Chapter 23: Masks
STAY WITH ME: A Superhero Novel
Late at night, Katrina sits in the Nightlair, stooped over the supercomputer. It’s been three weeks since she started this crusade to match a face to a name. Faces flash by on the screen rapidly. Brutish faces, scary faces, scarred faces, pale faces, mean faces, plain faces. So many faces that it’s hard to focus and take them all in. Each of them tells a story, one that she has no reason to engage with. She keeps searching. Freezes. Backs up her search, smashing the left button repeatedly.
Today, she finds that glint of cracked porcelain. She stands up at the desk, gazing into the face that she lost.
The Assassin’s name was Lydia Irving.
She was only twenty-eight-years-old. Lived most of it under the constant threat of death.
Lydia hailed from Russia. Some small city up in the north where the winds are always vicious, and the freeze kills. Gurgurant, the computer says. Lydia didn’t grow up with a family though. No one wanted her, so the local mafia took her in. Used her as a drug mule.
She was good. Really good. Fast. Invisible.
Yet, for a long time, she was never more than a drug mule. She stayed down where she was. But they used her, oh did they use her. This mafia kingpin, Bill, groomed Lydia for success. He made her find other forgotten kids like herself and take them off the streets. She trained them on how to be fearless. But it all went to shit. Kids died.
The mob turned on her. Sent her out to wipe out their competitor. It took Lydia weeks but she did it. She killed every last one of them. Then she ran. She ran until Bill’s people found her again. They hired her on, and she became an assassin at age fourteen.
She’s killed hundreds now. Always on the move, traveling silently around the globe. Taking down targets who hurt people, who have done horrible things. At least, until recently.
Lydia had a partner. Someone she grew up with in that cold, frosty town. Someone she tried to keep away from all the violence. But the girl insisted. She wanted to protect her Lydia. Eventually, Bill realized Lydia’s weakness, and kidnapped her love. Used her as a hostage to get Lydia to kill who the mob needed gone.
Years passed, and Lydia gave up. They were never going to give her love back, no matter how many people she killed. So she left Gurgurant, never to return. Neither to the town nor to herself. No one tried to stop her.
From there, Lydia pursued escalation. Her kills became bigger, more theatrical, harder to pull off. Less focused on ethics and killing the “right” people. A shot from a moving train. Her versus an army. As long as there was a thrill, she took the challenge on. Eventually, that brought Lydia to the Nightmare.
Katrina bows her head, thinking. She sees how Lydia’s vibrant personality matches the story, but she refuses to take the supercomputer’s data at face value. Something changed, something cracked Lydia. Despite the more recent turn to brutality, Lydia held onto some remnant of justice. It can’t be that Lydia wanted a thrill, it can’t be that she stopped caring, because there was too much humanity left in those sharp eyes for that to be the truth. Had she truly lost her morals, Katrina would already be dead. So why is she still alive?
Katrina slumps back in her seat, thinking. Staring into Lydia’s cold gaze. She imagines what it might have been like growing up the way Lydia did. Unfortunately, it’s not too hard to imagine with her own two years spent scavenging the streets for food. When you grow up that way, and you meet someone… you don’t ever want to let them go.
What if Lydia was pushing the envelope on who she should kill not because she lost it, but because she wanted to be stronger? What if she was preparing herself to save her partner? And that’s how she ended up crossing blades with Nightmare.
It’s odd, Katrina figured she’d feel better after finding Lydia. Instead, she feels more hollow than ever.
“Hey-hey! Ho-ho! William Rogen has got to go!”
Katrina watches the protest unfold from a safe distance away. She crouches in an alleyway besides Ike and at least a dozen people from EMA. Another dozen are on the streets, led by Amicia. They are faced with a small group of armed pigs.
All of the protestors and protestors-to-be wear black. Hoods up with masks on. Signs in hand. For the first time ever, Katrina has her own handmade sign:
JUST REMEMBER: You did this.
The language is bold with large, neatly drawn letters. It’s slightly bent from Gloves falling asleep on it.
Practically everyone she’s met at EMA has shown up for this action. Alexie, Benny, they’re all here. Usually, turnout isn’t this good at EMA, but it makes sense. A few days ago, they lost one of their own to another fucking pig. Eleven shots were fired, all by William Rogen. He killed EMA’s friend, Robyn, in cold blood.
“What does “You did this” mean?” Ike asks. “Seems kinda personal. No offense.”
“Oh, um,” Katrina stammers. Not sure how much she should reveal, she speaks softly with a glassy look in her eyes. “I—um, yeah, I have a personal connection with William Rogen. I think he’ll know what my sign means.”
Ike, clearly wanting to hear more, nods without looking at her.
Katrina frowns. She shifts uncomfortably. “So when do we start the kettle?”
He looks back at her. “You mean the pincer attack?”
“I guess,” she says.
“Amicia is gonna shout “Let’s go, Kettle-Team!””
Katrina furrows her brow. “So it is a kettle.”
He shrugs. “I lost the vote, but there’s still time to join Team Ike.” He extends his fist to her. “Everyone here simps for Amicia—”
“I mean, who wouldn’t?” Katrina laughs.
He shrugs playfully. “—who wouldn’t? Wanna simp for the Dark Side Club?”
She starts to pound it, but he pulls his fist away.
“You obviously simp for Amicia,” Ike says bitterly, flashing a shark-like grin immediately after. She smiles weakly.
In the distance, Katrina sees Amicia boost herself up by the shoulders of her comrades. Amicia shouts at the top of her lungs with a bounce in her voice. “Let’s go, Kettle-Team!”
Everyone puts their game face on. Ike leads the charge, and Katrina follows closely behind. They round the corner and sprint towards Amicia. Quickly, they surround the pigs, completing the kettle. The protestors link their signs together, creating a barricade. The pigs try to break out. The protestors thrust their signs forward, forcing the pigs back.
The pigs instinctively reach for their batons. Pink faces look around worriedly, seeking authority. They oink loudly, their incoherent cries becoming chaos fast.
Over-stimulated, Katrina looks around blankly, sweating. Every time a pig lunges towards her, she winces. And every time her eyes reopen, she’s safe.
There’s safety in numbers after all.
The black uniforms move in and out. In between them, she sees flashes of pale skin and a hard-lined jaw. It’s him. She knows it’s him. She knew he’d be here, but somehow, she didn’t account for it. Despite her sign.
She sinks backwards, hoping someone else will take the frontlines. Another flash. She sees a hand swing down to a hip holster. His hand. The motherfucker.
She struggles to find Ike. Looks at him with wide, petrified eyes. He doesn’t notice her. Can’t notice her. Not like this.
“Ike!” she shouts.
Nothing.
She narrows her eyes. Remembers what she’s here for. Thinks. If she can use her white skin among all these people of color to de-escalate violence, then it’s imperative she act.
Bracing herself, Katrina pushes forward. The black sea parts, and William Rogen breaks through the ranks. His hazy blue eyes meet hers without recognition, not that she expects it.
She drops the sign and spreads her arms wide. Emotions race through her, and she acts on impulse. Without even realizing it, her voice gets dark and steely. Nightmare awakens.
“If you’re going to massacre us,” Nightmare says, “then you’re gonna have to start with me, you disgusting pig.”
Officer William Rogen snarls at her, breathing harshly. Heat rises into his complexion. His fingers twitch towards the gun.
She feels a similar rage, something feral. It consumes her, and she boils over fast.
“You fucking remember me, William?” she growls. Runs her hand up against the side of her head, pushing her hair up to reveal the scar that he slashed into her scalp fifteen years ago.
A twitch in Rogen’s brow. A glint in his eye. He bares his teeth.
She can’t stand it. “I was lucky—probably because I’m white. Now you’re killing people, Willy. Why? Because they’re black? Because you’re scared?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Rogen hisses in a quiet, venomous tone.
Nightmare ignores him. “How many people have you killed now? Twenty one as of September, twenty four as of last week. All black, all defenseless, all in cold blood, you demented white supremacist piece of shit—”
Rogen raises his gun to her chest. People scream. Someone grabs Nightmare by the shoulders and tries to pull her away, but for reasons she can’t understand, she keeps her feet planted. She looks Rogen dead in the eye. He goes for the trigger, and she feels…
…she feels relief?
A sudden movement, and someone bum rushes Rogen. Sucker punches him in the jaw.
The gun goes off. Everyone ducks.
The assailant lands, crouched low. Dressed in black with a bright red face mask. One of the Nightmares. Ever since she quit, street vigilantes have stepped up all across the city. None of them have been captured, and no one knows how many there are.
Rogen hardly seems to register the punch. His eyes go wide with bloodlust. He aims the gun at the street vigilante. Narrows his eyes and smirks.
“Oh, one of the impostors, eh?” he laughs.
Pssst!
The street vigilante drops a homemade smoke bomb, and it bursts, smoke consuming the kettle. More screams. Nightmare stays still. She sees the shadow of the street vigilante launch into a sprint. She looks deeper through the smog and sees Rogen tracking the street vigilante’s movements. He leans forward and takes his first step, motioning for the other pigs to follow him. Nightmare slides forward through the smoke and trips Rogen. He stumbles forward and fires again. Thankfully, he merely shoots at the sky. But it’s enough to scatter the crowd.
Nightmare lunges after Rogen. A hand grabs her arm though, stopping her in place.
“Kat,” Ike urges, “We really gotta go.”
She watches the street vigilante vanish into an alleyway. The pigs trail after them. For a moment, she resists Ike’s touch. Forgets that she’s not Nightmare anymore, though of course that fails to absolve her of her responsibility. She can only watch.
Another hand grabs Nightmare’s arm. A harsher touch than Ike’s.
“Katrina,” Amicia hisses, “Now.”
Nightmare lets herself get dragged away, but she can’t look away. She never can.
They regroup at Estreya Mutual Aid HQ, though Amicia makes Katrina wait in the basement. Ike gives her a “don’t worry about it” shake of the head before leaving to address the group, but Katrina knows better.
After everything calms down upstairs, Ike and Amicia come down. Ike leans up against the bike rack that Katrina organized, a weary, defeated expression on his face. Amicia stays at a distance, leaning against the basement wall with her arms crossed at her chest and embers burning in her eyes. Katrina stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, feeling small.
Ike takes the lead. “Okay, so what the Hell happened between you and William Rogen?”
Katrina nods stiffly. She expected this, and yet she’s prepared nothing.
“He arrested me when I was a homeless pickpocket…” she admits, “...and he, um, he—” She starts to push her hair up again. “—he scarred—”
“We know,” Amicia cuts in.
It takes a moment to register. Katrina drops her hand back to her side.
“Right,” she mutters.
Ike sighs loudly. “How old were you?”
She waits a second. “Seven.” She looks away to stare at the wall. “Nightmare saved me.”
Ike’s expression softens. “That’s… that’s incredible.”
She nods without much feeling. “Yeah, it was… I mean—I’ve been through worse—not that—not that it matters. I just… I don’t know.”
“You should’ve said something,” Amicia says harshly.
Ike looks back at her. “I don’t know, Amicia, that feels a little unfair. It was spontaneous—”
“Was it?” Amicia asks flatly.
Ike hesitates, his guilty eyes flitting to Katrina for a reaction.
Amicia shrugs. Looks up towards the ceiling. “Katrina’s a very angry person. Her actions put our entire group at risk. We’re lucky no one got injured or—fucking killed, you know that, right?”
Ike frowns. “I mean, yeah, but—Kat’s as angry as the rest of us… and she’s got good reason to be pissed the fuck off.”
“Ike,” Amicia says with exasperation, “Stop defending this. What Katrina did was completely unforgivable.”
He clenches his jaw. “She was just trying to use her white privilege to de-escalate. Right, Kat?”
Katrina can’t help but keep her gaze focused on Amicia. Amicia glares at her, harsh fatigue lines under her eyes, which burrow into Katrina’s soul unflinchingly.
Katrina considers them all: Ike, Amicia, the street vigilante, her community.
She was wrong. She fucked up.
She thinks about the Old Guy and everything he was trying to teach her.
She thinks about Char and all the years of trauma dumping and arguments.
She thinks about her father and how all he’s ever wanted for her is her safety.
She thinks about how everyone in her life looks at her differently now. She sees fear. Concern. An unfamiliar gleam reserved for strangers.
Everything she has done has led up to this moment. She becomes traumatized, she takes it out on others. She becomes Nightmare, she hurts everyone in her life. She joins EMA, she endangers everybody. All just to carry out some petty vengeance she should’ve let go of a decade before.
She never deserved the mantle. There’s nothing she can do to help or save anyone—but to disappear.
Amicia raises an eyebrow. “Well?”
Katrina sighs. Catches a glimpse of Ike. He’s anxious yet hopeful. She can’t bear to look at him further.
“You’re right,” Katrina says tonelessly, “I fucked up. I could have gotten someone killed. I’m sorry. I’ll go.”
Amicia blinks rapidly with some confusion. Not wanting to face any of this any longer, Katrina turns away and trudges towards the door.
Amicia steps away from the wall. “Where are you going?”
“I’m done,” Katrina mumbles.
Ike gets up, stepping in Katrina’s way. He waves his hands in front of her frantically.
“Kat, Kat,” Ike pleads, “this is a misunderstanding. You’re not done here, we’re just gonna take you off protests. That’s all. Right, Amicia?”
“Yeah,” Amicia huffs.
Katrina stops in place. Their words mean nothing to her at this point. She looks down at her feet and shakes her head mournfully.
“No?” Ike’s voice cracks.
Katrina shrugs. “Amicia’s right. I hurt people. I gotta go.”
Amicia scowls. “Now you’re just being petty.”
Katrina really wants to let it go and just disappear, but she can’t. That cuts too deep.
She looks back. “Excuse me?”
Amicia walks over. “You’re being intentionally difficult to spite me.”
“Oh, so you think I’m being a bitch, is that it?!” Katrina snaps, side-stepping around Ike to confront Amicia head-on. The girls meet at the center of the basement. Sparks fly between them. Ike rushes over. She ignores him and continues, “I’m taking what you said to heart, and you just—” Her hands twitch in the air, fingers crooking into talons. She groans loudly in frustration.
Amicia shoots Ike a quick glance. See? Back to Katrina. “You need to calm down. People can hear you.”
Katrina grimaces. “You have no idea what I’ve been going through—”
Amicia scoffs under her breath. “Yes, we do.”
“—oh?” Katrina challenges. “Tell me then. Tell me what you know.”
Ike raises his eyebrows. Holds his hands out in an attempt to placate and peacekeep.
“Guys,” he pleads, “this is a bad idea—”
Amicia doesn’t even seem to notice him. She glares at Katrina. “So you think you’re special, huh?”
Katrina flushes. Her knee jerk retort is clearly something she can’t ever admit to. Her mind desperately reaches for excuses to defend herself, but all of it is secret. More than that, it’s all dead. Nightmare is dead.
Amicia seizes the moment. “We know your story, Katrina. Everyone here does—”
“Can you stop taking digs at me?” Katrina growls, “I get it! I was loud, I was—”
“That’s not what I meant!” Amicia shouts back. “Don’t jump down my throat.”
Katrina rears back, confused.
Amicia shakes her head with disappointment. “I’m saying that Ike and I have been doing this for years, and we’ve met a lot of Katrina Gawains along the way.”
Katrina furrows her brow.
Amicia’s nostrils flare. “Some idiot pig traumatized you when you were young. Sounds like it was because you’re trans.”
Katrina anxiously grinds her teeth. “He shaved my head.”
The harsh rage lines on Amicia’s face soften very slightly. “You spent your childhood hurt and lost, getting angry from a distance without ever stepping forward.”
Katrina simmers. “I volunteered—”
“For bullshit! I’m sorry, but you know that, right?” Amicia snaps.
Katrina doubletakes, flabbergasted. “I was just trying to—”
Amicia silences Katrina with one powerful shake of the head. “You thought you were helping—or maybe you told yourself that, even when deep down, you knew it was all crap.”
Tears start to well up under Katrina’s tired eyes. “Please stop—”
Ike cuts in, desperate to fit in a word. “Amicia…”
“No,” Amicia snips without eye contact, “she needs to hear this. You finally came here, and you finally started doing the shit that actually matters. But you never did the work, you never healed. You never contextualized this shit as a movement. You never grew beyond what happened to you when you were young.”
“I did!” Katrina pleads. She remembers laying in the snow. She remembers becoming a voice in her own head. She had thought the nightmares were over. But it wasn’t enough. Just like how she will never be enough. “I do see this as a movement.”
“Then why the fuck did you endanger everyone like that?” Amicia hisses, “I mean—what was the thought process there?”
Katrina’s jaw slacks. “I-I… I just… I wanted him to face off with what he’s done.”
Amicia nods with inspiration. “Yes! But newsflash, Katrina, he won’t ever get it. Why? Because he’s a fascist pig. His soul is already bought. I know you know that, so what were you really doing?”
Katrina remembers the echo of the gunshot, and she remembers the bizarre sense of relief that followed. It’s a relief she understands but has never wanted to acknowledge. She’s lived with it for years. That relief has haunted her in the most inopportune and dangerous of moments.
Her mind races. She confronts every thought, wanting so badly to scrounge up some kind of excuse or explanation, but every single time, she hits a wall. Bashes against it over and over, trying to wrangle the magic words that can make this all go away.
Nothing’s there though. She failed.
It leaves her with one option. Two, really. She could always walk away and never see these people again, but already, they have made a tremendous impact on her quality of life. She needs Amicia and Ike. Or at least—she needs them to know.
Katrina grabs at her prosthetic. Twists it off without saying anything. Holds it limply against her thigh.
Amicia and Ike both falter, their eyes widening at the sight. The reality of it settles in faster for Amicia who looks back, a question already on her lips.
“What happened?” she asks.
Katrina doesn’t look back at her. Speaks quietly. “A year after my Dad, um… adopted me, I got kidnapped.”
Ike’s mouth hangs agape. “Wh-what? By who? The cops?”
She nods. “Some… gang. They all had trench-coats and guns, and they moonlit as pigs, I think. They locked me up in some abandoned building… held me for ransom.”
“Ransom?” Amicia repeats, “Was it—”
“A lot? Yeah,” Katrina sighs, “It was… they thought my Dad was someone else. Someone important. The mobsters… they needed the money, they were desperate, and I…” She chokes back tears. “...I never really blamed them for it.”
Ike leans back. Makes significant eye contact with Amicia. She nods back to him.
“It’s too late,” Katrina says, “My time here is up. My time everywhere is up.”
“Katrina,” Amicia utters, “you’re… you’re kinda freaking me out, right now. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to let you leave if you’re, um…”
Katrina continues as if Amicia hadn’t said anything. “Nightmare saved me. Again. He, uh…” She wipes her sleeve against her cheek and laughs bitterly. “...he scared the shit out of me. Scared the shit out of the gangsters too. Shots got fired and…”
Katrina can’t bear to say it. She bows her head, quietly fixing the prosthetic back onto her body. Ike and Amicia remain silent.
Katrina continues, “And you know what happened to me? Do you really want to know?”
Amicia steps forward. “You don’t have to go further, it’s okay. This… this whole thing—it’s more complicated than we understood, and I’m sorry that… that it went there. But seriously, Katrina, you don’t have to keep going. We can just go back upstairs, have a nice dinner, and maybe talk some more tomorrow if you’re up for it.”
Ike nods with encouragement.
It makes Katrina feel safe. But right now, feeling safe feels disgusting. She can’t control it anymore. She’s reverted to a past state. It’s like everything that happened after the first William Rogen protest a few months back never happened. All the progress she thought she had made, it crumbles away into an abyss, lost. Maybe forever.
She looks back at Amicia. Steps backwards and pivots so she can face the two siblings at the same time. She mouths the words.
I’m the Nightmare now.
No matter what mental gymnastics she forces her mind to perform, she cannot say the words. For too many reasons, it needs to be kept a secret. She grits her teeth, thinking. Then a light glimmers in her eyes. She speaks calmly and with resolution.
“I’m one of the Nightmares.”
Ike’s jaw slacks further. “Holy…”
“I started two weeks ago, when it became obvious Nightmare wasn’t coming back. I’ve saved lives, sure, but I’ve hurt people,” she says, “I’ve hurt too many people, and I’m just now realizing that everything I’ve been trying to accomplish… it’s all bullshit. It just hurts more people, and—and…”
She putters out.
Ike looks at Amicia.
Amicia steps forward. Katrina doesn’t turn to face her.
Amicia speaks, “We can help rehabilitate you, Katrina. We can work on whatever you’re going through and overcome it. That’s the whole point of what we do here.”
Katrina stays perfectly still.
Amicia nervously grinds her teeth against her lip. “...Katrina?”
Katrina finally looks back at Amicia, a dark look in her eyes.
“I’m not worth your time,” she says.
Char’s lips are bubblegum pink today. They catch the glimmer of the sun. Char and Katrina are outside on the Estreya State College campus. Sidewalks connect the matrix of buildings together with little grassy parks strewn out between sidewalks. The two girls stand across from each other in one of these parks.
Katrina’s skin is unwashed, her hair is frizzy, and her clothing is covered in white cat hairs.
“...Katrina, are you listening to me?”
Katrina looks up with dim eyes. Char’s gaze is bright and imploring. She’s capable of accessing a world that Katrina has lost her footing in. Katrina floats adrift. She sees the seams of society but cannot bear to reach for them. She wants to be blind to it all, but she can never look away. She can never stop being Nightmare.
“Yeah,” Katrina says, “You wanted to know if I talked to Dad yet about the group hang, and then I didn’t answer right away so you asked if I’m having issues with him, which like—ha ha, absolutely do I have issues with my father right now, but do I even know where to begin the conversation on that? Anyways, I kinda grunted, and you asked if there’s anything you can do, and no, Char. There’s nothing you can do. Now, can we just move past this?”
Char hangs onto every word that Katrina slings at her, the crease under her eye deepening with every blow.
“Wh-why?” Char says softly, “What are we even doing here?”
Katrina throws her arms wide. “We’re friends! Just going through a rough patch. It’s totally normal.”
Char exhales, “No. This—is not—normal.”
Katrina grimaces. Starts to say something, but Char cuts her off.
“You’ve disappeared off the face of the earth. You don’t respond to messages. You’re nearly comatose in conversation. You show up everywhere looking like shit. A month ago, you were coming here beat-up with heavy concealer on.”
Katrina tries to get a word in. “I told you, it was a pig—”
“That too!” Char exclaims, “Everything is about cops with you now.”
Katrina tries again—
“And I know you have a history with cops, Katrina, and I know they’re—they’re fascists! Nightmare’s been showing us all that. I understand now!”
Katrina’s eyes widen. Through all their time together, they’ve only spoken of Nightmare once. Back in the auditorium. She’s been too scared to bring her alter-ego up ever since then.
“Do you believe in abolition?” Katrina pipes up.
Char’s gaze falters slightly. “That’s what you want to talk about? I—I can’t… it just breaks my heart to see you so miserable.”
Katrina takes a deep breath. “The truth is…”
The truth is…
The truth is…
The truth is…
“...I joined a mutual aid group four weeks ago. It was going really well, until they brought me along for a protest. I, um, I flipped out. I… went ballistic honestly. It was William Rogen, the pig who… well, I think you remember, right? Anyways, they started shooting, because of me. It’s not safe for me to be doing that sort of thing anymore now. I’m done with that too…. and I feel like I have nothing left.”
Char narrows her eyes, seemingly torn between fact and fiction.
“Katrina…” she says with sympathy. But the way her face scrunches up with anxiety is foreboding. “...I am so sorry for what you have been through, but…”
Katrina edges closer. “But?”
“But… you’re talking about four weeks ago. I’m talking about the past three months.”
Katrina furrows her brow. “I…”
“For the past three months, you’ve been suffering in silence, and I can’t watch anymore. I need you to let me in—or—or—I don’t know. Why are we even talking?”
“But…” Katrina starts. …These have been the greatest days of my life. “...I’ve been happy, haven’t I?”
Char rushes her. The motion comes at Katrina fast, and she flinches. Char’s arms snap around her back, her shoulder hitching to Katrina’s chin. Motionless, Katrina accepts the embrace. It…
…reminds her of The Suit.
This doesn’t make sense to her. Ever since she became Nightmare, she’s felt that she’s found her purpose in life. She can help people, she can strengthen her community, she can take down pigs who want to do harm. Sure, it’s been exhausting, and sure, there’s been trauma, but overall?
She feels fine.
Her eyes vacantly gaze ahead… until they find trouble.
“I know we’re in the middle of a moment.” Katrina speaks from the side of the mouth. “I need to step away to make sure this moment continues.”
Char furrows her brow. “...Okay?”
Katrina pats Char’s back. “Don’t look back. Trust.”
Katrina approaches Deming and Butch. Crosses her arms.
For whatever reason, the two stooges are dressed as cops. Or rather, as discount cops. From the Halloween store. (Butch has a handmade felt pig nose strapped over his real schnoz.)
“Okay,” she huffs, “what do you got for me?”
Deming mirrors the crossing of the arms. “We’re doing a bit.”
“Really?” she says sarcastically, “I had no idea.”
Deming’s eyes awkwardly dart back and forth. “You always make it so hard to initiate the bit.”
Butch holds his arms out. “You play hard to get, but then you laugh at your yucks.”
She shrugs. “It’s… my bit, uh, with you guys, I guess. I give you a hard time.”
“Oooooooh,” Butch and Deming say together.
“Wait,” Deming stops himself, “You can’t bit my bit!”
Butch furrows his brow. Looks back at Deming. “What? You can bit a bit, what happened to yes and?” He looks back at Katrina and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “This guy has lost the true spirit of improv.”
Deming shakes his head. “I’m just saying, Kat makes it weird, and I—”
Katrina silences him with the frantic waving of her hands. “Aaaaah! I just wanted to tell you guys—” She glances back at Char who is still facing away from all this. “—Char and I are having a moment. Maybe we could do this later?”
Deming frowns. “This is a high-effort bit we’re putting on, Katrina. I mean, there’s costumes.”
She’s nonplussed. “I can see that there are costumes, yes, but—I’m sorry, what even is the bit?”
He groans. Cocks his head back. “We… were gonna arrest you.”
She blinks.
Blinks again.
“Why?” she asks plainly.
Deming groans again. “If you explain a joke—I mean, you know how it goes.”
She stares at him, unmoved. “Go on.”
Deming shakes his head and gestures at Butch. “Butch and I encountered the Nightmare once—I know, crazy—and Butch is pretty dang sure it’s you. He says you’re Nightmare.”
Katrina…
…has no idea how to react to that. She elects to stay still and silent… but Deming has no follow-up.
A staring contest ensues.
“Well, I’m…” Katrina meekly offers, “...not Nightmare.”
Surely, the Old Guy would be proud.
Butch furrows his brow. He doesn’t seem to be about this answer.
“Well, yeah,” Deming grumbles, “you’re obviously not. That’s the joke. I mean—” He pulls out a full Nightmare costume from behind him. It’s even more discount than the cop outfits. “—we were gonna have you put this on so we could chase you around the campus.”
Butch points at Katrina suddenly, inspiration in his eyes.
Deming continues. “It would’ve been a great opportunity—” He slaps Butch’s arm down. “—for us. Butch, stop it, that’s rude. I mean—” Butch raises his arm again. “—we never—seriously, stop it.” Deming slaps that shit down again. “—we never get to do slapstick.”
Butch points again.
Deming groans louder than ever. “What, dude? What?”
“J’accuse,” Butch says seriously.
Deming furrows his brow, confused. “J’accuse?”
“Yeah,” Butch says, “Saying I’m not Nightmare? That’s Nightmare shit. I don’t believe you.”
Katrina is flummoxed. “What else am I supposed to say?”
Deming shrugs, going along with it. Holds the Nightmare mask in front of his face. “You go, Yo! I’m Nightmare! Wanna fight?” He flexes in a downward curl. “HUH!”
Butch also flexes. “HUH!”
Katrina’s jaw hangs open wordlessly. “Listen, that’s cool and all, just—don’t say that shit in front of Char. She already thinks I’m in some shit—”
“Because you’re Nightmare,” Butch points out.
She pauses. “...sure? Just… be cool.” She backs away carefully. “Okay?”
Deming and Butch exchange a look. They nod, then come at her with two sets of double barreled thumbs ups. Once the message is received, they turn away and make their exit.
“Hey, Boss, I got a corkboard at home. We could start an investigation on Katrina,” Butch says jovially.
“Butch, you’re a genius today!” Deming claps his bro on the back. “It’s uncanny.”
“Thanks, I’ve been eating more fish.”
Katrina hitches back onto Char, resuming the prior position.
“Okay, that was a lot, but I’m here,” Katrina says.
“Good.” Char pulls back and looks Katrina right in the eye. “Gave me some time to find my words. Katrina. You’re depressed again. We’ve been through this before, and it’s fine, I’m here to help you. But I can’t… I can’t do anything if you don’t let me help you. And I’m sorry, but…”
Katrina frowns. Dares to reach out and run her thumb across Char’s cheek. “I’m happy, Char.”
This seems to give Char the courage she needs to continue. “No, I can’t accept that lie. Whether or not you actually believe it, I don’t know. But you’ve been like this ever since your Dad got hurt. Even—even after he woke back up again, you’ve been the same.”
Katrina feels heat rising into her head.
Char continues, “I can’t do this with you again. We can still be friends, but I…” She releases Katrina. “...I need space right now. Sorry.”
Char walks away.
Katrina doesn’t try to stop her. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t feel anything.
She just stands there.
Katrina sits alone in the living room, mindlessly watching old cartoons while Gloves rests on her lap. She’s in a daze, hardly focused on anything directly in front of her. A messy plate of half-eaten cake sits before her. It’s been days since anything of significance has happened. At least from her perspective.
From her father’s perspective, he’s witnessed an abruptly fast decline. He worries, and Katrina shrugs it off. She oversleeps. Calls out of work. Stays home. Does very little. Avoids things that bring her joy. She just lays in place for hours, her mind approaching catatonia.
Her phone goes off. An alto sings, “♫ Daddy, hey Daddy! ♫”
She reaches across the coffee table and checks her phone. There’s a text from Lucius.
Pizza time? his message reads.
She frowns. Suddenly notices the odd windy sound in the background. She furrows her brow and leans as far as she can to the left as possible without usurping Gloves. Turns out she left the fridge wide open by accident when she got her cake. She sighs. Raises her thigh slightly, bringing Gloves’s front paws higher up. He looks around with wide eyes, his tail starting to swish about. Gently, she grips him by the chest and pushes him off her legs. She gets up and trudges across the carpet to the wood-paneled floor. There’s a loud thump! as Gloves crashes onto the floor to follow after her. She rolls her eyes playfully. Reaches over to the fridge door and starts to close it… which is when she notices a few things.
A full jar of marinara sauce.
One package of tempeh.
A carton of vegan egg juice.
And a fresh block of vegan parmesan cheese.
She checks the cabinets. Finds a bunch of angel hair pasta and an old bag of breadcrumbs.
She thinks about her father’s text message. If he’s requesting Pizza Time, then he almost certainly had a no good, very bad day. Pizza time, as history has proven, is a surefire path to bliss for the old man, but Katrina believes she can do him one better: tempeh parmesan.
Unfortunately for her, she neglects to text him about it. The sheer excitement that comes from the spontaneous decision to mount a magnificent dinner consumes her.
Gloves watches Katrina zoom around the kitchen with great confusion. She moves fast without thinking. She slices up the tempeh, coats it in the egg sauce, and runs those wet tempeh strips through the breadcrumbs. She fries them, submerges them in tomato sauce, boils it all together, and—
—realizes only when it’s too late that the marinara sauce has expired.
She considers her options. Dumps the literally steaming hot mess into the trash. Sets all the messy dishes aside in the sink and leaves the house. Returns a half hour later with an armful of tomatoes and a few sprigs of basil.
She smashes the tomatoes with her bare hands, juice splattering everywhere. When it’s clear that doing this by hand is a bad idea, she makes use of their food processor. She fits in four tomatoes at a time, purees them, and frowns at the light pink sauce the tomatoes leave for her. She reaches into the trash, pulls out the jar of marinara sauce, and checks if any artificial coloring was used. She shrugs and shreds more tomatoes. Slices up the basil. Sizzles some oil in a saucepan. Throws the tomato juice on top. Lets it hit a simmer.
Time passes, and the kitchen descends into chaos. Katrina doesn’t stop. She keeps moving, keeps cooking, making mistake after mistake. She starts over and over, trashing the ingredients each time, never stopping to clean. The tower in the sink gets higher and higher. Both cats show up, watching Katrina with anxiety. Mittens’s tail shoots straight up, his jaw clenched, revealing his pink gums and tiny teeth.
She doesn’t notice her boys though. In fact, she doesn’t even notice her father once he makes his entrance.
Lucius opens the door, singing softly under his breath. “♫ Mama Papa Brickolini will not cook you no linguine… ♫” He hangs his jacket on the coat rack. “♫ Don’t you know we specialize in one thing, that’s pizza pies… ♫”
Whistling the rest of the song, Lucius struts into the living room and sees his daughter through the doorway to the kitchen. Katrina buzzes about with manic energy. There are splatters of sauce on the floor. He gets closer. Notices the wreckage in the sink. The faucet that’s still running for some reason. The spatula that’s handle is being used to keep two cabinets shut. The burner on the stovetop that’s burning bright orange even though nothing’s on it. The frying pan handle that’s hanging over the edge.
Katrina flips a strip of tempeh high into the air. It spins and lands back in the pan
Lucius frowns. Holds one leg up in the air and hops backwards until he’s totally out of sight. He leans up against the wall and discreetly makes a phone call.
Five minutes later, he approaches again. This time, he makes an appearance in the doorway.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
She doesn’t notice.
Lucius winces and bends down. Pets the cats on their heads, both of their faces scrunching up with delight.
“Is the scary lady stressing you out, Mittens?” Lucius whispers.
Mittens confirms this with a loud whine.
“Huh?” Katrina looks back.
Lucius looks up at Katrina. “Crazy lady,” he says, extending himself to his full height with Mittens slung under his arm. Mittens plants his paws on Lucius’s chest, looking around in a panic. Lucius continues, “You. Are. A. Crazy. Lady—”
Mittens climbs onto Lucius’s shoulder and leaps off him with a mighty kick. The gray cat hits the floor and scurries away. Gloves looks around in confusion. Makes a small, whining noise, then follows after his brother.
Lucius brushes the cat hair off the shoulder pad to his blazer. “—see? Even Mittens is terrified of this… this chicanery.”
Katrina throws her hands to her hips and surveys the kitchen. She nods grimly. “Operation: Tempeh Parmesan has had a few setbacks, that is to be sure.”
The sizzling of the tempeh strips gets louder. A cloud of smoke puffs into the air.
“Oops, gotta get back to it, Dad,” Katrina says, turning on her heel. She grabs a hotdog poker off the counter and jabs the tempeh strips, flipping them with much gusto.
Lucius makes an exaggerated, silly frown and approaches Katrina from behind. Leans over her shoulder to see the brown breadcrumb coating turn golden… and black in some cases.
“Let me guess, you’re boiling them in the sauce soon?” he asks.
“Of course!” she says, “Is there any other way?”
He smiles. Pats her on the shoulder, eyes flitting to the steam rising from the pot of water.
“Angel hair?” he asks.
“Mm,” she hums, distracted.
“We’ve been talking a while, I’d check those,” he says.
“Way to backseat cook,” she snarks while pushing herself up onto her toes. She peers into the pasta. Uses the hot dog poker to test the pasta. She waves it around gently, the noodles limp. She nods, drops the noodles back into the pot, and kills the heat. “Thanks. Why do we even have a hotdog poker anyways? We don’t even eat hotdogs. And it’s breaking the tempeh.”
Lucius nods gently. “The burden of suburbandom demands hot dog pokers, I’m afraid. You want to use the spatula?”
“Yeah, I just can’t find it,” she replies, dumping the pasta into the strainer.
Lucius hums. Flits his eyes towards the cabinets that are being held shut by a spatula slipped through the handles.
Katrina turns to face the challenge. She approaches the cabinets. Raises the hotdog poker in the air, holding it semi-parallel to the spatula. Her arms sway slightly in the air, and then with agility, she slides the spatula out, instantaneously swapping it with the hot dog poker.
The cabinet doesn’t budge an inch.
Smug now, Katrina turns to the frying pan. Flips a tempeh strip way high into the air. It spirals and falls towards the floor.
“Oh no, you don’t!” she shouts, swinging her bare foot out to catch the strip. It lands on the top of her foot, the sizzling strip stinging her flesh. She yelps and kicks her foot out of pain. The strip flies back into the air and lands in the saucepan with a quiet ploomph!
“Nailed it,” she says, emptying the frying pan of tempeh strips, knocking them into the simmering tomato sauce.
Lucius’s eyebrows fall. “You… have a Food Handler’s License, don’t you?”
Katrina turns toward Lucius. Blinks in confusion. “Y’know, I’m just working with what I have.”
And then:
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Katrina frowns. Looks at her father for an explanation, her eyes widening along with his, the realization striking them both at once.
“...You didn’t… cancel… pizza time?” Katrina asks.
Lucius squirms with discomfort. “Aye, I didn’t. To be fair, you did not text me back.”
“Yes, I did!” she shouts, exasperated.
He shakes his head with confidence and wags his finger at her. “You will check your phone for receipts and end up disturbed by your own lapse in communication.”
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Lucius shrugs and takes a step back. Scratches the back of his neck, projecting his voice like a thespian in their home turf.
“I’ll go give Pizza-Man the bad news, I guess…”
He speaks in such a way that an outside observer might even make the assumption that Lucius is casting bait for Katrina to follow…
She cringes. Reaches out for him to stop, physically lunging herself a half-inch forward in desperation.
He looks back, fighting back the urge to smile. “Yeah?”
Katrina’s eyes dart back and forth. She looks over her shoulder. Grinds her teeth anxiously. Then grabs onto the frying pan—
—now empty of tempeh strips—
—and HURLS it across the room. The frying pan soars past Lucius’s shoulder and strikes the light switch head-on. The lights go off. If it weren’t for the lone shaft of moonlight shining through the window over the sink, the Gawains would be in complete darkness.
“What are you—” Lucius starts.
Katrina dives across the room and grabs Lucius by the shoulders, ducking him down as if she were a secret service agent and he the President. She rushes him over to the kitchen table and seats him. Removes his blazer for him, slinging it over the back of his chair. She rushes back to the stove top and gets to work.
“Karina,” Lucius calls out with some disappointment. She wrangles the pasta strainer. Charges across the tiled floor and dumps the angel hair into the vat of marinara. “We need to pay the man.”
“Is it Randy’s?” she asks, distracted.
“Yes.”
“I’ll bring Char sometime and pay them with interest,” she replies briskly.
Lucius blinks slowly. “Well, I’m sure this guy’s a professional. He must have noticed the lights were on before you, uh, threw our frying pan at the wall. Good aim, by the way, you never cease to impress me.”
“Thanks,” she deadpans, stirring the tempeh parm with her spatula. The pasta is clumped and stuck together. The sauce seeps between the strands, helping the noodles separate, but she’s still fighting an uphill battle here.
Lucius frowns. “Katrina, honey, are you alright?”
“Hm?” She looks back at him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“I’m just seeing a few red flags here and there,” he remarks casually.
She dumps the two meals onto two plates. Steam rises. Katrina chauffeurs the plates over to the table.
Lucius looks up from his dish. Raises his hands and wiggles his fingers.
“Finger food?” he suggests.
“No, asshole,” she swears. Retreats to the kitchenette and retrieves the utensils. Returns to Lucius and sets the forks and knives down.
Lucius makes an impressed frown at the set-up. Then he blinks. Double takes and scrunches his face up, sniffing at his food like a rodent.
“Um, excuse me?! Waiter?!” he announces in a drawling voice, the voice too specific to not be an imitation of some very rich donor at the Center. “I believe my order is supposed to come with PARMESAN CHEESE!”
Katrina blinks. Takes two long strides backwards. Reaches into the fridge, pulls out the cheese, closes the fridge with her heel, scoops the grater off the countertop, returns to the table, and runs the grater across the cheese. Shreds of vegan cheese rain down on the tempeh parm.
Lucius flicks his hand outward with a limp wrist. “Stop.”
She glares at him. Stops.
He pinches his fingers together to capture a sprinkle of cheese. He takes his time with it, nibbling like a chipmunk. He nods. Sits back, gesturing for more.
She rolls her eyes, though she can’t help but smile. Gives him more.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Lucius cocks his head back, the pleasant look on his face clearly intended to guilt.
Katrina opens her mouth—
And then the pizza guy yodels. Katrina and Lucius make firm eye contact, frowning at the yodeling with respect.
“♫ Yodel-ai-hee-hoo! ♫ I’m gonna ♫ yoooOOOoooOOOooodel ♫ until you guys come out of hiding! ♫ YooOOOoooOOOoooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo—oof.” He erupts into a fit of coughing. “This is too much, I can’t do this, man. I gotta go.”
There’s a very long silence.
Lucius shrugs. “Problem solved?”
Katrina frowns. “I don’t know, I feel bad now.”
“You sound surprised!” he remarks.
“Well,” she sighs, “I thought I could get away with being a bitch this one time, but y’know, it’s just never okay. Not even once.”
He nods in agreement. “Shall we dine?”
“I guess so,” she says meekly, “I’ve become that which I fought against but hey, let’s eat.”
Lucius nods politely. Grabs for his fork and knife. Begins cutting.
Katrina watches him with hesitance. “Uh, actually—”
He looks up at her.
She continues, “—I don’t know if you should eat that.”
He raises his eyebrows sarcastically. “Well, look who’s suddenly decided to become the straight man in this little farce. You’re forcing me to yes and my way into eating this.”
“But, Dad—”
“Nope,” he says. He plops a saucey strip of tempeh into his mouth. Chews it for a few seconds and then suddenly, he goes completely still with a neutral expression on his face. His pupils shrink into tiny dots.
Katrina claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh no, you hate it, don’t you? I should’ve known when I literally kicked the tempeh into the pot. I mean, talk about red flags—”
Lucius reaches out and grabs onto her shoulder, still expressionless.
“Katrina,” he says seriously.
“Yes?” she squeaks.
“This is the best tempeh parmesan I’ve ever had in my life.”
She blinks. “...What?!”
Simultaneously, a third party unknown to the Gawains shouts the very same thing.
“What?!”
It’s a male voice coming from behind them. They both turn around and find who else but the pizza boy halfway through climbing through the window over the sink. His eyes are wild and manic. In his hands is the controversial pizza.
“What?!” Katrina and Lucius squawk together.
“Surprised, are you?!” the pizza boy says with the energy of an almighty supervillain. “More to the point, how could this kitchen produce the best tempeh parmesan in the world?!”
He gestures at the mess that Katrina has concocted.
Lucius laughs. “Don’t worry, son. She’s got a Food Handler’s license!”
Pizza-Man wrinkles his nose. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
Lucius shrugs. “Eating is believing, my friend. Try some.”
Pizza-Man nods. Lucius approaches with some tempeh. Pizza-Man takes it, a sly look in his eyes. “If it’s the best tempeh parmesan there is, I withdraw. I’ll pay for the pizza. No harm, no foul. But if it’s not the best—”
“Two grand,” Lucius says darkly.
“Dad?!” Katrina blurts out. “We can’t—”
Lucius swats her away. “This is how we win. You game?”
Electricity crackles between the two men. They shake on it.
Pizza-Man carefully takes the tempeh. Sniffs it suspiciously. Jerks his head back in disgust.
Katrina blanches.
He runs his nose across the tempeh like a dog. Slurps it down in one bite. He reacts immediately. Jerks his head up, looking extremely grave.
Katrina rolls her eyes. “Alright, something is going on here, and—”
She waves her hand in front of Pizza-Man’s eye, and he’s unphased. She assumes this is a hard reaction to fake, and she recoils backwards.
“—I am starting to get really creeped out,” she finishes, “It can’t be that good.”
“No,” Lucius utters. “You killed it, Katrina. Show some pride.”
She frowns. Looks at Pizza-Man inquisitively.
“Is that true?” she asks. “Did I—”
A sharp cry splits the air.
“Fuck!” Pizza-Man snaps. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”
He repeatedly pounds his fists against the windowsill. Pulls back to make his exit and—
“Oof!”
—he hits his head on the ceiling, then—
“Oh God!”
—he slips out of sight and falls to the ground.
Thump!
The pizza box catches on the window. The lid flops open, and the pizza slides after Pizza-Man, the box falling to the floor.
“No, my face—”
Splat!
Lucius steps forward. “Wow, talk about adding pizza to injury.”
Katrina looks back at Lucius, blinking slowly. The joke takes several moments to register. It hits her, and she rears her head back, releasing a mighty laugh from the chest. Her knees bend, and her spine loses its composure. She slaps her father on the shoulder, leaning on him for support.
Lucius in turn cackles. He laughs so hard he goes red in the face. Laughs so hard that he can’t stop. Even as his volume dies down, his mouth remains frozen in laughter. He leans on Katrina, tears streaking down his cheeks.
She doubles over. Sincerely tries to stop laughing, but every time her mind goes to that splat!, and she just absolutely loses it.
An unbelievably strong catharsis flows through her, and for the first time in a while, Katrina Gawain feels whole.
Lucius and Katrina take turns in the living room strutting across the carpet, imitating the infamous dance scene from Spider-Man 3, while the scene itself plays on the TV. Between the two of them, Lucius nails the finger guns. He jabs them just right. Meanwhile, Katrina puts on a perfect performance of campy bliss. She rolls her arms at her chest, then raises those arms high over her head in ape-ish fashion. She pelvic thrusts the air, dancing with a dumb, slack-jawed expression on her face.
Never wanting to be upstaged, Lucius goes again. Does some finger-guns as a lead-in, then shifts into a slide. He holds his arms out. Points his fore fingers at some invisible babe. Throws on a debonair look while performing what little he can of a hairflip.
They decide to call it a draw.
Lucius leans back into the couch and rests his arms on top of the cushions. Katrina cuddles up beside him.
“For the record,” Lucius says, “Char would’ve voted for you.”
Katrina shakes her head. “Nah, she’d give it to you to spite me.”
He frowns. “What? I thought you two were good! You’re taking her to Randy’s, right?”
She nods grimly. “Damage control.”
He cringes.
She continues, “Don’t worry about it, I got it.”
“Mm,” he hums. They break from one another and return to the movie. Time passes them by, and it’s quite comforting.
Later, during the finale (where the movie truly falls apart), Lucius harumphs to get Katrina’s attention, his fingers anxiously crawling along the corner of a cushion.
She looks up, her head now resting on his chest.
“What’s up?” she murmurs, sleepy.
He squirms. Pauses the movie. She furrows her brow and pulls away from him. She stares at him while he avoids eye contact.
“Dad?” she asks.
He glances at the floor. “Um… I, uh… have a confession to make.”
She feels her heartbeat. It gets stronger. Stronger. She perks up with interest; this is something she didn’t realize she had been waiting for.
He presses his lips together. “I, uh… paid that guy.”
She blinks. “Wh-what?”
He looks at her. “The pizza pratfall man. I paid him.”
She blinks again. “He was… an actor?”
“No, no—I mean, he could be. He’s got the grit for it, but, uh, yeah.” He awkwardly scratches his head. “I walked in and realized you forgot to text me, so I called Randy’s. I asked whoever delivered the pizza to act like a complete maniac.”
She nods. Tries to understand. “I—I don’t know what to—how much?”
He cringes, hissing through his teeth.
“Two grand,” he admits.
Her eyes go wide, and she shouts, “What? How could you—why did you—”
He bursts into laughter. She furrows her brow, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of her lips.
“Oh!” she exclaims. Laughs nervously. “So, uh, Pizza-Man was real?”
“No, no,” he says, the echo of laughter warming his voice, “I paid him two hundred dollars. Gave him a few ideas. The yodeling was all him, but I’ll admit that my one-liner, talk about adding—”
“—pizza to injury,” she finishes, “That was great! You had that on the backburner? It brought it all in.”
“I thought so,” he says, stretching his legs across the floor, “I didn’t know he’d take the plunge like that, I just told him to do something that could lead to me saying my line. Because I knew it’d kill.”
Katrina sticks out her bottom lip, impressed. “He really went for it then… you think he’s alright?”
“Ooh!” Lucius glances over his shoulder as if Pizza-Man might be wedged behind the couch, eliciting a chuckle from Katrina. He smiles. “He will be compensated… uh, further?”
She smiles weakly. An awkward silence unfolds between them. He pats his knee a few times out of a need to fidget. He reaches out to unpause the movie, but Katrina grabs his wrist. They look at each other.
“Why?” she asks.
He furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”
She exhales. “Why did you do all that?”
He takes a deep breath. Gives her that forlorn, fatherly look that always breaks her. He reaches out to her and brushes his thumb across her cheek. Timid, she can’t fully accept his touch, thus the gesture ends half-heartedly. He retracts his hand.
“Katrina, I love you more than anything,” he says, “I know you know that, it’s just—you can have your secrets. But unfortunately, I can’t help but read you like a book. Especially when you’re hurting, and you’ve… you’ve really been hurting.”
She finds it harder than anything not to cry.
He frowns, and his eyes glisten. “Oh, Katrina…”
She forces her eyes shut in an attempt to resist the tears. It’s just…
…when Lucius says her name like that…
…in that very specific intonation…
…he sounds like the Old Guy.
She motions for him to give her space while she cries.
“I just wanted you to feel happy…” He considers himself. “...I hope I didn’t spoil the whole thing by telling you the truth.”
She smiles. Shakes her head, letting her hair sway.
“No, Dad,” she says, “What you did makes it even better.”
“Okay, so I’d like to do the cauliflower and tempeh personal pizza…” Katrina looks up from the menu and across the counter to lock eyes with the cashier. He’s a boy about her age. Vaguely familiar. The paper mask makes him nigh impossible to identify. The problem is he’s glaring at her with narrowed eyes. A look she reserves for only the most obnoxious of customers.
It makes her wonder just what the Hell she did to piss this guy off.
Perhaps it’s just her mere existence as a customer; she wouldn’t blame him. Or perhaps—Randy’s suffers from greedy, exploitative management that has utterly broken the spirit of their workers. It’s certainly possible.
She’s in a dress. A black, sleeveless dress with a pink floral pattern on it. It’s expensive (not to mention new).
Char stands besides her in much more casual wear.
Katrina sizes the cashier up. “...could I do buffalo tempeh though?”
“There’s an add charge,” the cashier drawls with a hint of aggression.
“Oh, sure, I figured—” Katrina starts.
The cashier wrinkles his nose at her.
She wilts. “—but uh, thanks for, er, letting me know.” She gestures back at Char with both hands. “And the lady here would like the walnut sausage with fennel. Personal as well.”
“Oh.” Char steps forward. “You don’t have to pay for it, Kat—”
Katrina smooths her hand against Char’s chest. “No, no, I got it.”
Char smiles. “I’m serious, I can—”
Katrina winces; she hates when customers pull these sorts of shenanigans at the register, and it’s clear the cashier detests it too. She looks back at him, miming an a-OK gesture with her hand. Laughing nervously, she says, “No, really. I got it.”
She pulls out her credit card. Jams it into the card reader, looking up eagerly at the cashier while sucking on her lower lip.
“Thirty-seven, eighty-four,” he says, “You can’t insert that so soon. Be patient.”
Her mind slows to a halt. “...Try again?”
He glares at her.
She forces a toothy grin. “Heh.” Reinserts the card. Sweats while it reads. She pops in her pin and plucks out the card. Her finger hovers above the tip option. Katrina always tips twenty percent, but if she does it digitally, then the cashier won’t know. And if he doesn’t know, then she’ll forever have strange interactions with this man. So she tips zero percent—
And the cashier notices!
She cringes. Puts her card away while simultaneously pulling out fifteen dollars. She hurriedly stuffs the cash into the tip jar.
The cashier snorts.
Katrina strains to smile. Turns away, holding Char’s wrist. “Thank you so much!”
The cashier dead-eyed stares at her. Katrina starts to lead Char away to their booth, but Char puts her foot down.
“Hey—” Char starts with a righteous fury.
“Oh no,” Katrina mutters.
“—you’re kinda being rude to my friend here,” Char finishes.
The cashier crosses his arms at his chest. “We have a history.”
Katrina furrows her brow. “Wait…”
She looks deep into the cashier’s eyes, his face becoming more and more familiar…
He smirks. Arcs his eyebrows devilishly, his eyes going wild and deranged.
Katrina clenches the air with excitement at her realization. She points at him.
“You’re Pizza-Man! I mean, the pizza guy from a few nights ago!” she shouts.
Char furrows her brow, and the cashier impatiently raps his fingers against his bicep.
“You rejected my pizza,” Pizza-Man hisses.
Katrina frowns. “My dad still paid for it.”
Char looks between the two of them as if it were a game of ping pong.
“You think I care about the financial well-being of Randy’s?” he says indignantly, “It’s about the principle.”
“The principle?” she echoes.
“The principle,” he affirms, “I make the pizza, you eat the pizza.”
“Oh,” Katrina grunts. “Um…”
He gets frustrated and jabs his open hands at the air. “I make the pizza!” He jerks his hands the other way. “You eat the pizza!”
Katrina stares at him blankly, and her jaw hangs slack for a moment. “I’m, uh—”
“Make the pizza!” he shouts.
“Right—” she starts.
“Eat the pizza!” he finishes.
“Okay.” She backs off. “I will eat the pizza.”
He laughs. “Oh yeah?”
She raises an eyebrow. Gestures at Char. “She will also eat the pizza.”
Char positions a thumbs up next to Katrina’s cheek.
The cashier scoffs. Scoffs again, a little louder this time. “I know she will,” he says all prissy. “But you?” He shakes his head. “You, you, you, you…”
Unnerved, Katrina looks at Char. “We will both eat the pizza, I promise.”
He shrugs. “We’ll see what we see.”
Char opens her mouth to object, but Katrina silences her with a shake of the head. They take a seat across from each other at a booth. Char wears a big goofy grin.
“What was that about?” she asks.
Katrina shrugs. “Long story, I’ll give you a play-by-play later with Dad. It’ll be funnier if he’s there.”
Char smiles. “Okay… so what’s the occasion?”
Katrina mirrors her grin. “Yeah… I just, um, have news.”
Char perches her head a little higher.
Katrina continues, “The thing that I’ve been, uh, doing, that’s, um, kept me so busy… and, um, sad… it’s over. The truth is I-I’ve been sworn to secrecy though, that’s why I’m… not allowed to tell you about it. If I could, I would. Believe me. It’s been on my mind constantly.”
Char’s expression remains neutral. Her eyes are vacant, which tells Katrina that Char’s mind is positively whirring with conflict.
“I know it’s not the answer you want to hear,” Katrina continues. “but it’s all I got.”
Char nods. “So can we finally talk about it?”
Katrina presses her lips together. “Let’s… talk about you!”
“Me?” Char’s frown sinks deeper. “Um… okay. I… finally saw Jesus Christ Superstar?”
“Ah!” Katrina squeals and reaches across the table for a high-five. Slap! “Char! Yes! Good! Was it the seventies movie?”
Char smiles weakly, speaking softly, “You were right, Jesus knocks over a postcard stand.”
“He knocks over a postcard stand!” Katrina cheers.
“Yeah,” Char replies quietly, “I started injections too.”
“That’s great,” Katrina says, “Have you noticed any changes?”
Char nods, conflict in her eyes.
Katrina’s smile fades. “Listen, I know I’ve been cagey about—”
Suddenly, two hot pizzas slide in front of them.
Katrina furrows her brow. Looks up and sees the cashier standing over them.
“Pizza time,” he says with a warm smile. This is clearly the moment he enjoys the most out of his work day.
“That was fast,” Katrina remarks.
The cashier’s attitude turns on a dime, and he somehow finds a way to make his resulting shrug extremely passive aggressive.
“You tipped exceedingly well,” he says, “You forced my hand.”
They stare at each other. Katrina leans towards him, ready to retort. She checks on Char through her peripherals. Char shakes her head, and Katrina nods.
“Okay,” she sighs, “You made the pizza, I’ll eat the pizza.”
The cashier performs a tough guy arm cross. “I’d like to see that.” He lingers there for a moment. Then another moment. Only after a handful of moments pass does Katrina realize…
“You’re just gonna stand there?” she asks.
The cashier furrows his brow. He says, “Yeah!” as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
She looks back at Char. “I am sorry to have involved you in this—”
“♫ I wanna be somebody’s buddy. Somebody who can be my buddy back… ♫”
Katrina’s eyebrows shoot way high; she completely forgot she had a personalized ringtone for the Old Guy’s burner… but why would he be calling?
She reaches for her phone. Looks up at Char. “Sorry, I really have to take this.”
Char bites her lip but nods. The cashier groans loudly.
Katrina steps away from the booth, hunched over herself. She whispers, “Old Guy, we’ve talked about this—I’m… I’m retired, okay? I’m sorry. It’s over. I can’t do this anymore.”
“There’s a subway train that won’t stop,” the Old Guy says, “Hundreds of people are going to die.”
She blinks. Glances back at Char. “A malfunction?”
“No,” he replies briskly, “Someone did this. They broke through an iron door with their bare hands to get to the front cab. Whoever they are, they’re asking for Nightmare.”
Her heartbeat accelerates. “I… I don’t have the thing.”
“I can fly it in remotely,” the Old Guy says, “There’s a subway nearby at Mayberry and One-Fifty-Seventh. You need to be there in the next five minutes to board.”
She takes a precious moment to think. “You mean board a moving train?”
“Yes, I can talk you through it.”
She exhales, a panic attack coming on. “I… I, um…”
“Katrina, I don’t want you to do this,” he says in that familiar, steadying tone, “I will not allow you to get hurt.”
Katrina takes a second to reply. “You can’t make that promise anymore.”
Char gets up. “Kat, is everything okay?”
Katrina doesn’t hear her.
“I’m sorry,” the Old Guy rasps, “I’ll go alone—”
“No,” she cuts him off, “We’re stronger together. One last show.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
She takes a heavy, measured breath. “I’m en route.”
She hangs up. Puts the phone away. Looks at Char.
There’s a gleam in Char’s eyes that tells Katrina that her own face must be mired in fear.
“You have to go,” Char says. “Don’t you?”
Katrina sniffs, not knowing how to feel about anything anymore. It feels like her body is being torn apart and split between so many identities and duties, and now, just when she really, truly thought it was all over and that life could go back to normal… she looks at Char with so much conflict in her face, practically shaking.
There’s no time. Five minutes until she misses the train. She has to go now.
Nightmare turns on her heel and dashes for the door. Yells, “I’m sorry!” over her shoulder.
She doesn’t look back. She can’t.
Masks is one of the most cutting and traumatic chapters of Stay With Me and also probably the funniest. Give it a read here!