The Liminal People by Ayize Jama-everett Page A

doesn’t disgust her. She’s terrified of me right now. “It would have to be now, here. But if that’s what it takes—”
    â€œTo find Tamara.” I turn on her, getting those dangerous feelings of comfort off of me. “It would be a labor, a kindness to an old friend doing you a favor.” We both know that’s all she’s offering.
    â€œI’m married,” she musters. “But if it will keep you to the task, I don’t care. I promise I’ll be good. I won’t—”
    â€œStop it.” I storm back into the huge room, heading for the music. It’s all too confusing. I miss my rooftop.
    â€œYou promised you’d find her,” Yasmine screams and then is surprised that she did. I turn the music off. “I didn’t mean to make you angry. I’m sorry. I swear, Taggert, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
    She’s shaking in nervous panic. She’s got no reserves left. This is the cost of my rage. She’s seen it before in my eyes. She knows what my vengeance looks like and wants no part of it. This isn’t ire, it’s panic. Her breasts are heaving and falling quicker than California tectonic plates. She lets out that squeal that only dogs can hear. It’s the one sound she hates making. Right before she falls on her knees I’m there. I catch her before those perfect knees hit this hardwood floor. I catch her before she falls. I always will. I pull her close to my chest.
    It’s George Washington University again. We’re in college, and she’s telling me about the first time she set a fire with her mind and how scary it is, and even though I can’t relate because I love using my power I pull her close to me, up under my skin, so she can be as close to my heart as nature and physics will allow. She’s that close.
    â€œFind my baby,” I think she sobs in my ear.
    â€œI swear I will.” And that’s when Fish’n’Chips walks in.
    The ridiculous look on his face, the doofy smile, the suit almost too small for his overextended arms, and his odd long head make him too cartoonish to take seriously. Until the bastard walks directly up to me and swings at my jaw. What’s more, he connects.
    â€œSon of a bitch,” I sputter. Shock, more than anything, makes me let go of Yasmine before I hit the floor. The pasty-faced white boy works out. Cartilage under his knuckles shows he’s been in a fight or two before. Not like the one he’s about to be in.
    â€œDarren!” Yasmine shouts at her man before looking down and seeing her breasts flowing free in the wind. Her embarrassment is evident, but I don’t care.
    I stand and outstretch my hand. He’s saying something while looking at Yasmine. His face is already apologetic. Can’t hear. Rage has clouded my ears. Now he’s allergic to his own body. His throat is closing up. His usually pasty skin is going beet red. Hit me? Faggot-ass nonpowered bitch of a politician. I can heal gods! What the fuck can you do? I cloud his eyes with hay-fever tears and start the muscle spasms brought on by excessive coughing in under thirty seconds. I’m about to infect his heart with some stray bacteria from his intestines when my coat catches on fire.
    Yasmine stands in front of me angry and pleading. She’s a walking contradiction. I still can’t hear. A fucking norm thought he could get away with touching me. I’m seeing her begging. She thinks the burning jacket will stop me. I can heal from burning. The insult from Fish’n’Chips will take a little bit. Still, the smell of burning flesh, the instinctual closing off of nerves so I won’t feel my skin merging with the cotton and nylon in my new suit shirt and jacket, shock me back into reality. I let her man go and give Yasmine the eye.
    â€œNothing ever could hurt me. Except you.” I walk outside the room, jacket smoking, to face government boys