Page 41 of Again with Feeling

All of it registered at a distance, though. All I could focus on was that crushing sensation in my chest, and the sobs tearing through me, and the press of bodies, the hub of voices, the pounding beat of music—all that noise and heat and proximity, sharpening the edge of my anxiety until it was close to full-blown panic, and all I could do was run.

It turned out that, even on autopilot, my body knew what to do; somehow, I ended up sitting on a parking stop behind the food trucks. It wasn’t exactly quiet, or even pleasant—the trucks’ generators were loud, and the air was thick with exhaust—but it was blessedly free of people. The curb was pleasantly warm under me, and the sun was at my back. I put my head between my knees and cried.

More than anything, it was the surprise of it—that feeling of being caught off guard—that was the most terrifying. Until now, I’d been angry at Bobby. I’d been frustrated. Yes, I’d been hurt. But all those feelings had been, in their own way, buffers—safety mechanisms to cushion me from this. Andthis, now that it washere, was so huge and so awful and so painful, that for a few moments, I thought I was having a panic attack of my own: the tightness in my chest, the thickness of my throat, the animal part of my body screaming at me that I was dying.

But it passed. It always does. And then I just cried out of hurt and disappointment and loss.

I was still crying when the hinges squeaked. There was a step. Then a pause. And then a familiar voice said, “Who do this?”

Wiping my face, I shook my head, but I couldn’t quite summon up words.

A moment later, Sergey crouched in front of me. The short-order cook for Let’s Taco Bout Tacos had thinning blond hair cropped close to the scalp, pink cheeks, and the face shape (and muscles, and hairy forearms, etc.) of a villain out ofDie Hard. He was also a very big Dashiell Dawson Dane fan, for reasons I didn’t understand, although I suspected it had something to do with the fact that I single-handedly bought enough tacos to keep them in business.

Sergey stared at me for a moment. Then he patted me on the head. Not once, mind you—he just kept patting. And in a quietly terrifying voice, he asked again, “Who do this?”

“Nobody,” I said—or tried to. There was a lot of sniffling. My eyes stung, and I was snotty from all the crying. “Nobody. Nothing happened.” And it’s probably hard to believe, but there was something weirdly comforting about having him pat my head, and I found myself struggling with tears again. “I’m so stupid. I’m such an idiot, and I ruined everything.”

Pat. Pat. Pat.

Gently, Sergey said, “You no idiot. You number one boy.”

“No. I’mnotnumber one boy. I’m number one dummy.”

“No,” Sergey corrected—a little forcefully. So forcefully, in fact, that if there had been less head patting, I might havethought we were getting into an argument. “You no dummy. You bear.”

I wiped my eyes and tried to get a fix on him. “Uh, not really. I mean, I’m not very hairy. Or big. Or snuggly. I’m not really into the whole tribe thing, but I guess if I had to pick, I’d be more of a—”

“No,” Sergey said. “Some men like cock.”

Ladies and gentlemen, you could have heard a pin drop. (Okay, not really, on account of the trucks and generators and seagulls.)

“What is happening with everyone’s language?” I asked. “First Fox, now you. And yes, I mean, some men prefer, um, dudes, and other men prefer, uh, dudettes.” Great. Now I was living inside a movie from the 1990s. (Why couldn’t I think of one movie from the ’90s off the top of my head?Point Break!But I wasn’t sure they saiddudettesinPoint Break—)

I couldn’t finish that line of thought because LaLeesha stepped out of the truck at that moment. LaLeesha is about half a foot taller than me, has the best skin I’ve ever seen, and spends a lot of time and money on her braids. She’s a certified taco genius, and at that moment, she looked like a goddess descending to earth with a compostable takeout container in her hands. Inside the takeout container were three tacos. I swear I heard angels singing hallelujah.

“He means a rooster,” explained LaLeesha. As she handed me the tacos, she continued, “And he’s talking about traits. Some people are like roosters.”

Sergey nodded as though this had all been rather obvious. “Some men like cock.”

I still feel like I wasn’t crazy for jumping to conclusions.

“You no like cock,” Sergey told me.

LaLeesha’s mouth twitched, and I sent her a dark look—which was, admittedly difficult when I was sinking my teeth into—

“Oh my God,” I moaned around the taco. “Is that pineapple-mangoal pastor?”

“You bear,” Sergey told me. And he put his hand over my heart. (Which did kind of get in the way of my taco-eating.) “You heart of bear.”

I paused mid-taco—mostly for air, but also to politely say, “Thank you, but I don’t feel like I—”

“And you brain of mouse.”

“Uh, because mice are resilient, I hope—”

LaLeesha didn’t even try not to laugh.

Sergey was nodding, but it didn’t seem to be about my rather optimistic interpretation. It seemed, instead, to be about something that had occurred to him. He was sitting back on his heels, considering me with a new look in his eyes. “And you body of hedgehog.”

---