think you’re someone.”
“But I’m not someone.”
“It doesn’t matter! Look, Aiden, everyone in San Francisco is someone they’re really not. Even those who actually are someone weren’t always someone and know they could be no one again like that!” He snapped his fingers. “No one is no one here, and everyone can be anyone! Come on, what’s the worst that can happen?” Fish went on. “You have a fancy night, then go back to ditch work. Or you have no fancy night and go back to ditch work.” Fish grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the door. “Either way, you can always sell the suit!”
iden stared at himself in the mirror as the tailor whipped a measuring tape around his body and shouted out numbers to an assistant. The tailor seemed displeased, as if there weren’t quite enough inches somehow, or they were all in the wrong places. Though he kept his drawers on, Aiden still felt naked. He had never seen all of himself at once in a mirror. He didn’t know a mirror could even be this big. It was an acre of polished glass, big as a front door. The body he saw there was familiar, but utterly foreign all the same. He recognized the roughened hands and muscled arms, but not the sharp ridge of collarbone, or the complicated ropes that made his neck. He had never seen his own bare chest before and thought at first he was looking at one of his older brothers. He was taller than he remembered either of them being, but he had been only fourteen when they died. He had seen his face, of course, but only in small pieces of a hand mirror or as a blurred reflection in a pond or shopwindow.
The tailor poked a finger in his ribs to make him turn.
“Arms up!” he snapped. Aiden lifted his arm up.
“No—out! Like this!” The tailor slapped his elbow to straighten it. Aiden hadn’t expected haberdashery to be quite so rough. But he endured the prodding, and three days later he left the shop looking every bit the gentleman.
Aiden tried to act calm as he walked into the Worthingtons’ home, but it was like walking into Aladdin’s cave. It seemed like every surface was painted with gold, every object dipped in gold, then all of it painted with even more gold, as if decorated by mad elves and dragonflies. The floor was a kaleidoscopic swirl of green and pink marble that reflected the starlight flickers from the crystal chandelier hanging above. Against one wall was a massive mahogany table with legs carved to look like a lion’s paws and a polished slab of marble for the top. Upon the table were two silver vases stuffed with bouquets of flowers as tall as children. Beside the vases were china saucers full of glistening candies, and huge silver bowls overflowing with sugared grapes. Aiden was dizzy from looking at it all, and this was just the foyer. It was nearly as big as his entire sod house in Kansas, where his whole family, as many as eight, had lived. Four gold cherubs flanked the arches that led to the even more opulent rooms beyond.
“May I take your hat, sir?” A tall man in an elegant black suit and blindingly white shirt gave a slight bow and held out a hand.
“Mr. Worthington?” Aiden said, quickly extending his own hand.
“No, sir.” The man waited quietly. Only then did Aiden notice there were actually three more of him. Servants.
“Oh—yes.” Aiden snatched off his stiff, heavy hat and handed it to the man. “Thank you.” He had a moment of panic, for how was he supposed to get it back again? It wasn’t even his, but borrowed from an undertaker cousin of a friend of Fish’s. Aiden had no idea what a hat cost to replace, but it probably wasn’t cheap. He quickly glanced around and saw another man casually reach into his pocket and take out a card, which he slipped into his hat before surrendering it. But Aiden had no card.
Then the old butler smoothly dipped his thin hand into his pocket and drew out a slip of paper. He tore it in half and dropped one half into Aiden’s hat and
“But I’m not someone.”
“It doesn’t matter! Look, Aiden, everyone in San Francisco is someone they’re really not. Even those who actually are someone weren’t always someone and know they could be no one again like that!” He snapped his fingers. “No one is no one here, and everyone can be anyone! Come on, what’s the worst that can happen?” Fish went on. “You have a fancy night, then go back to ditch work. Or you have no fancy night and go back to ditch work.” Fish grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the door. “Either way, you can always sell the suit!”
iden stared at himself in the mirror as the tailor whipped a measuring tape around his body and shouted out numbers to an assistant. The tailor seemed displeased, as if there weren’t quite enough inches somehow, or they were all in the wrong places. Though he kept his drawers on, Aiden still felt naked. He had never seen all of himself at once in a mirror. He didn’t know a mirror could even be this big. It was an acre of polished glass, big as a front door. The body he saw there was familiar, but utterly foreign all the same. He recognized the roughened hands and muscled arms, but not the sharp ridge of collarbone, or the complicated ropes that made his neck. He had never seen his own bare chest before and thought at first he was looking at one of his older brothers. He was taller than he remembered either of them being, but he had been only fourteen when they died. He had seen his face, of course, but only in small pieces of a hand mirror or as a blurred reflection in a pond or shopwindow.
The tailor poked a finger in his ribs to make him turn.
“Arms up!” he snapped. Aiden lifted his arm up.
“No—out! Like this!” The tailor slapped his elbow to straighten it. Aiden hadn’t expected haberdashery to be quite so rough. But he endured the prodding, and three days later he left the shop looking every bit the gentleman.
Aiden tried to act calm as he walked into the Worthingtons’ home, but it was like walking into Aladdin’s cave. It seemed like every surface was painted with gold, every object dipped in gold, then all of it painted with even more gold, as if decorated by mad elves and dragonflies. The floor was a kaleidoscopic swirl of green and pink marble that reflected the starlight flickers from the crystal chandelier hanging above. Against one wall was a massive mahogany table with legs carved to look like a lion’s paws and a polished slab of marble for the top. Upon the table were two silver vases stuffed with bouquets of flowers as tall as children. Beside the vases were china saucers full of glistening candies, and huge silver bowls overflowing with sugared grapes. Aiden was dizzy from looking at it all, and this was just the foyer. It was nearly as big as his entire sod house in Kansas, where his whole family, as many as eight, had lived. Four gold cherubs flanked the arches that led to the even more opulent rooms beyond.
“May I take your hat, sir?” A tall man in an elegant black suit and blindingly white shirt gave a slight bow and held out a hand.
“Mr. Worthington?” Aiden said, quickly extending his own hand.
“No, sir.” The man waited quietly. Only then did Aiden notice there were actually three more of him. Servants.
“Oh—yes.” Aiden snatched off his stiff, heavy hat and handed it to the man. “Thank you.” He had a moment of panic, for how was he supposed to get it back again? It wasn’t even his, but borrowed from an undertaker cousin of a friend of Fish’s. Aiden had no idea what a hat cost to replace, but it probably wasn’t cheap. He quickly glanced around and saw another man casually reach into his pocket and take out a card, which he slipped into his hat before surrendering it. But Aiden had no card.
Then the old butler smoothly dipped his thin hand into his pocket and drew out a slip of paper. He tore it in half and dropped one half into Aiden’s hat and
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