Denial #2

Denial pt. 2:

My heart is racing as I hear the woman speak, “I’ll tell you when you take this job, Aya. Now listen.”

          “Wait,” I ask, “How did you know my name?”

          “I have been watching you for a long time…”

          I want to tell her that that is one of the creepiest things I have ever heard, but I decide to keep my mouth shut. Sometimes silence is golden.

          “So, are you with me, number sixty-seven?”

          “Yes. I’m with you.”

          “Wonderful. Now I will need you to answer some questions.”

          “I thought you were spying on me?”

          “I don’t know everything. What is your full name?”

          I freeze. I have no idea who my real parents are, what my real name, my middle name, anything. I decide to use a combination of Eduardo and Tana’s surnames. “Aya Gonzalez-Green.”

          “No. Your name is Cherelle Namonia Smithfield.”       

          “News to me.”

          “Fine. Enough with the questions. Just talk.”

          “What do you want me to say?”

          “Why are you here?”

          “I don’t know. Where am I?”

          “At headquarters. You’re getting paid a fortune for this.”

          “What?”

          Sixty-three reaches into her pocket, and my senses begin tingling with anticipation—and fine, a bit of fear. She pulls out a taser and hands it to me. “You have a knife, correct?”

          “And why would I need a knife for this job?” I ask, feeling for my weapon of choice in the folds of my skirt.

          “In case they try to shoot you. Or slap you. Or do anything.” Her voice grows increasingly sinister, “And do not be afraid to slit their throats.”

          I step back, thinking, I don’t want to kill anyone, but I simply nod.

          “All you need to do, sixty-seven: there is a formal dinner at the Courtney House, 309, Dowshire Blvd. Seven thirty-tomorrow. There is a man there, a high-profile banker, Eduard Martin. You are to get to him by any means necessary and steal the important papers in his front breast pocket. At precisely 10:30, he will hand over the papers to a certain Ms. Dottinmier. And we can’t let that happen.”

          “I don’t know…”

          “She is working for a foreign agency. We are to stop…”

          I stop listening after that. I don’t believe for a second that this is some sort of legal government operative, as this is way too sketchy. I just nod and decide to do it anyway. After all, I have no idea where I am.

---

“Is this seat taken?” I ask Mr. Martin, who is sitting at the table, beside Ms. Dottinmeir.

          “Nay, Fonsi!”

          “Excuse me?”

          “He means ‘no’,” says Ms. Dottinmeir, clearly put out by his nonchalant, if not creepy response, “And you musn’t bring up Fonsi. What is your name again?”

          “Giselle Marie Sinclair.”

          “And who are you?”

          “I am an ambassador, yes.”

          “You weren’t invited to this dinner.”

          “I won’t take your food. I brought Subway.”

          Ms. Dottinmeir squints at me strangely but goes back to her lobster. I take my fork and begin eating small bites, as to not seem rude. I know that Lexi would always stuff food in her mouth like she didn’t care.

          “You’re eating Subway with a fork?”

          “Si.” I finish chewing my pickle, and hide the papers in my bag, as there is no garbage can.

          “There will be dancing.”

          “Why?”

          “Because dancing is good for the soul.” I can remember my sister going at it to Rihanna and Katy Perry and One Direction. She’s terrible at it. I get up and hear the waltz start.

          “A dance? Fonsi!” Mr. Martin is back, wine and cracker crumbs spilled all over his suit.

          “Excuse me, but who is Fonsi?”

          “Fonsi, Fonsi! My old man!”

          “Yes, I would love to dance.”

          One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. I would hate to admit it, but Mr. Martin can’t dance. He is tripping over my feet, his own, the entire floor. I took dancing lessons. I know how to dance.

          He laughs, “Have you never seen a man before?”

          “What?” I ask, “Of course I—”

          “No, Fonsi! I meant have you seen a man?”

          “Excuse me?”

          “You aren’t straight, Fonsi!”

          “Who said I wasn’t?”

          “You’re a lesbian hooker, Fonsi! I sense it!”

          “I’m bisexual. Thank you. And yes, I have been with men. And I’m not a hooker.”

          “If ya say so, Fonsi!”

          “Could you please stop saying that?”

          “What, Fonsi?”

          “Fonsi.”

          “No, Fonsi, Fonsi!”

          “Okay that’ it.” I grab my taser.

          “Are you crazy? Am I a rat?” Mr. Martin backs up, his eyes swimming with fear, tripping over his own feet as he falls backwards into a nearby table.

          In a split second I have the taser ready for the next woman, approaching rapidly now. The guests are scattering, running. Someone fires a pistol. I kick them in the face. I continue to kick and punch my way through, as I get my knife out and point it at Mr. Martin’s throat. “Give me those papers now. I know you have them.”

          “Okay, okay, you win, Fonsi!” He throws up his hands and gives me the papers. I stuff them into my briefcase and promptly make a dash for the elevator. I smooth my hair out. Nothing ever happened.

          The elevator pings as a tall man, with his hysterical wife get on board. “Auuughhhhh! Augggghhhhhhh! It’s a dog! A dog Kevin!” She is halfway climbing up the man when the elevator closes, and a strange-looking woman wearing sunglasses comes into the elevator with her chihuahua. She eyes the golden umbrella in my other hand suspiciously. “What’s with the umbrella? It isn’t raining?”

          “I glance back at her. “What’s with the sunglasses? It isn’t sunny.”

          “A disguise,” says the girl strangely, backing up. I look at her shirt, which says Hyun-a.”

          “Who is Hyun-a?” I ask, as the elevator plunges downwards, making my stomach churn. I never had much of a stomach anyway.

          “What? You don’t know who Hyuna is?”

          “Um…no? And should I?”

          “Only the best singer of ALL TIME!”

          “Better than Freddie Mercury?”       

          “Who’s Freddie Mercury?” asks the girl, turning to the insane woman, “I’m sorry, she won’t bite!”   

          The woman whimpers once more as the elevator slows to a halt. The door opens, and it takes me a minute to take in the sight. That is the craziest afro of all time. And she’s apparently the Hulk with the muscles she has. There’s another girl in a Hiddleston shirt clearly trying to be invisible, but what I’m really not prepared for is the third girl, sexy and blonde as ever. “Lexi?”