Clown Girl - Monica Drake [55]
The shopping. Stealing, more like it. Stealing and tapping into a collective coulrophobia, using the worst of the clown for personal gain. I threw a box of Mediterranean Bath Salts in the basket, to look like I was shopping. Mineralized Tension Relief Mined from the Gaza Strip. If I left with Jerrod, would he arrest me outside?
“You don’t live far from here. I could give you a ride home.”
That cop car again. No way could I pull up in a cop car. The vial in my sleeve was cool against my skin where it leaned against my pulse point and spoke to the beat of my heart. My heartbeat whispered, Stolen lawn mower, stolen tinctures…save yourself.
I had to keep the upper hand.
“Nice package.” I pointed. He looked down at his yellow banana in the plastic bag. The two soft, hairy kiwis rolled to either side like wrinkled testicles.
“What?” he said. “It’s a snack.” But he blushed, a quick red flush along his jawline. A shy cop.
I had him off guard and kept my advantage. I said, “I’ve seen bigger bananas.”
He said, “Listen, Sniffles, enough. You’re lucky I heard the call. Somebody else might not be so nice about the whole setup. Now let’s go. I’m doing this as a favor, and I’ve had a long day.”
Another favor. His second favor for me.
“And because you’ve got a good heart,” he said. He smiled then, and pointed to his own cheek.
I mirrored his move, touched my face. My fingers came away tinted with red and white paint. It was the heart drawn in makeup, from the photo shoot. I said, “Thanks. I forgot about that.”
“It’s very becoming. But it’s not OK to wear the face paint in a place like this. It’s like wearing a mask in a bank, makes people worry.”
I followed him to the front of the store. At the checkout line, he threw his fruit on the scale. My chest was tight, my throat a knot. The cashier rang Jerrod’s fruit up. Jerrod peeled dollars from a wallet. I pushed my cart into an aisle.
“You buying that stuff?” he asked.
“Gaza Strip Bubble Bath?” I shook my head. “I’m not that kind of girl—not a Gaza Stripper,” I said. The valerian rattled in my sleeve.
On our way out, we passed Tim, the clerk. Tim stacked boxes of organic pesto-laced mac’n’ cheese. Two boxes for ten bucks. Talk about robbery! He said a fast, “Thanks, officer.”
Jerrod tipped his head back, a quick nod. The electric doors slid open.
Outside I said, “I’ll take it from here.” I couldn’t get in his car again.
On the outer wall of Luxury FoodSmart they had a public billboard. Wellness and Community Building, it said across the top. I pulled a Missing Chance flyer from my pink bag, then pulled out the heavy weight of the staple gun. Jerrod waited, watched. I hung the flyer.
“This isn’t illegal, is it?” I said. “I’m sure you’ve got bigger prison fish to fry.”
He said, “You lost your dog? Shoot, Sniff. When did that happen?”
“Well, actually, it was when you sentenced me to an afternoon in the Ruins. While I was busy pretending to be booked at the station, after you arrested me.” I said, “My roommates let her out.”
“Jeez, sorry to hear it.” He sounded sincere. He leaned in over my shoulder, and his cinnamon scent wrapped around me. He studied the drawing. “You know, I think I saw her. Right around here…I saw a little black dog, earlier today, that made me think of you.”
“You saw her?” I turned, fast. My cane spun out and knocked into his shin. My big clown sneakers kissed the toes of his shoes, our feet tangled. “Where? When? You sure?”
“Just a couple blocks down,” he said. “I’m not sure it was her, but maybe.”
It was a possible sign anyway that she was alive. My dog, my little clown pup in training! I followed Jerrod’s lead, though stayed a few steps behind, and as we walked I let the valerian slide down my sleeve into my palm. I shook the gotu kola down the other side and dropped it into my deep pants pocket.
Clink. The gotu kola hit another vial, already in my pocket, and the clink was to me the sound of a tiny jail cell door falling closed. Clink! You’re a thief! We passed