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I refuse to be a hollowed-out shell.
I refuse to cower in shame.
She can’t hurt me. She can’t hurt me. She can’t hurt me.
So I do the only thing I can think—I make a triangle with my hands and push it out towards her, wiggle my fingers, and then hiss.
12
PAUL DONNELLY
The café goes dead quiet.
Luna gesticulates her hands theatrically and inhales and exhales so deeply it sounds like hissing. Snickering and what the fucks start popping up like moles that I’d like to whack down. My pulse beats faster as the stares morph from confused to mocking.
Fuck what they think. I just don’t want them to get to her. Red splotches begin to surface on her face and neck, but she keeps going.
Her fingers are in the shape of a diamond, pressed to her pelvis. She bends at the hips and stares at her belly, then shoots upright, fingertips to her mouth before tossing that hand down to her left side, and with the soft flutter of her arm, Luna reaches upwards to the sky.
Her movements are quick, frenzied, and suddenly recognizable.
To me at least.
I’ve seen this dance before. It’s from a sci-fi show. The OA. With so much ridicule forming from these college fucks—their lips parted in silent, shocked snickers—I’m guessing no one else has watched the show. The movements are on the stranger side if you’ve never seen them. Though, five people do the movements together. No one in the show is left out to dry in the middle of the room like Luna.
“Freak,” some jackass calls out in the quiet café.
I’m about to shout back, so what if I am? and come forward, but before I can do anything, Eliot races to Luna’s side, stuffing his phone in his slacks. He’s out front and center beside his cousin.
She sees him but doesn’t slow.
Eliot tries his best to mimic her moves. He’s not familiar with The OA, it seems like. Her hands are in prayer position, tucked beneath her cheek as though to sleep, but so quickly, she unfolds her palms under her chin and wiggles her fingers.
Eliot is a step behind the finger sparkles while Luna never misses a beat. A+ for dramatic effort from my Cobalt brethren. Uncertain side-eyes are exchanged between students. He’s taking some heat off her, and I’m gonna cool this sucker down even more.
Already straightened off the column I’d been leaning on, I jump into the movements and flutter my fingers. Students suddenly jolt away from me like I’m radioactive. I’m across the café from Luna and Eliot but I’m completely visible to most everyone now.
I’m not stopping. With memory from when I replayed the dance sequence—because I thought it was dope—I’m better at staying in sync with Luna.
I’m right there with her.
I shoot my arm left, then right. “Ah, ahh,” I make the aggressive breath sounds with no care at who laughs, at who watches, at who jeers. They’re the ones ensnared beneath their own judgment.
I’m the one who’s free to be all that I want to be. All that I know I am.
And then her amber eyes touch mine while we exhale, inhale, shoot our arms out forward. Twinkle our fingers at one another.
We beat our chest, then extend our arms more slowly, and even though we’re several feet away, something unseen tethers her to me. Our hands fly to our face, palms open on either side like we’re frilled lizards.
We hiss.
Then inhale, exhale, we’ve left everyone behind, emotion pooling through each fast, slowed action mirrored between us.
On the last move, I shut my eyes, drawing my fingers down my eyelids. And then slowly, breath heavy, I open them.
Her eyes are opening on mine.
Luna breathes just as deeply, as though we flew around the world together and landed back here in time. I barely register the college students around us.
Not until I remember Xander. I’m supposed to be on-duty. He’s slumped forward in his chair, eyes shadowed with his hood but widened in worry.
I sweep the café.
It’s silent. No one stirs. Maybe they’re waiting for a cameraman to jump out and announce this is all a YouTube prank.
And then she speaks.
My worst nightmare because I know she’s Luna’s.
“Oh. My. God,” Jeffra says loudly. “Luna Hale. Did you just have an orgasm in front of everyone? Is that what you look like when you’re turned on? So gross.” She cackles while giving Luna a snide once-over.
I’m fuming, blood set to a bad boil.
Oooohs and laughter amplify like a slow agonizing crescendo to the worst song I’ve ever heard. The part that hurts: Luna is bright red, staring at her feet.
Look at me, Sad Alien.
“Luna,” I call out, ignoring Vance Wreath on comms. He’s asking me what the hell I just did with my hands.
Eliot touches her arm, but she pulls away, picks up her backpack, and shuffles quickly towards the emergency exit. All while her eyes scrape the ground. Eliot tries to go after her, but I already started moving when she bent for the backpack.
