I hadn't eaten just under forty-eight hours.
I understand, abstractly, that I have no choice but to fly to Phoenix and live as Ainsley Thomas, not unless I want to be living out of hotels until I run out of money. I can see, logically, that I will wear Ainsley's clothes, attempt to not entirely destroy her career, and somehow navigate whatever her social life is like. I will generally exist in public as this woman with the expectation to act like this is completely normal and my entire life hasn't just been run over by an entire cavalcade of eighteen-wheelers. In the near future, I will actually bother to reach out to her about any of this instead of leaving her hanging about whoever's now apparently in charge of her life.
But that future, no matter how little choice I have, feels an unimaginable gulf away from the present. Since I met Heather the day before I left my room exactly once: rushing to the lobby to grab one of the bagels they put out, and then getting the hell out of there. That's hard enough despite knowing everyone in the Inn understands my situation, meaning social standards are meaningless. Going out in public is... different. Every fear I already had about making the general public uncomfortable feels ten times more justified now. I feel like everyone can tell I'm not supposed to look like this, even though reading the blog tells me not only that it's not true, but the Inn's magic actively works to prevent this. But sure, I can look like a woman, and nobody's going to believe I turned into one two days ago, but I can't walk or talk or act like one! And that's what randoms would notice. Clearly, Inn guests have managed to thread the needle, but probably by not thinking too hard about it. So it's too bad for me that I was put on this planet to overthink. I'm going to be an accountant, that's good in my line of work!
I was in the middle of doing exactly that when I heard another bang on the door from the only person it could've been. "Isaac! Hey. We need to talk about flights. They're not getting any cheaper and I haven't seen you all day. Wanna get dinner?"
"I'm good." Anything to prolong the inevitable a little more. "We can talk in here if you want, it's no big--"
"You haven't eaten at all today, have you?"
"I--" I'm a horrible liar sometimes. "You're not my mom!"
"Look buddy, I'm somebody's mom! And I don't know who you really are, but I know what it's like to deal with a scared teenager who won't leave the house because they got a pimple--"
"I'm twenty."
"Oh, wow, twenty, that's a huge difference. But you know what? You're right, I'm not your mom. I'm your roommate. And that means I don't wanna have to mom a roommate who won't leave the apartment, loses their job, and won't pay their half of the rent, okay?"
My sense of shame didn't quite outweigh the crippling social anxiety just yet. "Go eat. We can talk flights when you get back, in here."
"If you wanna starve, suit yourself. But I'm gonna say-- you're going to have to leave the Inn before you know it. We've got two nights left before they kick us out. Do you want your first time out in public as this girl to be going through TSA? Sitting next to a couple strangers in the middle seat of a transcontinental flight? Or, maybe you'd rather chicken out, stiff me with the rent, and stay put. You'd have to go out there and find someplace to stay. Talk to hotel staff and beg for a room. Or... you can come get dinner with me, in a town where nobody gives a crap about who you are. Your choice."
There it is. There's that shame.
---
"Can you quit looking over your shoulder every five seconds?" Heather whined as we walked past the pier towards a diner she'd picked out, too slowly for my tastes. I like to walk so fast sometimes people tell me it's scary. "I'm telling you, nobody cares. It just makes you stick out even more if you look to the whole world like you're hiding from the cops."
I fiddled a bit with my shirt. Most of Ainsley's vacation wardrobe was fairly... minimal, but she fortunately had some dirty jeans and a baggy T-shirt reading DELTA PANCAKEFEST '19 with some graphics of pancakes and a list of participating sororities. And, terrifyingly yet most mercifully of all, a sports bra. Good enough for me, I'll probably wear the same thing on the flight over.
"You talked me out of that room, okay?" I muttered, as if there were some reason everyone walking by would find it strange that someone appearing to be a young woman sounds like a young woman. "Don't push your luck."
Heather rolled her eyes. "You're gonna have to get used to people looking at you even if you're not doing it wrong. 'S how it is for girls our age."
We finally made into the diner before I could reflect too hard on that. I grimaced a bit when the hostess referred to us as ladies, but at least she sat us down a relatively out-of-the-way booth, as if she could tell I'm a wreck who can't handle the slightest bit of eye contact right now.
"So," I broke the silence once we'd ordered. "I have to ask. How are you handling this so well?" I spoke quietly, wary of any normies listening inn, despite knowing full well this can't possibly be the first Inn-related conversation to be had in that diner. "Seriously. You act like I'm the weird one for freaking out. What about this situation isn't freakout-able? Is this not your first time through the Inn?"
"Oh honey, I work in a high school," Heather smirked, her volume indicating her clear disregard for anyone who might hear. "You don't get through seventeen years of that by freaking out, I'll tell you. So yeah, this is my first time at the Inn. Ever had to talk to twenty angry parents at once who can't believe their previous little babies ran a cheating ring? This ain't nothin'. Also helps that Sara's a pretty little thing. Could be worse."
I decided to ignore that last part. "Yeah, well. I would've thought you'd be nicer if you're a teacher."
Heather just laughed. "What, you never had an asshole teacher? You'd be surprised." A waitress came by to take our order before she continued. "But I never said I'm a teacher. I'm an administrator, and that means I'm a meat shield the principal uses whenever she can't be damned to break it to a parent that their kid's a little hellraiser. You gotta be mean sometimes, and you need thick skin in a job like that. Thick skin, Ainsley."
"Do you have to call me that?"
"You're gonna have to get used to it," she said as she glanced at her phone. "She's not happy you haven't talked to her, y'know."
"You've been talking to Ainsley!?" I raised my voice for the first time all day. Somehow, it felt like a breach of privacy even though that doesn't make any sense.
"I've been talking to Sara since yesterday. Ainsley's the one who needs to play telephone with her about getting a word out to you. Seems like she's got a lot going on she'd rather talk to you about than put in that letter. Gonna need to talk before we hit Phoenix, y'know."
I went back to staring at the table and sighed. "I'll get around to it."
For the first time, Heather looked more genuinely angry than condescending. "You and your procra-- You know? God, what do you want whoever's stuck with your life to act like? Y-you want radio silence while you wait to find out if they might not completely ruin you? You don't want to know if it's an infant, or an old man with dementia, or some complete basket case who--"
That, for all my worries about taking over a strange woman's life and appearing as her in public, was the one thing I'd avoided thinking about the hardest. I do not want to confront what could happen to my life-- I still haven't written my letter. It's the single most bone-chillingly mortifying thing imaginable. "What is your problem?!" An uncomfortably shrill voice rose from the diner table. "Thick skin, thick skin-- can you just get off my back for one goddamn second! Why does how I am handling the single most insane and least like thing that's ever happened to me affect you in any way? I know I don't have a choice but to figure it out, okay? You think I'm not reminded of that every time I see my reflection? If you're not my mom, then treat me like a fucking adult who can handle his own problems."
Too late, I realized that, no matter how stress-inducing she is, talking to Heather was distracting me from my paranoia of being stared at. Now there were more than a few stares, stares at that girl who'd just bitched out in front of her friend and interrupted the meal of every poor, innocent tourist.
What a freak I am. I gasped, shrank in my seat, and went back to staring at the table.
"You don't understand how lucky we are," Heather muttered. Neither of us said a word for the next ten minutes before we finally got around to talking about flights.
I can see, logically, that Heather and I will eventually reach an acceptable mutual tolerance as roommates. I understand, abstractly, that I have no choice but to stop being such a coward.
But not today.
No comments:
Post a Comment