I go to a little café down the street where I’ve eaten a couple times before, and take my food and coffee to a table by the window. I’ve taken only a bite of my croissant when the door opens and the girl from the library walks in.
“You’re not using both these chairs, are you?” she asks, approaching my table.
I want to say yes but am unsure of the proper etiquette, so I remove my satchel from the second chair and put it on the floor next to me. “You may have it.”
I hope she’ll take it somewhere else, but she removes the bag she’s carrying from her back and sits down.
I busy myself with my meal, hoping she gets the hint I want to be alone.
She doesn’t. “That looks good.”
“It is,” I tell her between bites.
“Kind of makes me wish I haven’t already eaten.”
I respond with a noncommittal grunt.
For a few moments, she says nothing, and I’m thinking maybe I can finish and get out of here before she opens her mouth again.
“You are a student, right?” she asks. “I mean, why would you be spending all day every day for a week in the library?”
I put another piece of croissant in my mouth, wondering how the hell she knows this.
“I’m guessing since you spent most of your time in the basement, you’re a history major. Me, I’m pre-med…well, I will be when I get into a university. I’m going to LACC right now.”
I don’t know what that is, nor do I care.
“Actually, I’m not in school this semester,” she says. “I’m taking it off. A little break…okay, a forced break. One of my teachers and I didn’t agree on the grade I got last semester, and he apparently was unable to appreciate the way I expressed my dissatisfaction. They call it a semester suspension. I call it a miscarriage of justice.”
The half cup of coffee I have left I’m happy to leave behind, but I need the nutrition the croissant provides. Two more bites and I’ll be done.
She holds out her hand. “My name’s Iffy.”
As much as I want to ignore her, I can’t. I give her hand a quick shake and say, “Hi.”
“Is that your name?”
I frown. “It’s Denny.”
As I glance at her, I’m struck again by the feeling of familiarity. I know I’ve never met her before but there is something about her. Something more than maybe having glimpsed her across the lobby of the library.
“Uh, hello? You okay there, Denny?”
I blink and realize I’ve been staring at her. “Sorry. I’m, um…it’s just…” I push my chair back and stand up. “Nice meeting you.”
“You’re going already?” she asks as I start to walk away. “You haven’t finished your coffee.”
“It’s yours if you want it,” I tell her, and then leave the shop.
I am back at the library at one p.m. sharp, and am deep in a book about the “rise of social media” on the “Internet,” when someone sits down on the other side of the table. Enthralled as I am by a computer network that connects people from around the world, I register the person’s presence only on a subconscious level.
In my timeline, we have our version of computers, but the network through which data can be obtained is tightly controlled, and as far as I know does not extend beyond the borders of the empire. Here, you can witness live events happening half a world away, read “posts” by anyone affected by revolt and protest, or by people just discussing their lives.
It’s hard to explain how this makes me feel. I know from my research that the people of this reality are not free to do whatever they want. Some are close to achieving that, while many others are restricted by heavy-handed political rule or sheer poverty. Or both. But in my world, almost everyone lives under heavy-handed rules, and there are at least as many poor as there are here.
“If you’re writing a research paper, why aren’t you taking any notes?”
I glance up and am surprised to find Iffy sitting across from me.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m busy,” I tell her.
“I can see you’re busy. I’ve seen you be busy for several days now.”
So, I was being watched.
“That probably sounded a little creepy, didn’t it?” she says, then pushes her chair away from the table. “Sorry I bothered you.”
With that, she’s gone.
I know I should be troubled by the fact she’s been watching me, but the sense that I somehow know her stays with me and makes me almost wish she didn’t leave. It takes several minutes, but I’m finally able to get back to work.
Unfortunately, not only does the library open late on Sundays, but it also closes early, so at five p.m. I’m forced to leave with the rest of the afternoon crowd. When I walk outside, Iffy is standing there.
“That croissant was a long time ago,” she says as she falls in step beside me. “I bet you’re hungry.”
Though a part of me is secretly glad to see her, I need to keep to myself. “I don’t know what you want, but you’ve got the wrong person.”
“Guy,” she says.
“What?”
“Wrong guy. That sounds more natural.”
Frowning, I say, “Whichever way, the statement still applies.”
“You have an interesting way of speaking. Where are you from?”
“Please, leave me alone.”
I pick up my pace but she matches me stride for stride.
“Okay, maybe that was prying too much,” she says. “But you’ve got to eat. Do you like Peruvian?”
“I’m not hungry, thank you.”
“Aw, come on. Now you’re straight out lying. That’s not nice.”
I make the mistake of glancing at her, and for half a second lose myself in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say as I pull my gaze away.
“Then make it up to me by buying me dinner. It’s not expensive, trust me.”
I stop and turn to her. “Why are you doing this?”
“We both need to eat, don’t we?”
“No, I mean, why are you talking to me?”
She hesitates and then looks at the ground as she says, “You seem interesting.”
“Now you’re the one who’s lying.”
“I’m not. You do seem interesting. And we do both need to eat.”
She tents her eyebrows and smiles in a way that pushes her left cheek up. I stare at her, telling myself I need to walk away, but I don’t. “Okay. I’ll buy you dinner.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When she leads me into the metro station, I almost back out.
“You wanted Peruvian, right?” she says. Before I can point out that was her choice, not mine, she continues, “The best place I know is in Hollywood.”
“Hollywood?” This is a name I’ve read quite a bit since I shifted into researching popular culture. Despite my reservations, I’m intrigued. “How far?”
“Just a few stops.”
I relent, and we board the next westbound train.
“You have been to Hollywood before, haven’t you?” she asks after we take seats next to the door in the nearly empty car.
“No.” There’s no Hollywood in New Cardiff.
“So I’m right. You’re not from here. Where, then?”
“Far from here.”
She smirks. “Never heard of that place.”
I shrug, but don’t give her any more.
Neither of us says anything until after the train makes its first stop. When the doors close again, Iffy says, “Okay, so Hollywood’s probably not what you think it is. The one you see on TV or read about is more up here.” She taps her head. “The physical Hollywood is a little rougher around the edges than you tourist types are expecting.”
“I’m not a tourist.”
“You know what I mean. The city’s trying to make it more like what people are hoping to see and they’re getting there, but there’s still a lot of real Hollywood around.” The way she says this makes me think she prefers this real Hollywood. “You’ll see what I mean.”