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His antennae twitching before him, discovering the lid is now gone, he moves forward—too fast. Scurrying out of the jar well before we’ve had a chance to properly blend.
I watch, horrified, as he picks up speed, veers out of my stall and into the next, just as someone walks in and takes up residence.
I slide my foot over, attempting to coax him back to my space, only to have the person beside me see my foot invading, and cry, “Excuse me, but do you mind?”
She kicks her foot against mine, using way more force than necessary, causing my boot to slam smack into the cockroach so hard I let out an audible gasp. Ignoring the tirade of hateful comments drifting from the next stall, I lift my foot carefully—terrified I’ve inadvertently crunched him, killed him, before I even had a chance to put him to work.
But cockroaches are much tougher than that. There’s a reason they’re one of the oldest surviving groups of insects on earth. Other than having rolled onto its back, it appears in good shape. So I take a deep breath, focus on its frantically writhing body, the three sets of legs spinning in circles in a fight to right itself again—all too aware that the second I merge, I’ll be joining that struggle. But also knowing there’s no way I can risk turning him right side up until I’ve had a chance to join him.
The girl in the next stall flushes and vacates, banging the door so hard, it makes the blue metal walls rumble and shake. Forcing me to bide my time while she visits the sink, the sound of the door closing behind her allowing me to focus on the cockroach, and it’s not long before I’m in.
I’m alive.
Surging with adrenaline.
A primal fight for survival firing up all of my nerve endings. All I have to do—all we have to do?
??is right ourselves again.
The longer we remain belly-up, the more this overwhelming feeling of panic kicks in. Knowing that’s only going to waste much needed energy, I drive into him harder—mixing my will to live with his primal fight to survive. Pushing his legs even faster—like a cockroach on steroids—until I manage to flip him over and land smack on the belly. The antennae twitching, scoping, until it locates the side of the jar, equates it with danger, and sprints for the opposite wall. Instinctively seeking the place where it’s darkest—and that’s when I remember that cockroaches are true creatures of the dark—they live in it, hunt in it, doing whatever it takes to shun the light and remain undetected.
Paloma knew exactly what she was doing when she chose him for me to merge into.
For something so reviled—so hated, abhorred, even feared—I’m amazed by how very powerful I feel now that I’ve joined him. I’m like a tiny, commanding tank, trekking my way across a vast expanse of gray-tiled bathroom floor that, from this perspective, seems to go on forever.
I pick my way around a crumpled paper towel that fell short of the bin and pause in the corner, body still, antennae twitching, trying to determine if I can sneak under the door or if I have to wait for someone to open it. Determining it’s too close to the ground to chance, I’m left with no choice but to wait. So I squeeze into the corner, hoping that soon, someone will push their way in, so I can seize the moment to sneak out.
The door opens, banging so hard against the wall I cram into the corner and give silent thanks for the little rubber stopper that keeps it from doing any real damage. Watching as a pair of knee-high black boots, pointy-toed red flats, and sky-high silver stilettos walk in—trying to determine just the right moment to make my move when I realize the shoes belong to Lita and the Cruel Crew. And from what I can tell, they’re discussing me.
“What’s up with that jacket she wears?” the girl with the bright pink lips says, who, according to Xotichl, is either Jacy or Crickett, though I’m not sure which is which.
“Seriously,” the other one echoes, the one with the best blond highlights of the bunch. “What’s up with all of it?” she adds, looking to Lita for approval—they both do.
I glance between the door and them—it’s closing but is still open enough to provide an easy escape. If I make a run for it right now, there’s no way they’ll notice me and I’ll be well on my way.
I’m just about to do exactly that when Lita heads for the mirror, stands right before it, and says, “I don’t know…”
The door’s closing—one second more and I’ll have to wait ’til they leave.
I start to move, start to make a run for it, my legs short, spindly, but powerful nonetheless, propelling me forward faster than I ever would’ve imagined. But just as I’ve reached it, pink lips heads for my stall—the one the real me is currently occupying—as opposed to the obviously empty one right beside it with the door hanging wide open.
I freeze. Unable to risk it. If she somehow manages to push her way in, if the lock I double-checked somehow fails, she will catch me slumped over the toilet seat—my body present, my consciousness in limbo—and I will never live it down.
I slip back to my corner, it’s the only thing I can do. Antennae twitching with frustration when she finally gives up and claims a vacant stall, just as the bathroom door closes—my perfect chance for escape now lost.
Except it’s not.
Not entirely.
Not for something as small as a cockroach.
That same paper towel I avoided before must’ve been inadvertently kicked by one of their heels, as it’s now firmly lodged between the door frame and the door. Leaving a crack just wide enough for me to slip through and get on with the job Paloma sent me to do.
I creep toward it. Keeping a close eye on Lita still standing before the mirror, cupping a hand around each breast, heaving them higher into her bra, as she smiles seductively at her own reflection, and says, “Take that, Cade Richter.”
She rubs her lips together, fluffs her hair around her shoulders, and when she twists her head from side to side so she can verify just how pretty she is, I can’t help but agree. I mean, she could certainly learn a thing or two from Jennika on the proper application of eyeliner—and the highlights could definitely be a lot better—but she’s still pretty. And no matter how awful she’s been to me, it breaks my heart that she’s so willing to waste that beauty on Cade.
I’m so engrossed in my thoughts, it takes a minute to register when she says, “Anyway … I think her boots are kind of cool.” Returning to a conversation I was sure had already ended.
