Page 91 of Sparktopia
“So that’s a no.”
She stops walking and turns to face me. “I never asked for your help.”
“No. But you need it.”
“Says who?”
“Do you know how to get to the health center? Because if so, by all means, up-city ClaraBirch”—I bow and mockingly wave a hand at her—“have a nice day.”
“It’s not funny when you actually mean it, ya know.”
I straighten up from my bow. “I’m not trying to be funny. You’re mentally ill. I hope you get the help you need.” Then I give her a little salute, turn, and start walking back the way we came.
“What if I prove it to you?”
I stop, shaking my head, telling myself to just keep walking. Because this woman, she’s a really bad idea. I can feel it. But something compels me to hear her out. So I turn back. “How?”
She thinks for a moment, having not thought this through, I guess. But then she closes the space between us and looks up at me. “I’ll go to the health center and let them check me out. Neither of us will say anything about my story. We’ll just say I had a fall in the tower, hit my head, lost consciousness, and now I have no memory. None. And let’s see what they say. Let’s see if Idohave a brain injury.”
“I think you should just tell them the truth.”
“What truth? That I think I’m in the wrong world? No. That stacks the deck in favor of your theory. My story isn’t important. If I have a brain injury, they’ll find it. And if they do, I’ll concede that you’re right and I’ll get treatment. But if there is no brain injury—no signs at all—then you will accept my story as truth.”
“Maybe you’re just a liar?”
“Do you think that’s all this is? A woman lying to you? To what end? I didn’t come looking for you, you came looking for me. What could I possibly need from you that would justify this lie?”
She’s got a point. There is no reason for her to be lying. I already came to this conclusion, I just feel like arguing with her for some reason. “Why do you care if I accept your story as truth? You’re no one to me and I’m no one to you.”
Her eyelids drop into a low and lazy position. Like these words just revealed something about me. Something she doesn’t care for. And then there is a marked shift in her attitude. A polite smile appears. A hand extends as her back straightens. “Thank you for your help, then. I can take it from here.”
It’s in this moment that I see therealup-city Clara Birch for the first time.
I don’t know who she is. Hell, maybe she doesn’t even know who she is. But she is most certainlysomeone. She’s got a certain poise to her now that wasn’t apparent before I pissed her off with a dismissal. And she’s not one of those women who will throw atantrum or start screaming obscenities—though I have no doubt she’s capable of that, given her colorful vocabulary.
She’s in possession of herself. Completely in control. And this change is some kind of ingrained training. Somethinglearned. Something cultivated. Probably over a long period of time.
I don’t shake her hand, but neither does she walk away. We just stare at each other.
There’s something going on here.
Some kind of pull between us.
I don’t understand it, but it’s definitely there.
“Admit you need my help.”
She nearly guffaws. “What?”
“Admit you need my help and if you do, I’ll agree to this little experiment. And if you aren’t injured, I’ll help you. Because that’s what you want from me. You want my help. You’re just too…” I pause, so I can choose the right word.
She squints, ready to be offended.
There are many words to describe my first impression of Clara Birch. ‘Egotistical,’ ‘conceited,’ ‘stuck up.’ But these are actually just insults that I feel compelled to hurl at her because she’s fucking with my preconceived expectations.
Better words to describe her are ‘composed’ and ‘confident.’ “You’re just too proud to ask for it.” ‘Proud’ is the right way forward because there’s nothing wrong with being self-reliant, which is the manner in which I mean it.
Clara’s expression softens, but she tilts her chin up at the same time, perfectly illustrating my description. “You’ll help me get home?”
