Sidekick Returns (8 page)

I narrowed my eyes at her. She was awfully friendly. ‘Not the best building,' she continued, eyes darting up to the flickering fluorescent lights. ‘But the price is right.'

‘Uh-huh,' I said, thinking,
Sure, the price is just great … if you're making library money
. Some people.

A moment of awkward silence passed. ‘Well, have a good night,' she said, putting a hand on the metal stair banister. I turned back to my mailbox. Perhaps I should have asked her how to open it. She did seem kind of nice and cute, but I had already hit my limit of how stupid I could look in one day.

‘I'm sorry,' the girl's voice called out again. ‘But you look really familiar.'

Uh-oh.

I watched her penny loafers come back down the stairs.

This was not good.

‘You must be mistaken,' I said, turning my face into the corner.

‘No. No way! You're Bremy St. James!'

Chapter 8

‘What!' I stepped back, bumping into the opposite wall. ‘No, I'm not.'

‘Yes, you are! I'm a huge fan.' Then I heard the computerised click. The click of a phone taking a picture.

I rubbed both hands over my face.

Now what was I going to do? I needed to get that picture. Aside from my father issues, I just couldn't give the tabloids the satisfaction of seeing how I was living. I just couldn't. I needed to make something of myself first … something respectable. I spun to face her. At least she was little. I sighed and started to push the sleeves of my windbreaker up my arms. A girl had to do what a girl had to do. ‘What are you doing?' she asked, looking at me quizzically, while still beaming.

‘I'm going to have to take that picture from you.'

‘What?' she asked, moving her hands to her chest. ‘By like force?'

‘I guess.'

‘That's so cool!' she shouted with a little hop. ‘But you don't have to do that. I can delete it.' She looked down at her phone, made a few swipes, and poked the screen before flipping it around to show me. ‘It was rude of me anyway.'

‘I don't? You can?' I slumped back against the boxes. ‘Oh, thank God. But wait, why are you being so nice?'

She slow blinked a few times. ‘Do you want me to be mean?'

‘Are you new to this city?' I asked, cocking my head. ‘You could've probably sold that photo for thous—I mean, never mind.'

‘There are all sorts of ways to make money,' she said, waving a hand. ‘Besides, I told you. I'm a big fan. What have you been doing lately? Your sister is all over the news, but you've just disappeared. And you're here?'

‘I, uh, just wanted to try living in the real world,' I said, scratching the side of my head, ‘before I, uh, commit to my life of being rich and famous.'

She nodded. ‘You mean like the Amish with their Rumspringa?'

‘Right,' I said with a point. ‘And a ring a ding, dinga, back at you.'
Who was this girl?

‘Okay.' She cocked her head again. ‘Anyway, I'll let you be. I don't want to go all fan girl on you.' She waved her hands in the air. ‘But I just have to say, that Spring Break Special? With the beer pong polo? I wish I had as much fun as you.'

‘Thank you.' I smiled at the memory. ‘Once that purebred stud got a taste for the good stuff, he was never the same.' I shook my head. ‘Actually, I feel kind of bad about that.'

She kept on smiling before saying, ‘Anyway, I better go before I do something embarrassing like ask you to hang out.'

It took everything in me just to smile and nod. I really did kind of want to hang out. I mean, as of late, most of the people I met didn't exactly … like me. And it was so nice to be liked. But I didn't know this girl, and she now knew me. I had to be smart about this.

Her smile drooped an insy bit when she realised I wasn't taking the bait. ‘Well, I hope your break doesn't last too long.' She grabbed the stair railing and mounted the first step. ‘The world needs more Bremy St. James.'

‘Thank you.' I brushed my hair back from my face. ‘I will keep that in mind.'

She walked up a few more steps, so I could only see her pulled up socks. ‘By the way, your apartment key opens the mailbox.'

‘Yes!' I lunged for the box. Then I remembered I was being rude. ‘Thank you!' I shouted, turning back to the stairs, but she was already gone.

I quickly slid my key into the lock and swung the little door open. I pried the overstuffed contents from their prison and pinned the stack to my chest. Mail! A lot of mail! I had no idea I was so popular. And now, I actually had something to do in my apartment other than dream about Pierce and crime-fighting greatness.

I hurried up the stairs. I only made it a step or two down my hallway before I heard the death metal blaring. Queenie.

Neighbour. Misanthrope. Designer of kick-ass outfits. And maybe girlfriend of my one other friend in this city, Bart. At least, I liked to think that Queenie was my friend. But I'd never tell her that. She might hurt me. She was also Korean, but I wasn't sure anymore if I was supposed to mention that … or think it. Hmm, did Queenie describe me to people as Caucasian? Or maybe, that white girl? And if so, what did that mean to them?
Whoa
. I gave my head a shake. I never used to ask myself these questions in my old life. I was blowing my own mind. Either way, Queenie was just the person I needed to talk to.

I marched over to her door, mail still pinned in my arms, and kicked it with the toe of my boot.

The door swung open.

‘Oh,' I gasped. ‘Queenie, no.'

She didn't move. She just stared back at me with dead eyes. No, really, she was wearing contacts that whited out her irises. I was used to her dressing in frightening mash-up outfits, but tonight she was picking on one of my childhood favourites.

My eyes roved over her blue and white checked dress with apron overtop. Sure, it was shredded in places and splattered with blood, but with the pigtails … there was no mistaking who she was supposed to be. Then I recognised the lyrics of the song.

‘You can't be a zombified Dorothy,' I said, shaking my head. ‘And “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” is a happy song.'

She still said nothing, but she hadn't slammed the door either. It showed how tight we'd become.

Suddenly, my hand flew to my mouth, sending a few envelopes fluttering to the floor. ‘You didn't!'

Queenie said nothing.

‘That is wrong!' I pointed at the necklace she was wearing. It was hard to be sure, but it looked like it had a tin, a fur, and a straw ear as charms. Still nothing. ‘Okay, moving on.' I shuffled my feet. It seemed rude just to come out and ask for a favour, so I started with, ‘How's it going with Bart?'

The door came swinging towards me, but I straight-armed it. I knew Queenie's modus operandi. ‘No! What did he do? I'll kill him.' Queenie inhaled … angrily. ‘Do you want me to pick up some food? We can have a girls' night. You know, talk it—'

‘What!' Queenie suddenly screamed.

I startled. ‘What, what?' I asked.

‘What do you want!'

‘Oh … you know what?' I said, angling my face towards the safety of my apartment. ‘It doesn't seem important now. I'll just—'

Her eyes widened to terrifying proportions.

‘It's just that I'm going to this fancy masquerade at the museum,' I said, looking up at the ceiling briefly before daring to peek at her face, ‘and I was wondering if maybe you knew where I could get a lead on a dress?'

This time I let the door slam in my face.

‘Is that a no?' I shouted.

I struggled to hear over the blaring music. Finally I caught, ‘Bring me something to work with.'

Hotdog! I slapped the letters pinned to my chest. She couldn't admit it, but Queenie totally loved me. I bent to pick up the rest of my mail. Suddenly a crash sounded on the door, like Queenie had kicked it right at the height of my face.

Loved me in her own unique way. Once inside, I flopped onto my bed by the toilet and sorted through the mail. This was so exciting. I had never received my very own mail before. It was also kind of disturbing seeing as I was supposed to be living on the DL—not the married man having sex with other men DL, but,
focus, Bremy
, nobody was supposed to know where I was. I still couldn't help myself from happy squirming though. This pile of letters proved that I did in fact exist. I quickly shuffled through the envelopes. Huh. It wasn't exactly the existential proof I was looking for. Not a single one of the missives seemed to be labelled with my name. Somebody named
Occupant
, however, was very popular. Oh well, beggars couldn't be choosers.

I really believed that until I found one with my name on it. Actually it was addressed to Brenda St. James, my secret identity. I tore into it. At first I couldn't quite figure out what I was looking at. I turned the page sideways, gave it a good squint, then righted it again. Nope, that still couldn't be right. I then tried turning my head from side to side. It still said the same thing, but that thing made absolutely no sense. It said I owed $230 to the cable company for two months of the all-inclusive package, but that couldn't be right, because I didn't have cable. I gave the paper my best inquisitor glare, but it gave up nothing, so I threw it on the bed, and moved on. I had more important mail to find.

I quickly sifted through the stack, but not a single envelope had Choden as the return sender. There were, however, lots of flyers, especially for a Tex Mex slash Asian fusion restaurant.

Well, didn't that just beat all. I threw the paper in the air and flopped back on my bed.

***

I woke up in the morning feeling exactly like one might expect someone to feel who had gotten into a fight with a best man and his twin, two gorilla duck hunters, and a couple of shots of vodka. Okay, I didn't exactly fight with the vodka, but we were in the process of breaking up … and it hurt.

I glanced over at the clock on my nightstand toilet. Hmm, it was later than I thought. Mr Pushkin hadn't called to wake me. Mr Pushkin! I groaned and covered my face with my hands. How did I keep losing his money? I was kind of surprised he hadn't called to set up my date with the Grim Reaper yet. Oh wait, that's right. He said I could bring him the money later today. I flopped my hands back on the bed. Well, that gave me an entire day to figure that one out. Plenty of time. I swung my legs over the side of my cot that drooped in the middle and sat up. Blood pounded unpleasantly in my head, but it seemed to pump some fresh ideas into focus. Something had to be wrong with Ryder. I mean, fine. She had never really wanted to be my mentor. And sure, she had run away from me before when big things were a'happening, but I thought she had finally given all that up when she realised I wasn't going away. So why was she giving me the cold shoulder now?

I tapped my big toe against the gritty floor and squinted my eyes. I needed to talk this over with Bart. At least he still believed in the dream. I was supposed to go over to his store anyway because … because … oh my God! Because today was the best day ever! Today, I would get my cape.

Chapter 9

‘There's no cape.' The bells on the door of Dreaming of Electric Sheep hadn't even finished jangling when Bart greeted me with the news.

‘What?'

He shoved half a sandwich, which looked to be solely filled with bacon, into his mouth before answering. ‘There's no cape,' he mumbled.

‘Why? Why is there no cape?' I walked over to the counter that Bart was stationed behind. ‘There was going to be a cape.' I poked the counter with my finger. ‘An awesome cape. A cape that you said you could trick out in ways no cape had ever been tricked out before.'

‘That I did,' Bart said, lowering his voice, sending me a warning dart with his eyes over to a teenage boy browsing the comic book section. The kid's hands were holding a glossy edition, but his eyes were on us. ‘It's not done.'

‘What happened?'

‘I don't know.' He brushed some crumbs off his chest. ‘Queenie hasn't called me back.'

I closed my eyes. Of course, Queenie was to be the seamstress in this operation. I shook my head back and forth. ‘I thought something was up with her.'

‘Something?' he snapped back. ‘What something? What did she tell you?'

‘Nothing,' I said, moving a hand over my face. ‘It was more of a feeling.'

Bart cocked his head to the side and leaned forwards, staring awfully intently at me with his left eye. ‘What kind of a feeling?'

‘I don't know,' I stammered. ‘Just a feeling that maybe something wasn't right between you two.'

Bart furrowed his brow and leaned back. ‘Elaborate.'

‘There's nothing to elaborate on! It was just a feeling!'

‘But something had to have given you this feeling. Something she said or did,' he added quickly. ‘You're not a psychic, you know.'

‘I know!' I crossed my arms over my chest.

‘I thought she hadn't called because …' he trailed off, biting his lip. ‘But now there's this feeling of yours.'

I closed my eyes and shook my head. ‘I don't know what to tell you.'

‘But this doesn't make sense. I will have you know I am a perfect gentleman when it comes to Queenie,' he said with an angry nod. ‘Even when she brought out that cheese grater in bed, I—'

‘No!' I shouted, putting up my hand. ‘Wait, a cheese grater? Really? What do you do with—'

‘At any rate,' he said, cutting me off, ‘not that you asked, but I'm sure it's nothing. It will all be fine.' He got up and slowly walked around the counter towards the teenage boy with the comics. Wow, he was actually going to serve a customer. That was new. He really must be upset. Not, you know,
whole life's dream falling apart and not a cape in sight to make it better
upset, like I was, but upset. ‘She may not want to admit it, but we have something real.' Suddenly Bart reached into the kid's backpack and pulled out a comic. He carefully smoothed its cover and placed it gently back on the rack. The kid's panicked eyes darted about the store. Bart then picked up another comic, rolled it carefully into a tube, then whacked the kid on the head. ‘Get outta here,' he said, pointing towards the door. ‘And don't come back until you've got money and a decent-fitting pair of pants.'