expression is very different from the earlier one when I was shirtless and she stared at me like I was buck-ass naked.
"When was this taken?" I hold up the picture frame in my hand. A younger version of Malerie leans on JT with her arm hooked into his, adoration on her face.
"Um … I think I was twelve. Maybe thirteen." Malerie sits in a chair. She opens a laptop and begins typing.
I pick up a second frame. There’s a boy, older than Malerie, standing inches from her. “And this one? Who is the guy?”
“A tutor.” She dismisses my question as if it’s of no importance.
“Not a boyfriend?”
"Umm. No."
She ignores me again, and I’m positive she doesn’t want to talk about this. Her head is bent and she’s typing on her laptop again.
The girl is so strange, but so am I. So, I let it go.
“So, what have you found?”
She glances up. "Listen, I've found the name of the artist in the San Francisco area. It came up in the first two search pages. He's been there for years."
"He has a shop?"
"Uh huh. His name is Theodore Hamlin."
"I guess he's not Asian."
"Why would he be? That's not posted on these links." She's frowning at me. "Are you stereotyping? Because I look Asian?"
"No," I protest. Her face is blank and I can't tell if she's making fun of me. "Are you Asian?"
She narrows her eyes. "Yes. Sort of. And, white boy, are you Caucasian?"
"Yeah. And I didn't call you a name." I eye her distrustfully. "The boxes just seem like they might be Asian."
She doesn't respond.
"Don't they?" I'm starting to sweat because I really think of all the things I could say to purposefully irritate her, the Asian remark is not one. I could say she's privileged or sheltered or condescending.
"My mother was Chinese American. I’m half," she says without looking up from the laptop.
"I only asked because I thought it might give us a clue related to the boxes."
Her head pops up. She gives me a surprised smile and I try to remember if I’ve seen her smile before. She exudes sex-and-candy promises without any effort. She has no idea of the things I’d like to do with her. I was better off before she pulled out the big guns that could make me offer to do anything.
"So what does it say about the artist?" I ask, wanting to get back on track and needing her to quit smiling.
"He's got a shop in the Mission district. I have an address." She moves from the chair and produces a pen and paper. "Here's the address. I'll pay you for all the travel, of course. You should leave immediately."
"Wait up. I said I would help you, but I'm being paid to provide security. Like a job. I can't just up and travel cross country to find this box maker."
I watch her face and she's got this odd look. She closes the laptop lid one centimeter at a time and she's breathing deeper than she was earlier.
It's the same look she gave me the first time in the restaurant and it's not the same. This time is more controlled.
"Oh. Sure. I don't need you. I can go do it myself," she says.
"Okay," I say. But it’s not okay. She is killing me with the way she looks so vulnerable. Breakable. "No. I mean, no. You can't. Someone almost killed you here last night and you can't go by yourself."
"You can't tell me what to do." She's pale and I swear she’s shaking. She clutches the laptop to her chest and bolts from the room, her feet on the stairs before her exit has even registered.
I shake my head at where I know this is leading in spite of my better judgment. So much for thinking I’m wiser.
"Wait, Malerie," I yell from the bottom of the stairs. She's not in sight and I take the steps two at a time. It's a hotel-length hallway and I'm noticing that all the doors look alike. Hers is the one at the end with an open doorway. She sits in the center of her bed still holding the laptop. Her head is down on her knees.
"Hey. Are you okay?" I sit on the bed slowly like I might detonate her with movement.
She doesn't answer.
I lean forward and put my palm on
"When was this taken?" I hold up the picture frame in my hand. A younger version of Malerie leans on JT with her arm hooked into his, adoration on her face.
"Um … I think I was twelve. Maybe thirteen." Malerie sits in a chair. She opens a laptop and begins typing.
I pick up a second frame. There’s a boy, older than Malerie, standing inches from her. “And this one? Who is the guy?”
“A tutor.” She dismisses my question as if it’s of no importance.
“Not a boyfriend?”
"Umm. No."
She ignores me again, and I’m positive she doesn’t want to talk about this. Her head is bent and she’s typing on her laptop again.
The girl is so strange, but so am I. So, I let it go.
“So, what have you found?”
She glances up. "Listen, I've found the name of the artist in the San Francisco area. It came up in the first two search pages. He's been there for years."
"He has a shop?"
"Uh huh. His name is Theodore Hamlin."
"I guess he's not Asian."
"Why would he be? That's not posted on these links." She's frowning at me. "Are you stereotyping? Because I look Asian?"
"No," I protest. Her face is blank and I can't tell if she's making fun of me. "Are you Asian?"
She narrows her eyes. "Yes. Sort of. And, white boy, are you Caucasian?"
"Yeah. And I didn't call you a name." I eye her distrustfully. "The boxes just seem like they might be Asian."
She doesn't respond.
"Don't they?" I'm starting to sweat because I really think of all the things I could say to purposefully irritate her, the Asian remark is not one. I could say she's privileged or sheltered or condescending.
"My mother was Chinese American. I’m half," she says without looking up from the laptop.
"I only asked because I thought it might give us a clue related to the boxes."
Her head pops up. She gives me a surprised smile and I try to remember if I’ve seen her smile before. She exudes sex-and-candy promises without any effort. She has no idea of the things I’d like to do with her. I was better off before she pulled out the big guns that could make me offer to do anything.
"So what does it say about the artist?" I ask, wanting to get back on track and needing her to quit smiling.
"He's got a shop in the Mission district. I have an address." She moves from the chair and produces a pen and paper. "Here's the address. I'll pay you for all the travel, of course. You should leave immediately."
"Wait up. I said I would help you, but I'm being paid to provide security. Like a job. I can't just up and travel cross country to find this box maker."
I watch her face and she's got this odd look. She closes the laptop lid one centimeter at a time and she's breathing deeper than she was earlier.
It's the same look she gave me the first time in the restaurant and it's not the same. This time is more controlled.
"Oh. Sure. I don't need you. I can go do it myself," she says.
"Okay," I say. But it’s not okay. She is killing me with the way she looks so vulnerable. Breakable. "No. I mean, no. You can't. Someone almost killed you here last night and you can't go by yourself."
"You can't tell me what to do." She's pale and I swear she’s shaking. She clutches the laptop to her chest and bolts from the room, her feet on the stairs before her exit has even registered.
I shake my head at where I know this is leading in spite of my better judgment. So much for thinking I’m wiser.
"Wait, Malerie," I yell from the bottom of the stairs. She's not in sight and I take the steps two at a time. It's a hotel-length hallway and I'm noticing that all the doors look alike. Hers is the one at the end with an open doorway. She sits in the center of her bed still holding the laptop. Her head is down on her knees.
"Hey. Are you okay?" I sit on the bed slowly like I might detonate her with movement.
She doesn't answer.
I lean forward and put my palm on
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