brain at once. I didn't know she could… I've never seen her… she never told me…
WHAT is going on?
The song isn't even over, and Martha's already cut in with brief and explosive applause. But Margalo waits until the echo of the final key dies away to turn to me. From the look on her face, you'd think nothing that just took place here was out of the ordinary. "Little hi, Little low."
"Hey." The word comes out flat. I can't even finish the greeting. "You… sing?"
"Um, yeah." She looks down at the floor. "Sorry… I mean! Sorry that you weren't here for the full thing."
"Now, don't get upset with her," Dad says to me, turning around.
"I asked Daddy to play," Martha chimes in, "and Daddy asked Margalo if she wanted to join."
"Way to throw me under the bus, kiddo."
Martha throws a hug around Dad's waist. "Thanks for teaching me piano."
Dad doesn't say welcome, but his grin is forgiving enough.
Margalo flies down from her stage atop the piano to join me on the floor. "Oh man, are you drenched! I was gonna go out and look for you if you didn't show up after that last song."
"Oh… no worries." I know I sound unconvinced. It's not that I would've wanted her to come for me, but I can't make myself sound convinced. The scene I walked in on has me feeling so conflicted. "No sense in anybody else getting caught in it."
"Stuart, look at you!"
We look up. Mom's just arrived from the kitchen. A stained apron and latex gloves tells me she's had a busy evening. "You're going to catch pneumonia!" She turns to Dad. "I knew we should've gone out to get him!"
"Now, now, calm down. Stuart's fine. He made it home by himself just like he always does."
"Right." She pulls back her glove to look at her watch. "An hour late."
Dad looks back at me. "Car not start again?"
"The car is... uh... gone."
"Gone?" He leans forward, serious, now.
"I think the… um… floodwater took it." I hold up my hands as Mom opens her mouth to protest. "Listen, listen! I know it's my fault. I should've parked it higher up on the street. I'm sorry."
"So where is it now?" asks Mom.
"Floating down the street I guess. But! But-but, don't worry," I turn from Dad to Mom as I say this.. "It wasn't like there was anything important in there." I snap the soggy strap around my shoulder. "I had my backpack with me. Look, I'll see if I can find it tomorrow. If not…" I wring out the cuff of my sleeve, which makes water run down my arm to the end of my fingers. A new floor puddle begins at the end of it. "...well..."
Martha leaps from the piano, and without explanation, runs out of the room. A perfectly timed flash of lightning fills the room just as she pulls the curtain back.
Mom opens her mouth, and Dad rushes to stop her. "Honey, please! It's fine."
"No, it's not fine! HE could've been swept up—"
"But! But! He made it just fine anyway." Dad cuts her off. He turns to me with a sheepish expression. "Sorry if I… talked your mother out bringing a cab over, Stuart. I didn't realize how bad it was."
"It's okay," I tell him. It wasn't like he wanted to see me drowned. Dad's actually doing me a favor. By convincing Mom not to come to my 'rescue', he was saving me a ton of embarrassment. It's crucial for my parents to start treating me like an adult, if anyone's gonna take me seriously.
"It's a category five!" Martha' voice echoes to us from the living room. Seconds later, she rounded the corner, her bright white socks skidding and slipping on the wooden floor as she rushed back to us. "Mom! Dad! We gotta build an emergency kit, quick! We're gonna need duct tape, rope, and something to build the ark!"
"It's not a hurricane, sweetie." Mom keeps her eyes on her hands as she peels off the red gloves. "So much for keeping an eye on the window," she mutters in Dad's direction. "Any idea where our other son might be?"
"I texted him twenty minutes ago." Dad reaches around for the flip phone phone on top of the piano's lid. "No response."
"I'mma go prepare!" Martha declares. "I've been waiting all my life for this…" She dashes back out of the room. "Now I gotta find lumber, nails, Twislers…"
"It's NOT a hurricane!" Mom calls after her.
"Don't forget two of every stuffed animal!" says Dad. "Y'know…" he looked up at Mom sheepishly. "Because we've got her… so many toys..."
Two shouts of surprise and layered insults coming from the foyer, followed by a door slam. Mom's question is answered. "Speak of the Little Devil."
George appears in the doorway where Martha had abandoned us, rubbing his left shin. "This is what you get from turning on the Discovery Channel. Why didn't you just put on Nickelodeon for her like normal parents?"
Dad shrugs. "First child's always the experiment. At least one of us will be prepared in an emergency. I don't recall you knowing what a category five was at her age."
With a sore knee, George hobbles up to Mom. "Will says Little hi, and thanks for the cookies." He handed her an empty tin from his other hand. "The club went wild for them."
"Aww, tell him he's welcome." She peeked inside the container as she spoke. "And he even washed out the tin! What a sweetheart."
"Thinkin' about adopting him, too?" Almost as soon as he said this, he scanned the floor for me. "You-You know what I mean, Stu. No offense."
Mom reached out a hand and pulled him close by the shoulder. "More like arranging an exchange son program for the holidays."
"Ow!" She had smacked him on the back. I wanna believe it was because he used the word 'adopted' in front of me when it should have been apparent I was already having a bad day. But it was more about George's dislike of washing the dishes, and Mom's tiredness of picking up his nights on the chore rotation board. "Dad, your wife is abusing me!"
"Sorry, can't hear ya. I'm too busy reminiscing about the delightful afternoon I've spent teaching music to my daughter, the storm watcher," Dad teases. "For someone who loved Nickelodeon so much, you never did like piano lessons."
"Hey, whadduya want from me? I got a job now!"
"But you're still an hour late," Mom points out. "Again. I swear, it's like you get a kick out of making me worried sick."
George jabs a thumb in my direction. "Looks like Stuart just got in. Why aren't you getting on him about it?"
"Because he had to walk home."
"What?" He turns around and takes a closer look at me, then behind, as if only noticing the trail of water I tracked inside. He quickly looks at the bottom of his socks, only then seeming to recognize the trial of water he'd crossed to get here. "Oh. Really? Tough break. Why didn't you call me? Will could've picked you up from work too."
"It's okay." I wave my arms. "I-I didn't really feel like going all the way back inside to use the phone."
Thankfully, no one asks why. I'd thought about it several times while searching for the car, but decided against it. I don't have a cell phone of my own, and once I realized I'd have to get my boss, Larry, to unlock the door again, I was suddenly determined to make the walk home anyway that I could.
"George…" Mom's tone is slow. Freshly suspicious. "...why is your hood still up?"
"Uh." He reaches up and made a show of patting the area atop his head and ears. "Oh! Uh. Hadn't realized."
She puts her hands on her hips. "Take it off."
"Eh, I'm kinda cold."
"Really? Because you look pretty dry." Mom gives him a sweeping look over. While his leather jacket and shoes are back by the front door, the rest of him does look dry. It's gotta be nice to be able to make it from the car to the porch in just a few seconds, on nights like this.
"My hair got wet. Anyway, I'm gonna go start my homework. Call me when dinner's ready—"
"George!" She steps in front of him. Clacking her house shoes with an assertion that stops him in his tracks. George's posture slouches. He turns to Mom with defeat. All she has to do now is motion him again to remove the hood, and George, reluctantly, obliges. When he yanks the hood of his sweater down, even his side-swept bangs are dry. But right away, Mom notices something that the rest of us don't. "What's that in your ear?"
Before he can explain, she presses her hands against his chin and inspects his head, turning it to the side with wide eyes. "Are those gauges?"
Dad rises from the piano. "You're kidding."
"No way," I whisper.
"Radical." I turn to Margalo, who's flown down from the bookshelf to the top of the piano with a look of excitement. She's been so quiet, I almost forgot she was there.
Mom lets go of George's head and steps back. "When did that happen?"
"Uhh… yesterday…" George says slowly. He reaches up and brushes one of two small, green tubes in his lobe.
"You mean yesterday, when you were supposed to be putting up money on layaway at Best Buy? That yesterday?"
"Why didn't you just tell us?" asks Dad.
"I didn't think you'd let me," he says frankly. "If I told you."
"Well, how big do you plan on making them?"
"Not that big! Not as big as you're thinking. Look, it's just an experiment, all right? I just got tired of looking the same way every day. I wanted a change."
"But this kind of change? I'd have understood if you wanted to dye your hair, or get contacts, but this— it's permanent!"
"No, it's not! These are just one point six mills."
"What?"
"I think that's the size he's talking about," Dad ventures a guess.
Mom whirls back towards their other son. "So... you've done your research."
"Yeah. I did."
"Mom, it's okay," I tell her. I don't want my brother punished for something like this. It's not like it hurt anyone. "Gauges are just like any other piercing. You care for it right, and it's fine. I think it's cool."
George shoots me an appreciative nod. "Thanks."
"Anyway, I'm pretty sure you can go back until you go past eight millimeters, and then it's permanent." They're probably wondering how I know all of this. Sometimes it just pays to be a bucket of random knowledge. "But it takes years to even get up to that size anyway."
She blinks a few times, and gives George a severe stare. "Well… What's done is done, I guess." She points a finger at him. "But I swear, if you do not clean and care for those things—"
"I will! I will!" George goes right around her, heading for the stairs. "I'm going right now…"
"With peroxide?!" Mom follows after.
"You're supposed to use soap and water... take them out at night!" He shouts at her. Their voices begin to muffle quickly, the further away they get. "... guy told me all about it..."
After a moment, Dad breaks the silence they left behind. "Well. That went better than expected."
"You knew about this?"
"He came to me about it," Dad taps his fingers on the tops of his kneecaps nervously. "Last week. I told him about a buddy of mine from college who had them, but he had to get surgery to get them closed some years ago. I didn't think George would actually get them. I didn't think anything of the earrings he already had."
Mom and Dad can be pretty open minded, even though they look conservative. It doesn't surprise me all that much that they're letting him off the hook. I'd do the same, if it were my kid.
Dad makes a show of clearing his throat, and then pulls up a more confident voice, eyes darting from me, to Margalo, back at me. "Anyway. Stuart, uh, go get dried off. We'll discuss what we're going to do about the car over dinner. Heck, it might be an excuse to get us all out and do some shopping together, like we used to."
"Alright," I say, though the instruction's not needed. The jacket's staring to feel like lead weight. I can't wait to shed it and cross this day off the calendar.
I head for the stairs, retracing my trail of water, feeling a little better. I did appreciate Dad's effort to make it sound as if we were shopping for something essential for my independence, and not a toy from RadioShack bought on Black Friday, which it technically is. Was. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to look for the silver lining. Clearly, Dad hasn't. Maybe it's a patriarchal talent. Or maybe it's something that you're born with after all.
Passing through the foyer, I remember so clearly the first day I stepped into the house. How has nine years come and gone so fast? I see our first family photo taken together, the night we celebrated the boat race. Mom and Dad look almost exactly the same as they did back then, until you study it closely. Dad's hair has a faint transition from brown to gray behind the ears, and his face is almost always covered in a five o'clock shadow these days. Mom's always been skinny, but her hands have become so thin as of late that the ring tends to slip over the knuckle and off her hand while she's working. They're already talking about getting it resized. The only thing holding them back, I think, is the admission that this could be the sign of age itself.
On both of them, the outer edges of their eyes and mouths give hints of lines that weren't always there. But these faces that welcome me home are the same faces that first looked at me that day at the orphanage with neither prejudice or pity. I promised them, then, that I was gonna make it up to them, that I got adopted, and all that. I promised them that I would find a way to make money and pay them back for giving me everything under the sun. I promised myself that, come hell or high water, I was gonna take care of them.
Standing in the foyer, at the foot of the winding staircase, I feel the familiar pressure of a wing on my shoulder. "Want a lift upstairs?" asks Margalo.
"I'm just gonna put on some dry clothes," I tell her.
"Alright."
I fish around the bottom drawer of my dresser, coming out empty handed. Next drawer up, I find the last sweater I own, crumpled in the corner. I haven't bothered taking off any of my wet clothes, yet. Not with her still standing there. "I meant… y'know, underwear, too."
"I know."
With the bundle of dry clothes in one hand, my hand lingers over my underwear drawer. I turn so she can see my prominent smirk. "Nice try."
"Hm." Margalo crossed her wings over her chest in an overacting pout. "Can't blame a girl for trying."
"Why? You've seen me shirtless before." I try to make my voice sound like a chuckle. But with her watching me, I snatch a pair of briefs and close the drawer kind of quickly.
"Maybe I don't feel like waiting until we go back to the beach," she shrugs, batting her eyelashes. I know her well enough not to look too much into it. It's harmless flattery.
I think what she's really after is an opportunity to help me. To feel like she's 'making up' for something. I don't understand what for. Anything I do that she makes a big deal over are just the little things I'd picked up from when I was in the orphanage. Putting her wing up in a sling, washing her cuts and bruises, and mending her favorite scarf. Things I thought a good boyfriend should be able to do. (Although it definitely helps to learn to sew when there's less than half a dozen days worth of uniforms in your entire wardrobe.)
This spring, I helped her shower and comb the dried mud and blood of her feathers, while denying my desperation to know what exactly happened to her. What happens to her out there? What is it she's not telling me? A good boyfriend should probably ask. But I feel like asking, given our history, puts our trust in jeopardy.
After tucking the briefs between the pants and sweater, I cross my bedroom—the top half of mine and George's bunk bed—and zip down the tinker-toy lift. It shudders and gives my heart a jolt as I plummet down to the top of George's nightstand, nearly flying off when I land. I weigh more than I did when we built this thing, of course It still worked okay, I'd just have to remember to add yet another block to the counter weight, so I don't end up snapping my ankle. None of us much point in changing our bedroom setup now, with college not too far away.
It only take a few steps before she stops me once more. "Hey."
I look back at her. "Yeah?"
"Everything is okay. Right?"
Breathe. In. Out. Water is still dripping from the bottom of my ears onto my shoulders. My legs ache from fighting tides that would be puddles to any other boy at my school. I'm tired and cold, so hungry I don't even want food anymore. And I don't know how I'm gonna get to every class on time without my car. And there's nobody around who's been through the exact same thing to ask these questions to.
"Oh, yeah." I tell her, finally. "Everything's fine."
I'm telling myself this, when a crashing noise brings me to a stop short of reaching the bathroom.
I freeze, ears and tail shooting up straight to the ceiling. I'm just outside Martha's room, what was once my supremely oversized room when I first came here. The door is closed, and her two sided Princess Fiona door hanger is conspicuously turned over to its 'Do not Disturb' side, with the ogre version of her face smiling mischievously. From the noises coming from inside, though, it's obvious she's not asleep. It almost sounds like she might actually be building an ark, with all the thumping and banging sounds. I'm a little nervous about Mom's reaction to how Martha's managed to turn her room upside down again, following the Ouija board panic of last fall.
A brief silence follows this particularly loud crash, but the sound of her voice tells me she's alright. "Uh oh..."
I shake my head, relieved. "Oh, Martha." I kinda remember what it's like having that raw enthusiasm for anything that got my imagination spinning. Maybe with less focus on doomsday situations, but still. Too bad she wasn't around when we were still building things in the basement, George and me. It was a good era.
Just feet away from the bathroom, the door is half way open. Speaking of George, there he is. When I stand at a certain angle, I can stay out of sight and still make out the figure of George taking the second of two gauges out of his lobes, then carefully putting them in a container from his pocket.
"You're setting quite an example for your siblings," Mom's got her arms folded over her chest. I guess it's gonna take longer for George to clean his earlobes with her hovering over him, making sure it's done right. "You know that, right?"
"Um, Martha's six?"
"Well, what about Stuart?"
I had turned around to head back to our room, to wait for the bathroom to clear. Gosh knows I know how precious privacy can be. But I hadn't honestly expected to hear my name spoken. Suddenly, I can't move.
"Him?" George sounds incredulous. "He wouldn't get gauges."
"How can you be so sure? Your brother used to follow your every step. At least he used to."
My brother made a noise, like a half snort. "Come on. We both know he's too soft for that."
Too soft?
The words are like a dazing blow, sudden and unexpected, like a slap to the cheek when I'm already on the way down.
The fact that I had to practically swim my way home tonight is nothing. Since coming to live here, I've broken my arm, my skull fractured twice, and even my left pinky broken backwards, amid a dozen other smaller injuries. My brother knows all about it. He tossed his lunch when he found me in the park grass when my skateboard crashed, my finger bent sharply at an abnormal angle. I'm no stranger to some pain.
Despite all this, George doesn't think I'm tough enough for some dumb piercings? Forget how stupid gauges would look on someone like me. I wondered if there was a reason George and I have drifted apart, other than that we were just growing up. This conversation maybe just confirmed something I suspected, but never wanted to believe.
It surprises me how suddenly I regret sticking up for him, down in the library.
Mom is still laying into him, not that I'm feeling particularly sympathetic about it anymore. "Where did you even get the money to do something like that to yourself?"
"I've been saving. Anyway, that's what I wanted to tell you—"
"I'd really prefer if you would've just given your father and I the warning before you go and modify your body this way. You haven't thought about tattoos or—"
George's sigh cuts her off. "No. You can't even get a tattoo unless you get parent permission under eighteen anyway. And I'm not crazy about needles."
"But you're okay with stretching out your ears—"
"Look. It's my body." He turns from the mirror, listing off three points with his fingers. "It doesn't hurt anybody. And I'm doing good, alright? My grades are better than ever, my job's fantastic—Artie's happy with me. And look!"
From his other jeans pocket, George produces a wrinkled white envelope. He holds it out to her, likes he wants her to take it.
Mom stares at it, but keeps her hands where they are. "What is that?"
"Shush!" He puts a finger to his lips. "Leftovers. I needed to take out cash to get the piercings done. Had some left over. I'm not gonna put it back into the bank." He hands it to mom. "Take it."
Mom studies him challengingly before taking the envelope. When she sees what's inside, whatever is inside, her eyebrows shoot an inch up her forehead. "George... where did you get this much money?"
"I'm saving. I told you. The only thing I've bought all year has been the controllers and the gauges. You and Dad taught me how to save. Now here's some cash. I know you said it would help if I at least paid the phone bill. Well, I'll start."
"I didn't mean that—honey, this is way too much—!"
"No, it's not." George runs a hand through his hair. For just a split second, he looks so much like Dad, it's uncanny. Even with the blond hair, the piercings, and the biker jacket, the mannerism is the tell that he and our father, the mild mannered piano player, are definitely related. "Mom. I haven't been the best kid. I know I haven't. I'm trying to change all that. When I look in the mirror, I wanna like the guy I see. And that involves paying you guys back a little for spoiling me rotten." He takes her envelope hand and gently pushes it towards her. "Please," he whispers.
Mom's speechless. Before anything else is said, they're sharing a hug. I hadn't seen Mom or Dad get a hug from George in years. What would otherwise be a very touching moment to witness is ruined by the overwhelming saltiness that has taken me over. I can't help but wonder if this was part of George's plan this whole time. It's gotta be harder to criticize the piercings when he can pay for it himself. I can't find fault with it either.
When George reaches for the door, I duck out of the way and hide. I wait around the corner as George and Mom head back downstairs.
My brother's come a long since we were kids. He's far from the shy, soft spoken only child who didn't always value everything Mom and Dad gave us as much as he could. I'm proud of him, too.
Even if he is ashamed of me.
After closing the bathroom door behind me, I strip off the rest of my wet clothes and hang them over the inside edge of the bathtub to dry overnight.
I climb onto the sink and lay the hairdryer sideways on the cool porcelain. The highest of four settings is powerful enough to blow me back against the wall—only knowing this because it happened once. But the lowest setting worked, as long as I stood back from the air stream. I turn it on and let the current dry out my fur, spinning around to let it get my tail and the back of my legs. When they're dry, I give into my legs desperately cry for rest. I ease down, sitting cross legged on the sink top, my back to the soothing warmth.
"Hey." Her voice trickles to me. "I'll say goodnight, now. See you tomorrow."
My eyes snapped open, and I whipped my head towards the door, as if the wood was transparent, and I could see her standing there. "What? W-where you goin'?"
"I'll just be across the street. I just don't want you to freak out 'cause the fern is empty, okay?"
Thunder booms outside the bathroom window, and the hairdryer's whurr doesn't mask it. I picture the trees in the park, shivering in the wind, and draining water from every branch. All their usual occupants, long gone. I gotta wonder if there's water in my ears, because I can't be hearing her right. "Why are you leaving?"
"I know you try to hide it, Stuart, but I can tell. I get it, it's fine. I'll go away and give you some space tonight."
"Hide what?" I got up and ran around the sink's basin to shut the dryer off. My heart is racing. A panic inside me has woken up. A panic that could only be unearthed by the thought of her leaving me for good. "You think I'm mad at you?"
"I asked if everything was okay. You didn't sound all that convinced."
Oh.
Oh...
Am I selfish. In the bedroom, when she asked if everything was okay, she wasn't really talking about the day I've had. She meant us. And I didn't sound convinced at all. "Why would I be mad at you? What for?"
"You don't ask that much of me, but you asked if I could sing for you, and I said I couldn't. I said it dredged up memories of my family, and how I had the worst singing voice, and I almost never sang with them until it was too late."
"Wait… is this about what happened downstairs with Dad and Martha, and the piano?"
"What'd you think I was talking about?"
"Uh..." It played before my eyes as if it were yesterday, only with a hazy deterioration like Dad and Crenshaw's home movie reels. Margalo standing on the edge of the roof, at the top of the skyscraper, eyes cast downward with shame. Falcon's berating comments at my back. The revelations that shaped themselves as cracks in my self confidence. My heart. My entire world view.
Why has all that suddenly come to mind? "Uh… I don't... know. So, w-what changed? If-if you don't mind me asking?"
"I don't know. I wasn't trying to leave you out. Maybe I just wanted your parents to like me. They've done so much for me. I'd like to be useful to them. Somehow."
"Geez. I know how that feels." I cross my arms, appreciating how dry and soft the fur feels beneath my palms. Despite the stigma of being disease carrying vermin, they say we're supposed to be pretty clean creatures, us mice. But not all mice have access to warm, running water and soap. Hence the stigma, maybe. Just one of the many things that makes me lucky. "My parents love you," I tell her. "You ought to know that by now. You don't have to work for their approval."
And I'm speaking the truth. When Margalo returned Mom's ring, we told them the gist of the Falcon's relationship to Margalo, and the subject hasn't come up since. It's one of the things about the Littles that resonates deeply with me. When they trust you—when they really trust you—they won't pry you for the details. Even if they should feel entitled to them.
"You're family. You bring us happiness just by being here with us," I go on. I can't believe we're having such an important conversation with a bathroom door between us. Maybe it's easier to say such heavy things without looking someone in the eyes. "As it is, I don't ask much from you, but you do a lot for me, anyway. You keep things in perspective. You make me feel like everything I do makes sense. All I care about is that you're here with me… and you… actually wanna be." I shrug at the door. "Here with me, I mean."
Her voice comes softly. "I wouldn't be anywhere else, Stuart."
Those words make my heart flutter. Margalo's not the kind to sugarcoat things. She'll tell you like it is. This bird should never have returned to New York. To the same city where she was kept prisoner for over half her life. And yet she came. And she keeps coming back, because of me. And knowing this, knowing there's something I can do for her that outweighs the bitter memories, is thrilling through and through.
This statement also implies she will be sleeping here at home tonight, after all, which eliminates a whole bunch of worries. I sigh a relieved sigh. "I want you to feel like you can tell me anything. Not that you have to give me everything. " I gesture to the space before me, and clear my throat as I realize what I said could be interpreted as a double entendre. "We both have our pasts. I respect that. There are things I haven't already told you. Or…" I gulp. "... shown you…"
As I say this, my gaze inadvertently flickered down at my lap. It's not that I'm ashamed of how my body looks. But it's expected for couples who have been together as long as we have to undress in front of each other, I and just... can't do it. I'm not ready for her to see me naked. Not yet. Not when it will inevitably lead to us talking about sex—really, actually, talking about sex—and what it involves for us.
Whatever it involves for us.
"I figured you had to get the sewing know-how somewhere."
"Huh." In all the trouble that happened my first few weeks after my adoption, I never did talk much about my life in the orphanage. Saying goodbye to everyone and everything that made me who I was before this. Dusty air vents and squeaky floorboards, a chipped tooth on a grinning face, and the innocuous pipe under the bathroom sink that caused it. A tiny, metal bed frame, with bedding enhanced by stolen laundry dryer sheets. And many, many tears and boo boos, not including my own. But still seen to and aided by my own woefully dwarfed hands.
The older I get, the more distant it feels, the characters that made up my past life. chaotic noise of the orphanage randomly echoing back to me in quiet moments, like now. Short of tracking them down, and potentially breaking laws that protect orphans in the process, I'll never know what happened to them. It's almost been a decade since I left, and the stronger moments of those years, the ones that really impacted me, jump out before my eyes, while the rest have already faded away, like pencil on wet paper. I only hope that the ones who earnestly dreamed of a brighter future have found it by now.
"Maybe people don't like thinking about their past because it reminds them of the weaker person they used to be. Or maybe it forces them to think of how far they've actually come since then," Margalo added.
"Or maybe they didn't grow as much as they would've liked to believe," I point out. My eyes drift to the stool holding up my personal sink, and the height chart I drew up on one of the legs years ago. There was a time when every millimeter of progress was exciting. I can't remember when I gave up keeping a record, but I do remember the eventual discouragement, watching my brother spring up from five to six feet tall in less than a year, when I couldn't even break four inches. The ironic thing was I gave up before my biggest growth spurt. My last notch in the wood was at three and a half inches. Low and behold, now I stand at an imposing four whole inches and two whole centimeters. Whoop-de-doo. "Look, I'm sorry if I made you think I was mad at you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to come off like… like I didn't wanna talk to you or something. You're the only one I can be perfectly honest with."
"Well, I told you what's eating me. So, what's eating you?"
"What makes you think something's bothering me?"
"Well, that vacant stare you gave me when you got home was a clue… or how about that expression that you made when George asked why you didn't call for a ride home."
"Er… what face was that?"
"Kinda like you just swallowed a whole worm without chewing."
I groan. "Please tell me that's not something you know about from experience." I don't need to picture that. I know that mouth a little too well.
"I told you! I don't eat bugs anymore." My assumption makes her 'tisk.' "Nothing beats the grub in this house."
"Touché."
"I thought you'd be happy. George finally found a job! He's finally growing up! Now both of you can work towards that new gaming PC. Isn't it what you wanted?"
"Kinda hard to feel happy about George's job going so well when I just lost mine."
Just like that, our calm conversation flow hits a brick wall. "Wait—what?"
With my back to the door, I slide down into the floor and close my eyes. I didn't want to get into it, but the cat had to come out of the bag sometime. "I got let go. Today. Before I walked home, before I lost my car—or, rather, found out the car was gone—Larry came to find me. Told me I can finish out the week if I want, but I'm not gonna get paid after that."
"Why? What did you do?"
"Nothing. I guess it's about what I can't do. I guess when he hired me to work the office phone, he thought I could handle, well, some more than that. It's my fault for not putting my limits on my resume." I say this, even though I know everybody in the world does the same thing, whether they have the strength of a common rodent or not. "And corporate's pressuring him to cut hours, so he had to make a choice."
"Between you and that guy who calls in every other day and raps in broken German?"
"I did say he was entertaining," I say truthfully. "Y'know, when he does show up for his shift."
"I couldn't imagine how your boss made such a hard call."
"He can lift stuff," I ignoring her sarcasm. "There's no beating that."
"There's got to be something we can do. Doesn't this go against some workers discrimination act or something?"
"Maybe. But I don't think anybody really cares about nonunion workers like that. Especially highschoolers."
"It's lame, regardless. Stuart, you deserve better than this! I'll go down there and see this guy myself!"
"Thanks, Margalo. But I don't think there's any talking out this one. A layoff's a layoff. Look at the news: It's happening everywhere now."
"Then what if I go and snag some of the pigeons from the park, bring them over and… I don't know… 'paint' his office?"
"Ah, I don't think that'll be necessary." I don't know why I expected any less. Margalo's so much better at flexing her muscles in unfair situations than me. Her outrage for me is cathartic, and heartwarming. "Plus, I could use the recommendation letter, y'know?"
"So, what? You're just gonna take it? There's nothing we can do?"
"I don't see how fighting it could help." I shift and cross my legs under myself. I've been sitting so long with these existential thoughts, I'm starting to feel like The Thinker. "Days like today make me feel like I'm running a race I'm never gonna win. Everything I do out there feels five times harder than it should be."
"Harder than most people, you mean." She says it this way, even though we both know the 'most' in that statement is unnecessary. Mice have it harder than people, harder than humans. The system society was founded upon, the one that essentially runs the world, was made with them in mind.
Neither of us would every say this out loud, though, because it disrespects humans like Mom and Dad, who've tried their hardest to accommodate for my size, while drawing the least amount of attention to it. "I keep telling myself that what I see in the mirror doesn't hold me back. I try to look at all these situations as challenges. But I don't always believe it. And it's getting harder to tell myself. It could be months to find a new job I can actually do. I can't apply to even get my social security number without having five different meetings and a stack of paperwork." I look away from my reflection and tisk. "Gosh, this all's gotta sound like first world problems to you. I-I mean, it's nothing life or death related. If you don't count me trying not to fall into the toilet. Heh."
Even as I try to end on a lighthearted note, accidents like getting kicked into a field goal, and even getting locked in the washer, seem forgettable by comparison. In the last four years, I've been bruised and beaten within an inch of my life by pennies in a freshman hazing, had customers call in the exterminator at the sight of me at my own job, and my car flushed away by inch tall flood water. "I'm playing the game by the rules, but so much has gone wrong that I can't help but wonder if the game is rigged against me. And I've only got two more years until graduation. Until I have to settle on what I actually wanna do for the rest of my life. I've spent so much time crossing off what I can't that I'm not sure what's left." I run the back of my neck. "Seems awful of me to be so bent out of shape about this, and bring it up to you, of all. You know better than anybody else that there's bigger problems in the world." I pause, before adding carefully: "Don'tcha?"
"The world out there… isn't perfect," she admits. And she lets the implication sit there. She's filled me in on the most magical elements of traveling through the wild, but I know it's not even half of it. She's gotta know that I know there's more she's keeping from me. I'm not sure if it's better or worse for my imagination to fill in the gap. "But that doesn't make your problems invalid. Look. You expect a lot out of yourself. Maybe you need to stop focusing on what you can't do. And think about what you wanna do." Margalo goes quiet for a long time. When she finally breaks the silence, her voice is husky. "What did you want to be, anyway? When you were a kid? What did you wanna do? You know, before all this?"
"Oh. Uh… " My fingers drum the cool, tiled floor. Before the Littles. Before her and me. I mull over the surface memories of my childhood, trying to trigger something—anything relevant to the question. "To tell you the truth, I don't remember. That was so long ago."
"Do you remember," says Margalo, "When we stayed up late that night? Reading all those articles about The Red Cross, and Habitat for Humanity. We fell asleep talking about all the amazing things we were gonna do someday, when you were done with college, and we were ready to travel. We were gonna change the world, you and me. That wasn't that long ago."
"No. It wasn't." It was 2005, the spring before we started dating. Officially, anyway. It was recently enough that I remember exactly what that time felt like. Snuggled up warm and cozy on my rug with a blanket, and Dad's Blackberry phone opened in front of us in the dark. Surfing the web into the early morning. It's easy enough to promise such things to each other while giddy with teased hormones and lack of sleep. Even if how we met was built on a lie, the way Margalo props me up is as real as it gets. Proximity to her makes me feel like I can do anything.
But now, Margalo is on the track to becoming a flock chief: A bird whose job in life is to serve the cause of migration. It comes before everything else, outside relationships with someone who doesn't migrate or not. And if I am gonna keep my promise to Mom and Dad, to provide for our future-for our future, then I'll be going away to school for some time.
There's somethin' real cruel about it. Now that we've confessed our feelings for each other, obligations and responsibilities are pulling us away more than ever. "Gosh, I miss when things were simpler. I don't even know what I'm gonna do with the rest of my life anymore. Not sure if I ever..."
And then, just like that, with no warning, the images appear. Tobogganing across my mind, gone as fast as they came.
Crayons. Ms. Reading's classroom. The paper mache mobile, hanging in the back of the room. The first grade classroom. The colorful, laminated posters on the door. The crack beneath the door, like this one. Tom's voice on the other side.
Solara.
"Wait. I do remember."
"Yes?" Margalo's response is eager. I can't imagine why.
It makes me nervous. "Ah, you're gonna laugh at me, but… when I was a kid, the one thing I remember being the most excited for, the one thing I really, really wanted to do when I grew up was to become an astronaut."
Margalo is quiet for a moment. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. I made plans and maps and paragraph essays on space and everything. Maybe that's why I liked having my own plane." I shrug at the door. "It's cool being above earth. I like the feeling when everything looks smaller than me for once."
"I think I can relate," Margalo says. "Being in the air—that was one of the best parts of finally learning to fly. Seeing big things in the world get smaller and smaller. It made me feel powerful. It was like unlocking this superpower I always had that I'd never tapped into before."
I nod slowly. And then at once, the meaning of her words click. "'Whaddoya' mean 'finally'?"
She works up a moment's suspense before elaborating. "In my family, in my nest, I was the odd chick. Couldn't fly, couldn't sing. I was just afraid to. Afraid of being so bad at it that I never tried. So, I put it off. All of it. And then one day, she put me in her satchel, wrapped around her wings. She flew me and my brothers all the way over to the nearest park, but that had to be miles away. I don't even know how she did it, but she did. And in an open field, up on a hill, they were playing some old movie."
"To Sir with Love?" The song she was singing when I got here. The one Dad was playing on the piano.
"First movie I ever saw. We went back a few times after that, to movies in the park. But that one blew my tiny little brain away. I guess the song in it was the only song I ever tried to learn."
I leave the door to climb back up onto the porcelain sink top, pulling on the dry clothes as I thought about what all this meant. For starters, it explains her particular fondness of movies, especially the '60s New Hollywood era. "Hold on. You just told me three new things about you today. I only told you one!"
"So?"
My voice is meek. "That doesn't seem fair."
"Eh. The last two were freebies."
I shake my head at the empty room. "Fine."
"When were you going to tell your parents? About… uh…"
"I dunno. I've never been fired before. I guess I gotta tell 'em sooner or later." Still, working up the nerve to break the news to Margalo was much easier. I'm not sure I'm ready to face Mom and Dad's reaction to it. "Or, I could find a place in the city to hang low after school for the next…" I count on my fingers. "... Two years?"
"Just look at the bright side."
"Oh, dear." I rub my cheek, feeling the exhaustion hit me at once. "I'd be lying if I said I've been trying my best, but I've been trying. What am I missing?"
"This isn't the only job in the world, kid. You'll find something else. Maybe even something that actually isn't totally soul sucking and thankless, hm? And hey! In the meantime, that gives us more time to hang out together."
I imagine smiling at her through the door as I reach for the knob. "That is true."
When I finally do emerge from the bathroom, her eyes find mine, but they are just as quickly drawn away as she looks me over, head to toe. "Okay. This was worth the wait."
"What? This?" I gesture to the outfit, a black knitted sweater over gray corduroy jeans. "Is it that bad?"
"It's different, but I kinda like it." Her head bobs as she holds her chin in her wing studiously. "Gothic poet chic."
"More like 'Mom actually left it up to me to do my laundry for once, and I forgot' chic."
"Still, not bad." She steps forward. The smile leaves my face and my nose twitches. We're all alone in the hallway. No footsteps that signal someone approaching, and now there's no door between us, either. The dark hallway behind and my body in front cast her face in shadows. "They're kind of tight on you."
"They are?" My voice is a whisper. I feel the bottom hem of my sweater in one hand, and pinch the fabric of her scarf near her neck with the other. Rubbing it between my thumb and index finger. I thought this awkwardness would've been long gone by now. Lost with things like my Constitution Test study guide, and my Spiderman PJs. "It was the only clean clothes I had left."
"Glad I don't have to worry about that."
My cheeks burn under the fur. "Perk of being naked all the time?"
"I meant, because I wear the same scarf all the time?"
"... Oh."
She makes a noise that's something like a snort and a laugh, then reaches forward and wraps a wing around the back of my turtleneck. She pulls me down, close to her face, and whispers into my lips. "You dork."
And the moment of privacy is used to close the gap between our mouths. It's a soft, simple kiss. Doesn't last longer than a few seconds, but it's enough to remind me of all the time and age that's passed between us, and bring my confidence back. It's enough to know that…
Yeah. We're alright.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, I touch her shoulder. "And for what it's worth, you're not a bad singer. Really."
She turns away from me, but from the side, I can still see the bashful smile that's just appeared. "I guess I'll accept that."
"Yeah, just what we need around here."
I jolt and we turn to see Snowbell emerge from behind the living room couch, Monty at his side. "Another excitable contestant for American Idol," says Snow. "At least you stay on key better than Mr. Little after two shots of whiskey."
"I remember that! I used to love coming over on karaoke night! So much leftover pizza. Can't wait 'til dinner's ready." Monty pads to a stop with a puzzled look. I guess my achromatic clothes are striking enough that even the cats take notice. "Hey, Stuart! You're looking different. Did you do something with your hair?"
"Yesahs, Stu," Snowbell mutters. "Wasn't obvious enough that this story was written by some jaded millennial was it? First George, now you? Is this some sort of latent Hot Topic phase?" Snowbell turns his head and shifts his wary eyes to Margalo. "Or does your little bandit girlfriend here in some sorta new heist. Should I be ready for the NYPD to come breaking down the doorstep at three in the morning?"
"Uh, Snow—"
Margalo cuts me off. "Oh, he's just mourning the family pet." She shakes her head with a tisk. "Found him belly up in the alley the morning of the 21st."
"Oh no. That's awful." Monty turns to Snowbell with a frown. "Snow, why didn't you say… wait, the twenty first…" He looks at the other cat for confirmation. "Ain't that tomorrow?"
"Quick one, jailbird. Come on, Monty. We're going for takeout instead." Snowbell shoots a glare at Margalo. "I have a taste for some chicken."
"Really? I'm feeling beef myself. Oh! There's this new teriyaki joint downtown. Mmm… Too bad they're closed on Mondays." Monty goes after Snow, padding off back around the corner, towards the doggy door in the kitchen. "By the way, Snow, you never told me you had a co-pet. You think he liked teriyaki?"
"Monty, have I ever told you how wonderful you sound when you're quiet?"
"Aww, buddy, that's so nice—! Oops! Sorry…"
"Um," When their voices disappear, I turn back to Margalo. "That was… kinda dark, don'cha think? That was mean, what he said, but I don't think he really meant that."
"It's all talk, anyway. He deserves to have some of it handed back to him once in a while." She leans in close and takes my hand in her wing. "He'll get over it. You know that."
"Yeah, I guess." If there's one thing that we have in common, it's our understanding of Snowbell. He and Margalo play these verbal games with each other from time to time, but he usually has this glint in his eye that says he's not serious. Consequences or not, I can't imagine Snowbell ever doing anything to hurt either one of us. And you know? I think there's something he really likes about Margalo. Maybe it's because she has the wit for worthy comebacks.
But tonight's interaction between them felt a little off. Like there was real malice in there. Maybe the joke that she was back to the same type of work she was doing for the Falcon was just a dig too low. Or maybe it had something to do with the idea of roping me into the job this time.
I know Snowbell will get over it, but will Margalo? I'm afraid to admit I'm not sure.
As we sit down for a late dinner, Mom's reaction is refreshingly chill. "Black is a handsome color on you," she says to me. "Makes your fur look so bright and clean. You should wear your other clothes more often."
"Sure." I take the dish of rewarmed mashed potatoes from her outstretched hand, portioned down in a Vitamin Water cap. Most of our old tea set shattered the other day when the drying rack slid off the kitchen counter, and Dad flexed his creativity with his substitutions. After I serve myself, I pass it Margalo, seated to my left on the mini table. "But I like my colors."
Mom pulls back her chair, but hesitates before sitting down. "Do I take that to mean you forgot to do laundry for tomorrow?"
"No! I…" I want to tell her I got it, but I'm exhausted, and my legs are still sore from the slog back to the house in the knee-high puddles. I don't think I'm gonna keep my eyes open long enough to study, let alone do laundry. I closed my eyes, and picked up my segmented paper napkin, waving it back and forth over my head. "S.O.S."
She glances at the clock before pushing her chair back into the table. "I'll go throw a load in."
"No, no, no!" Dad stands up on her left and puts a hand on her shoulder. "Finish your food before it gets cold. I'll go throw in the boys' laundry."
"Dear, you don't have-" And he silences Mom's protest with a peck on the lips. Watching him run out of the dining room, she whispers after him. "Thanks."
In the chair to our left, George points to Mom with his spoon. "Dad knows there's gonna be strawberry sundaes after dinner, right?"
She picks up Dad's plate of lonely, uneaten vegetables and piles it on top of George's empty plate. "From the looks of it, definitely. Oh! Strawberries! That reminds me:" As quickly as she'd turned to head to the kitchen, she spun back to face us with a fresh wave of energy. "Dad and I were talking. It's time to start thinking about our summer vacation next year. The earlier we book flights and hotels, the better rates we'll get. Dad mentioned today he thought about heading up to Michigan to see the Strawberry Festival, but we'd need more to do while up there. There's canoeing in the grand rapids, and the Frederick Meyer gardens… what does everyone think?"
"Saugatuck's got those dune rides," says George, looking my way. "Our friend Cory loves it up there."
"I know we're saving… uh." Even though our sister was now upstairs, asleep, I lower my voice anyway. "...Disneyland… as a surprise for Martha's seventh, but I've been reading more about Epcot Center. Dunno if we can swing it, but it would be cool to visit California too."
"Surprised you're not interested in the dune buggies, Stu." George is still searching for my eyes across the table. "ATVs? Offroading? Sounds like that'd be right up your alley."
This comment makes me suddenly crush the intersection of my meatloaf and potatoes until it's unrecognizable mush. There's a hundred ways I could respond, but few avoid an argument. The wisest thing for me to do would be to keep my mouth shut, but I'm not in a wise state of mind. "I'm not sure why you're surprised."
George's brow creases downward, but he doesn't say anything. I don't know if he knows what to even make of that. To avoid the obligation of explaining myself, I stick a forkful of mush into my mouth. Incidentally, all I taste is salt.
It doesn't take Mom more than a few seconds of prolonged silence to grow uncomfortable. "Oh… kay." She knows something's up, but my response is just mysterious enough that it doesn't demand for us to talk it out like a family.
"It would be cool to go to California, I guess." George shrugs. He turns to Mom. "Can we even swing that?"
"I don't…" Mom looks troubled.
"May I make a suggestion?"
Suddenly, all eyes are on Margalo.
"Oh!" Mom sneaks a look at me before turning to her, as if I know what she's about to say. I gape back at her, because I really don't. "Well, of course!"
"So, you guys know I've traveled a lot—I mean, at least in the last few years, that is. I've seen some really cool things out there. A place I think you might wanna check out is Houstin."
"Like, in Texas?" A red flag goes up in my head, but I'm too invested in what she's about to say. Though she comes along with us on vacations, this is the first time she's ever put in two cents about a destination. "Why?"
"It's massive! There's so much to do. There's cattle ranches, big open fields. The food, the rodeos—"
"Will's cousin lives in Houstin," George chimed in. "We could go fishing. I'll ask if he's cool with the idea of us coming over for a few days."
Mom tips her head. I see her digesting the idea. She doesn't look opposed to it. "You know, I did pony back riding there once as a girl. I think Martha would love that. I'll talk it over with Dad. Thanks for the idea, sweetheart."
Margalo beams. "No problem."
After Mom hurries out of the room, and my brother drags out his phone to make a text, I turn to Margalo.
"What?" she says. "What's that look for?"
I pick my words carefully. I don't wanna come off paranoid. "How come you've never mentioned Houstin to me before?"
"It was one of the only benchmarks on the flyaways where nothing went wrong. And I didn't mention it, but there's a lot more to do there than just cowboy stuff. Trust me. You're gonna like it."
I nod, but I've still got questions. Especially because of my mental map of Margalo's migration route. Based on all the benchmark locations she'd told me about before, I thought her flight path was more eastern. I can't picture how the flock could've crossed Texas on her way back here.
Then again, I'm just a mouse. So what do I know? Maybe birds migrate on slightly different paths sometimes. It's not like they're known for using GPS to get to where they're going.
Maybe it's what George said about me upstairs. Maybe I'm just jaded right now. But for whatever reason, Snowbell's joke about Margalo planning some sort of robbery is echoing back to me. It was a cruel thing to say because there's a historic truth to it. Still, I was surprised Margalo reacted as strongly as she did to it. It's as if the wound still hasn't healed, even after all this time. Snowbell can be a real worry wart, but he did speculate that Margalo could be a thief the first day she stayed over here. And… technically, he was right.
We've moved past all that now. But I can't help but question my own gullibility.
Margalo told me to trust her, and I know she's talking about more than the topic at hand. I wanna trust her.
I have to trust her.
I'll explain more in the Author's Note at the end, but going for First Person present POV is seriously an Achillies heel for me. I've tried to catch all the blurbs of past tense but I've probably missed a dozen of them. I'll definitely end up reuploading all the parts of this story later as I find errors here or there that I'm still not seeing. Obviously feel free to point them out, as well as anything else, I'll take all criticism.