Curioddity (15 page)

Instead, he frowned. An annoying blob of something kept getting between him and his view of the nice, comfortable ceiling. The blob was babbling at him in a language he didn't understand. Trying to ignore the thing by smiling at it only seemed to make it angry. For a blob, it possessed quite a healthy head of brown, curly hair. As Wil's eyes adjusted to the dim light, the searing pain, and the contrast of the ceiling (hunter green, definitely hunter green), he could see that the blob was morphing into an attractive-yet-dangerous young woman who brandished a copy of
War and Peace
as if it were an offensive weapon. Wil found himself wishing the girl had spent a little time reading the “peace” section of the book.

“Who are you?” asked the young woman/blob. “What are you doing back here?”

“I'm looking at your ceiling,” replied Wil. “It's green.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“And hitting someone over the head with a book does?”

“That depends. Why is your head all covered with blood?” The girl brandished the book a little more dangerously, just in case it was not yet clear she meant business.

“I think because you just hit me with that book,” replied Wil.

“Okay, sure … but I only did half of it. You already had blood on your head when you came in.”

“That's no reason to hit me over the head. Is that Oxford or army?” Wil looked around him: the inlaid wooden box he'd been examining had gone clattering across the floor and was now wedged under an old baseball bat. There was evidence of neither angels nor ambulance workers, which Wil took to be a positive sign. He began to giggle, uncontrollably. Post-concussion syndrome didn't seem so bad after all.

“Hey, cut it out,” remonstrated the young woman.

“You know, I just realized something,” Wil offered as he tried to lift his head. “I took the middle path, so I shouldn't be surprised that I'm upside down.” He felt he should make a token effort to sit up and see if he was in a snowdrift but the idea of it was too much to bear. If he was going to meet his end at the hand of an admittedly attractive dingbat, she was going to have to finish the job without any protest on his part.

The young woman eyed him with a confused look. Perhaps, Wil thought, as she lowered the book from its attack position, realization was beginning to dawn on her. This was the kind of awkward silence people observe when one of them is considering damages, lawsuits, and possible ways out of both.

“I came in to ask you about the Nikola Tesla Junior Genius Mega-Volt Test Kit you have in the window,” Wil volunteered, hoping this might break the tension. His head literally felt like it was splitting in two as he made an effort to recover by propping himself up on one elbow. “Aren't you supposed to ask customers if they need help finding anything before you bash them over the head with a heavy object?”

“You were skulking around the back of my store—”

“I was browsing!”

“Okay, you were browsing. But how do I know you're not a crazy person?”

“Hey, I'm not the one hitting people over the head with a book. I take it you must be Lucy?” Wil proffered his hand, partly in hopes that the young woman would deem this a harmless introduction but mostly because he hoped she might help him to his feet.

The girl narrowed her eyes. “How do you know my name?” she questioned. “Did someone send you here?”

“It says Lucy's Magic Locker on the sign out front.”

“Oh. Right.”

*   *   *

I
T FELT
to Wil as though a few more seconds of awkward silence would be fitting, just so the girl might fully comprehend the consequences of her actions. He had, after all, been assailed during the simple execution of his quite innocuous purchasing activities. Apologies were no doubt in order and—if this was to be turned to his advantage—perhaps a generous offer on her part to provide him with a free gift (such as the Nikola Tesla Junior Genius Mega-Volt Test Kit) in return for his cooperation. She was a pretty girl, to be sure, but that in no way disqualified her from her duties as a responsible store owner. And being a responsible store owner meant that she was obliged to offer him fair service, reasonable pricing, and zero whacks over the head with anything written by Tolstoy. Wil waited for an apology but was to be quickly disappointed. Lucy widened her eyes a little—apparently impressed by her own bravery and the copious amounts of blood this had withdrawn from Wil's head—and then she began to snigger.

“Wow, I really got you good, didn't I?”

“Yes. Look, I don't expect that to be a source of pride—”

“I mean you never know, do you?” she continued, disregarding the possible extent of the damage she'd just caused. “Like, if you went to war, or something, you never know if you'd run away or stand your ground.” The girl was beginning to warm to her subject, and Wil felt it was neither his place nor inclination to stand in the way of her shining moment, not while half of his life support dripped down the side of his head. “I mean, one minute you're minding your own business piling some books and the next you're, like,
Enter the Dragon
 … hy-
ahh
!”

The girl's sudden enthusiastic demonstration of martial arts bravado was startling, considering the circumstances. “Yes,” Wil agreed as he pushed himself up from the floor, sat up, and shook his head, dazed, “I'd imagine you'll be up for a medal or something. Do they give out awards for attacking defenseless customers when they're not looking?”

“Oh, God, I'm really sorry.” The girl seemed to immediately soften. She stuck out her hand and smiled the sweetest of smiles. “Lucy Price. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Wil. Morgan. Wil Morgan,” Wil responded as he tried to remember both his manners and his name. It wasn't so much the pain scrambling his neurons, or the fact that he was sitting on a pile of old magazines—it was the girl's sudden and immediate transformation from maniacal to charming. He felt as though he'd just ridden a dragster from two hundred miles per hour to zero after a computer malfunction in the dashboard had accidentally deployed his parachute.

For the strangest reason, Wil felt as though he had met Lucy before. But he also felt that bringing this up under such bizarre circumstances would be a little forward of him. He'd never been much good at talking to pretty girls, and when in their company, he constantly fretted that anything he said might be misconstrued as a pickup line. Whatever the case, he felt ridiculous sitting on the floor and bleeding profusely. And so he propped himself up a bit and allowed Lucy to help him to his feet. The ground wobbled.

As they shook hands, Lucy seemed ever so slightly distracted. She gripped Wil's hand just a little longer than might seem appropriate, and narrowed her eyes. Wil had seen this look before, most often on television during daytime soap operas. He never understood those either.

“Where do I know you from, Wil?” asked Lucy. “You look familiar.”

“I wish I knew,” replied Wil, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I've had a weird couple of days, and I've been seeing a lot of movement in my peripheral vision. Have you been stalking me or am I just a target of opportunity?”

“I didn't hear you come in. This is the first time I've ever attacked a customer, I promise.”

“Lucky me.”

“We need to get some of that blood off so we can see your handsome face,” she said. “Come on.”

With that unexpected comment Lucy pulled a very dazed and confused Wil Morgan to his feet and pointed him toward a little kitchen at the back of the store, which could be seen poking through an open door. As he allowed himself to be led away, Wil found himself ever so slightly charmed by the girl's light step and the way her bright-orange gypsy-style dress flowed around her curvaceous figure. She moved lightly across the floor, leading him past the maze of discarded old books and centuries-old metal junk. Was it his imagination or had this pretty girl just flirted with him?

*   *   *

A
T THE
kitchen sink, Lucy dutifully mopped the side of Wil's bloody head with an old sponge that Wil suspected doubled as a botulism farm. The pain was beginning to recede, and in its place a kind of dull ache was emerging. But Wil didn't mind; this girl seemed relatable—if not actually remorseful—and he conceded it might be difficult to blame her fully since half the damage to his head had been done by a street sign the day before. Wil winced as the sponge smeared blood across his cheek, and cold water dripped down the back of his neck.

“You know this might have been a less painful introduction if your doorbell was actually loud enough to do its job,” he said, indignantly. “Usually, doorbells don't sound like someone trying to keep a secret.”

Lucy's eyes widened, and she chuckled. “Yeah, but it wouldn't have been so memorable.”

“Oh, I don't know. I'm sure I would have remembered you either way.”

Wil flushed, instantly regretting his response. It sounded like the very type of pickup line he was always trying to avoid, and he winced in expectation of Lucy scowling at him. To his surprise, she grinned.

“Why, thankyew, kind sir!” she exclaimed with a grin, and turned her attention to emptying her sponge of blood and refilling it with more botulism water.

*   *   *

L
UCY FINISHED
her mopping duties and moved a lick of hair from Wil's eyes. “There, that's better,” she said in the kind of twinkly voice usually reserved for people on television. “Now what can I do for you, Wil?”

Wil could think of a number of possibilities but he wasn't about to blow this chance at impressing the girl. If memory served him right, the correct approach now would be to act in an aloof manner, then feign interest in anything but the pretty young woman who'd just mopped the blood out of his eyes. Wil had been given this advice in the school bathrooms by Billy Pinder when he was six years old but had never really questioned its effectiveness.

Lucy looked into Wil's eyes, expectantly.

“Um. Uhh,” Wil began with practiced ease. “Wow. Um.” Her face seemed oh so within reach, her eyes more inquiring. If this were a daytime soap he'd probably lean forward and kiss her. (And she'd probably slap his cheek and demand that he leave.)

Lucy crinkled up her nose. “Something about a Tesla Kit?” she suggested. It was obvious that she was enjoying Wil's discomfort but not in a nefarious way, he thought. Clearly, this was a two-way attraction, but Wil needed to act more like a magnet and less like a puddle of human jelly.

“Oh, yes. Sure. The Tesla Kit,” replied Wil. He could feel he was beginning to lose his entire train of thought, which was no mean feat. The only way to lose a train is to drive it off the tracks and take it for a spin in a forest somewhere. Wil was most definitely off track. “Is it for sale?” he asked, immediately regretting the question.

“Well, of course not!” Lucy laughed, playfully. “This is Lucy's Magic Locker. We only accept trades and barters. Do you have something to trade?”

“I'm not sure. I finished my rhubarb pastry—”

“Bummer. How about dinner on Thursday night, then?”

Wil gulped, and nodded. Right about now his train of thought was steaming headlong into an underwater gorge full of neon electric jellyfish and bearded mermaids. This was not familiar territory at all.

“Cool. Okay. Do you like Korean?”

Wil nodded again. It had worked the first time, after all. Maybe this gorgeous girl—who Wil was perfectly capable of admitting was most likely clinically insane—liked the silent type.

“Okay.” Lucy chuckled. “You pick the restaurant and text me. I'll come by and pick you up. Say, seven?”

“Seven. Text. Right. Absolutely,” muttered Wil in a half daze. He wasn't sure he should mention that texting might be impossible on account of the fact he neither owned nor knew how to operate a cell phone.

“Awesome. Now about the Tesla Kit. That'll be sixty bucks.”

“Sixty?” blurted Wil. “That's a bit steep for an old toy, isn't it?”

“Well, how else do you expect me to pay for dinner?”

“Well, I wasn't—”

“I'll go and get it for you.”

And just as suddenly as Lucy had busted her way into Wil's awareness, she flounced off toward the front of the store, chuckling to herself. Wil stood in painful admiration, noticing how Lucy's flowing gypsy-style skirt moved around her hips. He could hear a faint jangling sound coming from her many wristbands and bangles. And as she moved toward the display window, he could see that she was barefoot.

*   *   *

W
IL FOLLOWED
Lucy out of the small kitchen area, wincing a little as he imagined the blunt force trauma his head had endured over the last day or so. He was in for a long couple of days of searching for Mr. Dinsdale's box if his brain was going to slosh like this every time he took a step.

As Lucy busied herself by clambering into a tiny space that looked as if it hadn't been opened in thirty years, Wil tried to take stock of his surroundings and the situation at hand. Taking stock of the clutter in Lucy's Magic Locker would be a long and arduous task requiring the services of a team of old Chinese men with abacuses and a second team of movers. He was more concerned with what might be happening between him and the pretty young woman, who was now singing happily to herself as she waded through a pile of dust in the store window. Wil had always been a hopeless romantic, with “hopeless” being the operative word. Most of the girls he'd ever been interested in were so far out of his league that they were, metaphorically, the National Football League while he was, metaphorically, a Middle School Girls' Under-12 B Division.

As Wil pondered the ramifications and the possible outcomes, the bizarre feeling of people moving past him occurred again: he could feel the presence of others inside the store, yet there was no obvious reason for it. If he blinked, he imagined he could see an open space at the back end of the store just as his eyelids closed; and he'd see it again for a brief, flickering moment as they opened. He felt as though time had somehow spun sideways in two places at once, and this feeling was most disconcerting. Indeed, his vertigo was beginning to intrude. He attempted to prop himself up against the back wall only to discover the shelf he'd attempted to lean on had never been there in the first place. Wil's hand slid down the painted brick and he righted himself quickly, hoping the pretty girl in the window hadn't noticed.