“Dizzy, wait,” Remi says, breaking through the fog, their voice high and strangled.
I jump and lift myself up, my boots probably leaving scuff marks on the wall as they brace my climb. The cool evening air stings my tear-stained cheeks as I force myself out. Free. Burning for answers.
Alone.
Eleven
MY HIPS BARELY FIT THROUGH the narrow basement window, but after a long, awkward moment staring out into the empty evening streets with my ass stuck inside the house, I finally tumble free. Extremely graceful exit—I’m sure everyone’s impressed.
I get slowly to my feet and keep low to the ground, scurrying down the side street where the trash drones do their pickups. Stars forbid these people have to have trash bins out front of their houses like the rest of us slobs. It works to my benefit, though, because it gives me a narrow alley no one wants to look at to run down in the fading light.
My entire front is uncomfortably damp, and I brush the grassy bits off as best I can. It rained as we made our way to Ania’s house earlier, slowly and carefully over the course of a few hours, and it didn’t occur to me the grass would still be wet. Genius. It won’t matter for long, though. Without Remi’s or Ania’s concealment spells, I need a disguise. A dry disguise, preferably.
I spend the next two hours walking four miles to a thrift shop I know, mostly unstaffed but for one oblivious attendant there to monitor all the self-checkout stations. Once there, I flit among the dusty, too-crowded racks of clothing for something as different from my normal everyday wear as possible.
A dress or a skirt is out of the question for so many reasons, foremost because I plan to be running through the sewers later. I settle on some tighter-than-normal jeans, a frilly and flowing black shirt, and some deep green wellies to keep my feet dry and moderately less nasty down in the tunnels. The on-again, off-again rain gives me the excuse to wear them and not stand out. I also snag a half-used cosmetics kit that I have no idea how to use, a comb to part the longer half of my hair so it flops over the shaved side, a threadbare backpack, and a plain old umbrella with none of the usual smart features.
Once I’ve made my purchases and gotten changed, I study myself in the mirror, avoiding my own eyes. This disguise won’t fool anyone who gets a good look at me, but hopefully it won’t come to that. I’ve killed a lot of time shopping, so I have the newly fallen darkness on my side.
I stand there, staring at the green wellies on my feet, my mind full of static. I’ve been so thoroughly distracted by getting here unseen, then by putting together my disguise, that I’ve managed to avoid thinking about my situation completely. In the silence of the dressing room, everything comes rushing back, and my hands begin to shake. I clench my fists and bite my lip, hard, then sit with my back to the dressing-room mirror.
I glance under the thin curtain to make sure I’m alone, then bring up the message thread with Davon on my lenses. He’s probably worried sick that I haven’t responded yet. Yet another dick move on my part. I close my eyes and command my lenses to leave the interface up, so the words are all I see as I lean my head back against the unyielding glass.
You: Hey.
Davon: Stars, Diz, I was full-on panicking over here
You all right?
You: Yeah.
Sort of.
Actually . . . no.
I’m not hurt or anything. But can I meet you somewhere?
Davon: Yes
Of course
Where are you at? I can pick you up.
You: Let’s meet halfway.
I’m coming from the thrift shop on Deckard Street.
Davon: And where are we going?
I hesitate.
You: I’ll tell you in person.
Davon: Fine, Super Sneaky McSpy Diz
For the first time in hours, the corner of my mouth twitches into an attempted smile.
You: No
Just
Don’t try.
You can’t master the naming.
Davon: You’re right, I apologize. I bow to your superior skills.
You: Damn right.
Let’s just meet at Nellie’s on U Street.
Davon: Be there in ten. Stay safe, Dizzy.
Outside the changing room, the shuffling of sneakers over carpet catches my attention. A pair of feet in ragged, stained hightops comes to a stop just beyond the curtain.
“Hey,” a voice says. The shop monitor. “You can’t be like . . . getting high in there or sleeping or whatever.”
I push myself to my feet and blink the chat out of my lenses, feeling slightly more functionally human than I did ten minutes earlier. Davon will meet me and hear me out. He won’t be happy with my extracurricular activities, but he’ll be on my side, at least. He’ll want to know what happened. He’ll help, like he always does. No matter what I get into, he’s always there.
More than I can say for some people.
The shop guy grunts as I slide the curtain aside and push past him without a backward glance, stalking out into the misting rain with my new-old backpack slung over my shoulder. I pop open my umbrella, jog across the street, and sharpen my mind, blocking out the internal noise. The low-level constant screaming of wrongness and guilt. It’s time to focus.
I have a job to do.
Davon is already waiting for me outside Nellie’s when I turn the corner onto U Street. His eyes slide right over me at first, then widen when he does a double take, looking me over from head to toe and getting stuck on the green boots.
“Uh,” he says. “Are you okay?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s a disguise.”
“Clearly.” He looks at me sidelong for a still moment. Then his lip quivers, and he reaches for me. “Dizzy, I know you hate this kind of thing, but—”
I don’t let him finish. I throw myself into his arms and bury my face in his shoulder. His military-cut jacket is a rough canvas material, scratchy against my cheek, the sensation grounding and immediate. He’s probably half choking, I’m squeezing so hard, but I need it, need to crush us together until my heart can crawl out and curl up with his, safe and protected. Despite his lack of oxygen, he wraps his arms around me and holds me close, rocking me like my mother used to when I woke up from a nightmare.
“Hey, it’s okay, Dizzy,” he croons, rubbing a soothing hand up my back. “I’ve got you. Whatever it is, we’re gonna figure it out.”
He eases back and turns his attention to the people entering the club behind him, to give me a moment to wipe away my tears. Gratitude surges in my heart for this cousin of mine, the one person on this planet who just gets me, doesn’t try to change me, who always gives me exactly what I need. No more, no less. Space when my thorns are out, love when I’m falling apart, independence and support in perfect balance.
I give one last sniffle and pull all my shattered pieces back together, then clear my throat.
“Hey, eyes forward,” I say with a gentle shove. “I didn’t ask to meet here so we could go dancing.”
Nellie’s is our favorite club, the place we always go when I need a night away from the others. Needed, I guess. Chill, safe, good music, plenty of queer folk of my particular persuasions. But tonight isn’t a night for fun. My mind couldn’t be further from it.
“Come on,” I say, taking Davon by the arm and walking us down to the end of the street. “Call us a pod.”