Page 4 of A Mastery of Monsters

“But he and Bailey are all we have now. If you don’t want him in your life, cool.

But if this is an attempt to push him away because you’re struggling like you tried to do to me, then why not stop?

If alienating yourself from him isn’t what you want, why are you trying to make it happen?

I don’t want you to live your life so afraid of losing people that you never let anyone get close again. ”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Is just me enough?”

“It’s not that serious,” I say.

Jules sighs. “Where were you tonight, anyway?”

“Stages.”

He makes a face. “No, when you got lost. You said you were in a park. Which one?”

“How am I supposed to know? It’s a park.”

“And nothing happened, right? You didn’t see anything strange?”

“Some pervert winked at me.”

“August.”

“Nothing happened!”

Jules lets it drop. He moves to the door and flicks off the lights. “I’m gonna sleep in the common room so you can have the bed. Come get me if you need anything.”

I grunt, and he leaves.

The spins die down enough that I can sleep.

In the middle of the night, I wake up to search for water and, of course, Jules has a bunch of bottles in his mini fridge. I chug one. Then I go through his desk drawers until I find it. Our special pen.

I rip a piece of paper out from his printer and write, Sorry. The ink fades in seconds.

Mom gave us each a pen. She’s always liked this sort of shit.

Magic tricks. Little mysteries wrapped in pageantry and secrets.

She’d leaned close and whispered how it worked.

How the words disappeared on their own and how to make them come back.

Me and Jules oohed and aahed. We loved learning with her.

If only she’d shared the secret of her own disappearing act.

I stumble into the ARC the next day at eight a.m. The Queen’s Athletics and Recreation Centre building is huge, with modern glass balconies and cafeteria-style seating.

It holds not only a giant athletics center but also a pharmacy, small grocery store, and a Queen’s owned and operated coffee shop in addition to the franchised fast-food places.

When I walk in, I send a dog video to Jules in case he doesn’t find my note.

I drag myself through the employee entrance for Tim Hortons and duck into the utility room to take out a fresh uniform—unflattering black pants paired with an equally unflattering gray-and-red polo.

They’re supposed to be for new hires only, but I wasn’t going all the way back to the island to get mine.

I grab a hairnet and put it on the bun that I twirled my braids into that morning.

Then I strap on a visor, which I often try to “forget,” but my manager is strict about us wearing them.

Speaking of, she comes around the corner and spots me right after I sneak out of the utility closet, giving me a quick once over.

She must not notice that I took a new uniform because she just says, “Bagel bar for you.”

If I had the energy, I would cheer. Working bagel bar means I’ll be facing away from the customers, mindlessly making sandwiches, wraps, and yes, bagels.

Instead of working cash or having to stand in the front and run coffees.

I drank a bunch of water and took some of Jules’s Advil before I left, but I still have the edge of a headache.

Dealing with the general public would make it worse.

Thankfully, Saturdays tend to be slower, especially in summer.

I work silently for the first couple of hours before more staff come in, including Cam and Janey, the two other Black girls who work on the weekends.

They stand in the doorway to the work area, laughing with each other before Janey goes on cash and Cam joins me on the bagel bar. I focus on my work.

I need money to go out, that’s all. No point in socializing.

I used to have an allowance, but Dad stopped that. He claims it’s because he doesn’t have the extra money, and maybe he doesn’t, but it feels like a punishment.

He didn’t so much as make a Facebook post when Mom disappeared. Just sat at home, waiting for the police to do something. And the day before he dropped me off with Bailey, he was on the phone to someone. Talking about Mom.

Only, he didn’t say she was missing.

He said that she left.

In one way, I understand why he would think that.

My parents had what I assumed was a normal relationship.

They weren’t particularly affectionate, but they’d settled into that sort of family tie where I couldn’t imagine them ever splitting up.

Divorce was something couples did when they had problems. And Mom and Dad never had any.

Dad moved when Mom said we had to, and he didn’t even seem bitter about it.

He always made it out like this big new adventure, even though it meant he had to start over at another college and further decrease any chance he had of getting tenure.

I assumed that meant he loved her more. If anyone was going to leave, it would be her, not him.

But in another way, in the most prominent way, I can’t understand how he thinks that could be real. That she’d left without intending to come back. She must have planned to come back. There was a reason she hadn’t. And none of us knew what it was, but that didn’t mean it didn’t exist.

When the authorities decided they couldn’t help anymore, Dad accepted it without complaint.

And that’s the man whose calls I should be answering? Who’s supposedly trying to help me?

Help me do what? At least when I gave up looking, I owned it. I didn’t change the narrative to suit me.

Dad can keep hoping, but the old August is gone, and she isn’t coming back.