In the Image of Grace by Charlotte Ann Schlobohm

all ages
thing. Maybe it’ll help get your mind off stuff for a while.”
    “Sure, what time?”
    “Eight, just tell whoever’s at the door that I gave
you the okay.”
    “Okay,” I said with a kiss goodbye. I walked down the
steps and gave a wave.
    Clarissa and Isabelle were outside waiting on the
sidewalk. Clarissa gave me a big grin. “You two are so cute,” she
squealed
    “Do you think I could go out tonight?”
    “Yah, who’s gonna notice. You have the key. I’ll make
sure the alarm is not set,” Clarissa reassured me.
    “Do you to want to come?”
    “I’m sure the invitation is just for you,” Isabelle
affirmed.
    The three of us walked down the sidewalk to the bus
stop.
    “So, we’re going tomorrow?” I asked still unsure.
    “Yeah,” Clarissa said like it was the obvious
answer.
    “What if he’s just some weirdo?”
    “What are the chances of him being some weirdo and
also knowing that she’s missing,” Isabelle said adjusting her
backpack.
    “I guess,” I sighed looking at all the brick
apartment buildings as we walked and at all the tall full grown
trees that lined the sidewalk. The trees blocked any chance of sun
peeping through between them and the apartment buildings. We got to
the end of the block, crossed the street at the light, and waited
for the bus.

Chapter Ten
    I got off the EL and walked down the wooden stairs
and through the turnstile out onto the sidewalk. I looked in both
directions and went left because to the right it looked more
residential. To my left I saw a busy intersection with cars and
people going through it. There were little shops lining the street,
with a place called Crash Taco and a coffee shop where inside it
looked like they were having an author’s reading. A woman with
frizzy hair sat on a stool with what looked like could have been a
manuscript in her hand and everybody was sitting around intently
looking at her. Across the intersection there was a building with
large paintings of what looked like feet in the windows. I walked
down to the main intersection and looked up at the little green
street signs. I found the street I needed and turned left again. I
didn’t have to walk far to see where I had to go. Attached to a
white building was a long, length wise sign that read Subsurface.
There was also a line of people along the buildings in front of it.
I assumed it was the line I needed to be in, so I went and stood in
back of the last person.
    The line was teenagers and people in their twenties.
There was quiet a collection of people. There was shaggy hair,
spiky hair, green hair, black hair with bleached streaks, there was
various piercings and tattoos on some, there were corduroys and
jeans and workpants and skirts over pants. There were tall guys and
skinny girls and girls that could easily beat you up and guys the
girls could have easily beat up. They were wearing Buck Baylors and
combat boots and tall boots and Docs and Mary Janes. They were
covered in small black jackets, jackets with super fuzzy hoods,
work jackets and no jackets and just sweaters. There was people
with beards and bad skin and some with super skin, some with too
much makeup, others none. I found the variety of people
fascinating. I had the slightest idea if I fit in. I wore my Buck
Baylor’s with jeans and a gray tee-shirt all under my brown jacket.
I might have looked too clean. My shoes weren’t even dirty.
    On the sidewalk passer-bys stared at everybody in
line; couples out for a stroll, others on their way to the noodle
shop, yuppies in khakis. The air was crisp and the sky was clear. I
blew out my breath and saw it hang in the air. The line quickly
moved forward. I got to the front and there was a bald guy with
large black glasses at the door.
    “I was told to tell you that I have the okay.”
    The guy just kind of looked at me.
    “To get in,” I said. I wasn’t sure if he knew what I
was talking about.
    “I know,” he said. “Give me your hand.”
    I gave it, my hand