London Harmony: Small Fry (5 page)

I smiled and said, “I've been reading books from the Archives on my breaks.  There are so may fascinating books here.”  Then I tilted my head at the book. “It would be provocatively stimulating to read the books in their native dialect.  I'm only proficient in, English, and ASL.  Though I did partake of two years of Japanese in secondary school.”

She smiled at her hands. “You have an odd vocabulary.”

Another awkward silence followed so I prompted, “I'm a logophile, I just love words.  You speak German?”

She nodded and I tilted my head down to catch her eyes, was she blushing?  She smiled and shrugged. “English, German, French, Russian, and Latin.  My aunt taught me.  Even some American, which she swore wasn't English.”

I scrunched up my face and was about to profess that we speak English in the U.S., but then it turned into a chuckle when she said, “Y'all.”

Then her face hardened a bit and she said just above a whisper, “Stop being nice to me.  Why aren't you asking why I'm living in an attic like anyone else would?”

I shrugged, I realized I hadn't really cared why.  There is always a reason, and it usually comes with great emotional pain, and I didn't want her to relive any of that pain.  “You don't know me yet.  How can you trust me?  I've been where you are, and I still might ask later.  It would be rude for me to now, I'm a guest in your home.”

Why the hell did I find her shyness so alluring?  And those hazel eyes of hers took on the highlights from her curly red mane.  I had to stop myself from reaching over and brushing some of those delightfully delectable locks away from her face.

She was examining me, I mean, really examining.  She was looking closely at my shoes and clothing, my hair and even my hands, but not my face.  Was she embarrassed to look at me?  I looked around and grabbed a matchbook and lit the candle, then said,  “I have to make sure all the patrons in the nooks downstairs have left.”  I looked at her stash of foodstuffs and motioned toward them. “I'd love to sit and talk with you over supper.  Next time will be on me.”  I wasn't about to offer now.  I remember how it was.

It would feel like charity if I offered to buy dinner first.  It is a pride thing.  When you feel you can't sink any lower, it is almost like a slap in the face when someone offers something you need.  You thought your pride couldn't sink any lower, but you want so badly to say yes, to take what is offered.  That makes you feel like less than nothing, and the anger comes.

She looked at my face finally and she asked, “You're not turning me in?”  Then she glanced over at her food before I could answer and added, “I don't have much.”

I shook my head. “I know how it is, I've been there.  It isn't my place, but even if it was.  You never get your friends thrown out on the street.”

I saw her grinding her teeth and she said, “You don't know a bloody thing about me.  Your clothes are all high end, you're just being nice to the poor homeless girl.  I'm not a charity case.  When I finish college, I'll get a flat of my own.”

I locked eyes with her and let mine narrow a bit, though I loved her moxie.  “I've been exactly where you are.  Living on the streets and abandoned buildings with my sister.  Thinking we couldn't sink any lower.  But we did!  We resorted to stealing from people to pay for food, clothing, medicines.  Until the day we took the hand of someone offering us respect and love, and let them help us.”

Then I softened and took her hand, she tried to yank away but I held it and said, “This is only temporary.  Things will get better, and you'll come out the other side all the stronger for it.”  I glanced around.  “You're actually set up better than we had been.  So I'm positive that things will get brighter.”

Then I smiled. “And you're surrounded by books and knowledge.”  She gave a crooked dimpled smile at that.

Then she just nodded once.  I stood up, taking my phone for light.  “Be back in a jiff.”  Then I hurried through the maze and down the stairs.  I smiled at Mr. Myong, who was mopping the lobby.  As usual, he just stared at me without a word before going back to work.

There was one woman, who looked like a professor, in a back nook.  She seemed lost in her notes and the book she had open before her.  I grinned then knocked on the frame of the nook lightly.  The woman looked up and back quickly then at her watch.  She gave an embarrassed smile and packed up her stuff, leaving the book in the refile basket for me.  She apologized in a rich British accent that had a hard edge mixed in, like German or Hungarian. “Terribly sorry.  I get so engrossed in my research at times.”

I just grinned back and assured her, “It happens to all of us ma'am.”  She nodded at that then I escorted her to the door and let her out.  I looked up, like I could see through to the attic, then hustled over to the break room beside the office and poured out the pot of stale coffee, and started a new pot.

When it was done I grabbed one of the emergency flashlights, which was labeled 'emergency torch' amusingly enough, and two cups of coffee and headed back to the labyrinth with a grin.  I admitted I was excited to go back to see her again.  I mean, you did see those dimples, right?

I left the light off this time and navigated using the flashlight.  I reached her cubby and knocked on the shelf.  “Knock knock.”  Then I poked my head in.

She was illuminated in the candle light and her eyes were big, afraid, as she looked at me.  She looked intently at my hair and bandanna then asked, “Fran?”

I narrowed my eyes and stepped through the blanket partition and she seemed to relax as I said, “Of course.”  Then I quickly held up the white cardboard cups.  “Fresh coffee.”

She almost pounced on the one I offered her as we sat down.  This time she didn't sit close to the exit.  Then she looked at the shelf beside her.  “I don't have much.”  She grabbed some crackers, granola bars, and some beef jerky and set them between us.

I smiled and started opening a package of crackers as I looked around and asked, “So how did you get in here?  I see you have a key.”

She smiled slyly. “It was my aunt's.  She worked here until she died last year of heart congestion.”

Then I put it together and just said, “Mrs. Reed.”

She nodded sadly then she shared like she felt she owed me something. “She loved working here, she would bring me all the time so I could get lost in the books.  After she had died, her estate went into probate.”

Then she hissed, “The bloodsucking wankers took it all, for back taxes and outstanding debts.  I was kicked to the streets since I was technically an adult.  I didn't know where else to go.”

Then she explained, “I have a full scholarship at Chelsea, so I can stay close like this.  I use the showers in the locker room there.  And my student card in the cafeteria there for breakfast and lunch.”

Then she hung her head.  “It will all be different when I graduate.  It won't always be like this.  I promise, I'm not a bad person.”

I placed a hand on hers, which she had bunched her sleeves into, and nodded and said with surety, “I know it will.”  Then I looked away as I blushed. “And I know you're not.”

Then we just sat there in the candle light and ate and just talked about life.  About our fears, our hopes.  What we saw for the future.  I connected with her in a way I hadn't ever connected with anyone before.  I was sad when we were both starting to doze off and I said, “I better get back to my room.  My roommate is probably wondering where I am.”  Then I remembered my promise. “Tomorrow night is my turn to feed us.”

She nodded and looked away then said quietly, “Okay.”  Then asked, “We're friends right?”  I nodded then she brought a hand to her mouth and cutely bit her sleeve while it looked like she was making a decision.  Then she quickly leaned forward and hugged me then sat back and bit her sleeve again.

I was tingly in all my favorite places as I felt heat blooming on my cheeks.  I stood and said in a small voice.  “Okay then.  See you in class tomorrow.”  And proceeded to walk distractedly into the shelves.  I blushed harder and made it out of the blanket that time.  Oh dear lord, she probably thinks I'm a spaz.

I grinned and started through the maze as I hummed ‘Snowflakes’, by Satin Thunder.

The next morning I had a spring in my step as I got ready to go to class.  Max chuckled as she watched me from where she lay on her bed doing her coursework.  “You're awfully chipper this morning, and you got in at two in the morning.  Met a bloke did we?”

I blushed and nodded, then said, “HER name is Tasha.”  I paused and watched her.  This could go one of two ways and I'm positive I haven't judged Max wrong.  I don't talk about my sexuality much because it really isn't anyone's business, not to mention I'm still trying to figure it out fully myself, it seems so fluid.

She just cocked an eyebrow. “I didn't take you for a bird watcher.  Is she cute?”

I clarified, “Gender isn't really an issue with me.  And God yes.  She has these dimples when she smiles that just do me in.”  She pulled me to her bed and we took a couple minutes to excitedly talk about my crush before I had to get to class.

I looked at myself and sighed.  I know I thought my rocker chick look was a phase, but I really missed it.  Maybe that was really my style.  But I didn't want to give Professor Whitley any more ammunition for his thuggery remarks.  I was dressed in simple jeans and a green button down blouse.

I pulled my blonde hair back into a ponytail and sighed at my leather jacket on my chair and grabbed a light white jacket to keep the chill fall air off me.  I chuckled and rolled my eyes when I realized I was dressed like June.  I almost put on my studded leather wristband but stopped myself.  I adjusted myself uncomfortably in front of the mirror.  Was this who I was?  I still had no clue.

Then I headed off to class.  I was running late and got into class just moments before Gregory locked the door to the lecture room.  I grinned at Tasha as I slid into my seat and before I could greet her she almost scowled at me as she gave me one of her scrutinizing gazes, taking in everything about me.  She whispered in a hiss, “That seat is taken.”

Oh.  What had I done?  I had apparently pissed her off somehow.  She was just glaring at me and my heart sank.  How can you go from being high on life one moment to feeling like the scum of the Earth the next?  I hugged my stuff to my chest like armor against the hurt and confusion I was feeling.  I really though we had connected in her lair.

I slid away two seats, beside a beefy looking guy, as I looked at Tasha.  She kept looking back at the doors expectantly.  I leaned over to whisper to her but the Professor had taken the podium and started speaking about how to interpret the opening lines of Clarissa.  Comparing it to various other works of the same period in literary history.

I spent most of the lecture looking over at Tasha, for some clue as to what I had done.  She spent most of it distracted as she kept glancing back at the doors then the empty chair I had occupied.  I caught her looking at my shoes a couple times with single-minded purpose, her brow furrowing.

Then she leaned over and whispered, “Fran?”  Like she didn't recognize me.

I leaned back and was about to ask her what was going on when the lecture hall went silent and then the Professor asked loudly, “Is there a pressing matter more important than my lecture ladies?  Perhaps you'd like to share?”

The blood ran from my face and we both looked down at him and I squeaked out, “No sir.”

He gave us a stern look, and said in a frosty voice, “You may want to save your makeup tips, or mindless gossip for later then.  Without paying attention to the lectures, you will fail in your first paper.”

I nodded, but said, “I already have mine done.  I did it Monday night.”  I dug in my bag and held up the paper.  I was going to put it on his desk at the end of class.

I blinked when Tasha looked down at him and squeaked out, “Me too.”

Professor Whitley mumbled something to Gregory, who came bounding up the steps, two at a time to us. He took my paper, and put his hand out to Tasha, who dug hers out and handed a wrinkled and creased paper to him.  He gave an almost apologetic look to us then bounded back down and handed them the Professor.

Whitley said, “Shall we see what these literary geniuses have prepared?”  A chuckle rippled through the seats.  He folded the title page back from my paper and his eyes scanned it, and his brows furrowed as he thumbed through the pages.  Then he looked at Tasha's the same way then glanced up at us then the papers.

He cleared his throat and said, “Right then.  Please pay attention to the lecture.”  We both nodded then shared a smile.  She raised a hand to her mouth and started chewing on one of the sleeves she had bunched in her hands.  I just sighed internally in relief that she was smiling at me again.

Then I thought about her seeming confusion and how it seemed she really didn't realize it was me until she asked.  My mind was racing and reviewing every time I saw her.  Her eyes always darted around me, taking in my face last.  Dear lord, I realized what was going on.

At the end of the lecture, I reached out to snag Tasha's hand as she went to make her escape and I shifted over a seat and pulled her into mine.  Then I smiled and crinkled my nose at her.  She smiled back as we waited for everyone to file out.

Then I asked carefully, “Prosopagnosia?”

She tensed and looked at the door and I could see her muscles tensing as she decided whether or not to bolt.  Instead, she looked at me then slowly bunched her sleeves in her hand and nodded once.  The look on her face was almost painful to me because it was a look of embarrassment.  Why the hell was she embarrassed?  She can't help that she has an affliction, she isn't defined by it.

She always acted like she didn't recognize me at first because she literally didn't.  She couldn't. A cruel twist of genetics robbed her of the ability to store and recognize faces.  That portion of her brain was sort of short-circuited, and she had to use other indicators to distinguish who people were.  Like, hair, voice, the way thy dress or move.

I said, “I'm sorry.”

She stiffened and started to rise to walk out.  “I don't need your pity.  I'm doing just ...” I chuckled and she paused and glared at me.  “This is funny to you?”

I shook my head and stood with her and looped my arm through hers, capturing her as I started walking us toward the door.  “I'm not apologizing because of you affliction.  Being face blind is nothing you can help.  I'm apologizing for changing the way I dress and putting my hair in a ponytail.  It must have made it hard to know it was me until I spoke.”

She paused mid-step and I stopped with her.  She closed her eyes and took a calming breath.  Then opened them and nodded. “I was wondering who the bitch was that took my friend's seat.”  I gave a surprised chirp of laughter that made her grin.  Then she sobered a little and said, “But your shoes...”

I looked down at my sneakers then nodded.  Then she asked, “Why the radical change in looks?”

I shrugged. “I've been trying to figure out who I am the past few months, wondering if the clothes were just a product of the atmosphere I am immersed in or really me.  Then sourpuss Whitley belittled me, calling me a thug and not respecting people.  So I tried dressing the way he wanted, to avoid any further chastisements.”

She looked down and pushed some hair behind her ear then shook her head.  “I thought they were you.  They... I don't know... fit you?  You shouldn't change who you are for anyone.”

I grinned and said, “I'll take it under advisement.”  She smiled back and I tilted my head and asked, “I'm not well versed on Prosopagnosia.  There was just a short entry on it in a book I read once about cognitive disorders.  But you keep reacting to facial cues like smiles, you can differentiate facial emotions?”

She looked down and seemed to make a decision and nodded once and said in a quieter tone,  “Emotion recognition is in a different portion of the brain.  When I look at your face.  That is the only face I know until I look away, then it is gone.  I know you are pretty when I am looking at you but I can't hold onto that image of your face.  But I can tell when you are smiling, or sad, or pensive, and I can hold onto the facial emotions.”

She reached up and touched my face, closed her eyes, and traced my smile with her fingers as we walked.  She said, “And I can remember the feel of your face, touch memory is a different portion of the brain as well.”  She opened her eyes and grinned.

Then she stopped at an intersection of the hall and she looked down both directions of the crossing, furrowing her brow.   Then she took her arm out of mine and looked at her hands and wiggled her right hand then looked down the hall to the right.  Then she looked at me. “My next class is that way.”

I sighed and pointed ahead. “I'm that way.”  She seemed extremely shy suddenly as she looked down and she started bunching her sleeves.  I asked quickly, “Lunch?  Cafeteria at noon?”

She brightened. “Okay.  See you then Fran.”  She gave a tiny wave and almost ran off.

I nodded with a smile and called after her, “See you then Tash.”

I almost skipped to my next class.  I was in such a good mood for some reason.  I pulled my hair out of the ponytail as I walked and shook it out so it could fall down my back and over my shoulders.  That would be closer to how she was used to seeing my hair, sans bandana though.

I watched the clock through my next class as I tried to conceptualize, visualize, envisage, and contemplate what my project should encompass.  I was drawing a blank, I was usually more creative than that.  Maybe I could make a little giraffe out of pipe cleaners?  Call it first-grade retro?  No?  Fine.

I loved music and thought of the various ways people could experience it.  Like Anabella.  She felt the music and experienced it in a way those of us who could hear couldn't.  Then I thought of other art forms and some of the new ways that have been developed for others to experience art in a way they could never do before.  That made me think of Robin Hartford and Brandye Franklin-Callahan.

Brandye had developed a way in which to allow blind people and people with limited vision to actually touch the paintings of the masters using her SmartCanvas devices, to feel the brush strokes, as the piece is described in minute detail, down to the emotions they evoke.

I remembered my first impression when I saw Anabella West in her sound room the first time.  She stood inside a wall of sound and became one with the music.  I had cried at the sight, and I didn't understand exactly why.

Hmmm. Touching the brush strokes, like touching my face?

A rough concept began to form.  A fusion of ideas, a new way to experience music, using SmartCanvas, and certain aspects of Tasha's affliction.  I smiled.  I needed to make a phone call to Brandye, and discuss the possibility of a project that would be a little beyond the ordinary scope of the course with Professor Grey, sorry, I mean, Jillian.

I was nothing but grins by the time I entered the cafeteria.  I stepped up beside Tash, who was hugging her arms to her chest as she was turning her gaze from person to person in the crowded room. Her eyes flickered, categorizing and cataloging everything about each person, before she turned to the next.

I stepped up and leaned against the wall with her.  “Hey, Tash.”

She snapped her eyes to me and smiled at my grin and she tried to act all cool.  “Hey, yourself... Small Fry.”

I giggled at her, but I could see her eyes flicking all around me like she was verifying my identity to herself though my voice already told her.  “I should never have told you that nickname.”  She grinned and grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the lunch line.

I could see she took full advantage of the meal card, and I didn't worry as much about how well she ate.  Her tray was stacked full by the time we reached the cashier.

I couldn't believe how much fun she was when she loosened up a bit.  She seemed to thrive on the particular brand of sarcasm which I had patented. It was a mix of my own humor, June's humorously voluble bravado, and Vannie's penchant for hilarious one-liners.

The conversation spun from her childhood to mine almost seamlessly.  Then I paused as I playfully slapped her hand with a french fry as she stole some of the fries off my plate.  She chuckled and I followed her eyes as they seemed to dart around the cafeteria.  I looked around then at her.  She noted my silence and looked at me and then blushed and started to bunch up her sleeves.  I put a hand on hers to stop her.  She shrugged and explained, “People watching.”  I grinned.

We locked eyes and she tilted her head slightly.  I furrowed my brow a bit and asked, “What?”

She shrugged and said in a low voice, almost a whisper.  “You just really have pretty blue eyes.  I don't want to look away and forget.  I've said it now so that helps.”

I don't know what got into me but I blushed and grinned, saying, “They're always there for you to look at.”  It was her turn to blush.  We just sat there in the crowded cafeteria with her silently staring into my eyes while I memorized her face.