SIXTY-TWO
I ENTER THE supermarket. It is nine PM. I have two hours until the curfew, and we’re ten minutes from my home. I have plenty of time. I can do this. I think of Granddad’s gash and I quicken my pace. My heart is pounding as I walk through the store by myself, with all eyes on me. Women pull their children out of my way when I’m near; teenagers stare, call out insulting things to me. Those who recognize me take photographs. One man even follows me for way too long holding his phone up in the air and recording me. Another makes kissing noises near my ear. I keep my head down, I watch the floor, and I stay close to the shelves. So much for going in and out unnoticed. I want to be invisible, but the bright red patch on my arm marks me, as does the scar on my temple. I see another Flawed woman making her way along the supermarket. She is holding hands with a little girl. Somebody kicks the bag from her hand, and the group starts laughing. The woman stops, keeping her child close to her as she bends to put everything back in her bag. The group taunts her. The child stares at them with big sad eyes, while her mother is on her hands and knees picking up rolling fruit.
I hug the walls, keep my chin down. I need to get out of here drama-free. I can’t afford the extra attention. I feel like a rat scuttling along the gutter, getting under everybody’s feet, in everybody’s way. My eyes fill, and I let my tears fall, but nobody asks me if I’m okay, because nobody cares, which hurts even more.
I make my way to the cash register. I keep my eyes down. I hear my name on some passerby’s lips. I don’t look up. I don’t want any trouble.
“Hey!” I hear a man call angrily. I keep my head down. It can’t be directed at me; I have done nothing wrong.
I study the cotton pads, antiseptic, and bandages and focus on the branding: the swirl of the writing; the happy little cotton ball characters on the packet, with arms and legs and smiling faces. Everything has been given a soul in advertising. Yet the soul is being taken from people. Humanizing objects, dehumanizing people.
“I said, hey!” he yells again.
My heartbeat speeds up. This does not sound good. Slowly, I look up. He’s staring at me. As are others. I wonder why the woman at the cash register has slowed down. Why can’t she just hurry up so I can get out of here? But I look to her seat and realize she’s gone. She is standing away from us. Just as everybody else is doing. Everyone is moving away. A man on my left remains, and so does a man on my right. They are taller than me—I barely reach up to their shoulders—but as I look at them, I understand immediately what the problem is. The flash of red on their armbands is like a warning light right in my face. They are Flawed. Both of them. As am I. Three of us stand together. This is not allowed.
My first reaction is to step away. I have recognized the problem, and now I know the solution. If I step away, then there will be only two. But that is a bad move.
“Stop! Stay right where you are!” The man shouting at me is a policeman.
I step back into line.
“Don’t move, Celestine,” the man on my right says gently. “It will be okay.”
“You know me?”
“We all know you.” He smiles.
“Don’t talk!” the policeman yells again.
“We’ve got a wild one,” the man on my left mutters to us both.
“Back away from the desk, the three of you,” he says, panicking. “I need to see you.” He is getting himself worked up over nothing. He is young. He is alone. He is making a stupid mistake.
Despite the fact that we are Flawed, and I am in the middle of them, I feel somewhat safe between the two men. I feel protected. They are young, in their thirties, and they are well built. Strong. One has an F on his temple, the other I can’t see; it could be his chest, hand, foot, or tongue. Perhaps their age and strength are what panics the police officer all the more. They look like they could do some damage. Wide jaws, broad shoulders, big hands. They remind me of Carrick. Soldiers. I have never stood between two Flawed before, and now I know why we are not allowed. It gives us strength. Security in numbers. They don’t want us to feel safe. They don’t want us to have power.
“We were just standing in a line,” I finally say, annoyed by the crowd that has gathered to watch this. I feel like an animal in a zoo. I need to get back to Granddad, who is waiting for me in the car, bleeding. “I’m buying cotton balls.” I lift the package up to the police officer. “Nothing dangerous is happening here.”
A few people snigger at my joke.
The police officer’s face reddens. “There are three of you standing together. This is against the law.”
“It’s not a law,” I say, and the two Flawed men look at me in surprise.