Page 13

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

I leave Angeline’s store feeling like I should have brought bigger sunglasses and a headscarf to disguise myself as I make my way back to sea level, back to daylight.

If I were a famous person, this would be the last place I would want to be seen: leaving some underground freak lair with a book about colorful little rocks and another about, oh, being some super-fucking-natural anomaly .

Have I mentioned there’s a third book in my bag entitled How to Hear Your Angels, which is essentially a self-help book about how to be pen pals with spirits?

I realize I’m one step away from writing letters to Santa Claus at this point, but Angeline convinced me that getting in the zone, setting an intention, and writing whatever pops into my head is a great way to build the muscle connected to my gift.

That said, I told her I doubted I could relax enough to seriously do the exercises in that book.

She then gave me the number of a weed gummy dealer who is willing to do a Roscoe Village run and told me to give it a go after I pop a couple. Status: waiting for his Venmo handle.

Along with my new crystals and accompanying literature, Angeline tossed in a pack of tarot cards I’ll probably never touch as well as an astrology guide.

She also gave me her personal cell phone number and told me to put her on speed dial.

At least all of this woo-woo crap was packaged up in a black liquor store-style plastic bag so as to conceal my purchases from the general public. Bonus? The bag matches my outfit.

Once street level, my phone buzzes with an incoming text from Nora asking me if I’m still alive.

I frantically text back that I am, hoping she hasn’t checked the tracker she made me install on my phone once I started watching her kids again.

The last thing I need is for her to know I was at some place called “The Energy Shoppe” and then grill me about it later.

“Shit, sorry!” I say to the stranger I T-Bone while my head is glued to my phone screen. I know how obnoxious it is when people can’t be bothered to look up when they walk. I’m almost more embarrassed that I’m one of them, than I am to be...whatever Esther and Angeline think I am.

“No worries,” says the guy. Immediately, I am taken back to OB where that slogan is said a thousand times a day.

“Are you okay?” I ask, noticing I clobbered him hard enough that both of us dropped our shopping bags.

Coincidentally, we were both rocking black plastic bags.

However, his is most definitely from a new liquor store advertising its grand opening up the block with large signage and a ton of unmissable balloons.

I make a mental note to check it out. Maybe some absinthe would pair well with my book about writing love letters to my angels.

“Yup,” he assures me, as he adjusts his navy blue baseball cap back into place and pushes up his aviator sunglasses. Jake Gyllenhaal ? I briefly wonder. He hands me my bag off the sidewalk and grabs his. He continues on without so much as a hearty Midwestern, “Ope!”

A few steps later, the sound of a woman sobbing behind me is next to catch my attention.

I turn and see someonea little older than I am,who is audibly dry heaving while in a full-length taxi-cab-yellow trench coat ( Yas would look amazing in that, btw ) paired with a hot pink beret (how Emily in Paris of her, I think as I wonder if itcomes in black).

Whoever she is, she presents like an unmissable lighthouse among these streets flooded with twenty-somethings and their social mediaaccounts.

Lighthouse she may be, but the only thing being saved in these murky waters is pictures of her to everyone’s camera rolls.

While people stop, stare, and snap, I decide tointervene.

“Hey, are you okay?” I keep my voice to just slightly above a whisper.

“Does it look like I’m okay?”

“Are you bleeding? Point to where it hurts,” the nanny in me instructs.

“What? No, I’m not bleeding. Physically I’m fine. Emotionally I’m wrecked ,” she clarifies.

“Are you here by yourself? Is there someone I should go get for you?” I gesture my neck toward Smitten. Perhaps her mom, sister, or fiancé is inside?

“I’m alone,” she wails.

“Not anymore,” I say. “I’m here for you. My name is Moonie. Moonie Miller.”

At that, the blubbering mess stops crying. She looks at me with big brown eyes, sniffles, and says: “Shereé Jackson.”

“Can I ask what’s wrong, Shereé? Surely, there’s got to be something that I can do to help you?”

“No. There’s nothing you—or anyone else—can do. Not unless you can secure our dream wedding date at our dream venue.”

Yeah, I’m far too single to play in that arena, I think to myself as I struggle to pick up on what exactly the issue is.

Just then I spy some Lincoln Park brats trying to look inconspicuous as they clearly are zooming in on their phones and filming her on social media.

I don’t know who this woman is, but I do know that no one deserves to have their public meltdowns filmed.

Have we not learned anything from the Britney Spears documentary?

“Hey, do you like cookies?” I ask. “Or cupcakes, or brownies, or cheesecake? Looks like there’s a table open at Sweet Baby’s if you want to dart across the street with me and have a quick chat. My sister is a baker. She says that place is legit.”

Though I’ve never been to this sweets shop before, I say what I need to in order to change not only the subject, but the location—for Shereé’s sake.

If we don’t relocate, fast, her sob-fest is going to be all over the internet and I can promise that will make whatever she’s going through even worse.

“I’m supposed to be watching my carbs if I’m going to fit into my gown. But fuck it. Doesn’t look like I’m getting married any time soon. Let’s go.”

We look both ways before sprinting across a rare break in traffic on Clark Street. As I hold the door open for Shereé, I check back behind me to make sure the girls have put their cameras away. I feel like her body guard.

“A frosted sugar cookie for me,” I say to the apron-donned worker behind the counter as my mouth waters for the blue icing and rainbow sprinkle mashup I see on social media all the time. “And whatever she wants.”

I figure that it would be nice to treat the stranger on what seems like an off day for her. Plus, breaking her no-carb diet was my idea, so I feel guilty.

“I’ll have the cookie dough brownie,” orders Shereé.

Oof.

I saw the cookie dough brownie when I walked in as well.

You can’t miss it. It’s their dessert-of-the-month: a huge, dense, fudgy brownie on the bottom with cookie dough buttercream frosting on top.

Then, little pieces of their signature chocolate chip cookie broken up and sticking out like sweet stalagmites.

The thing clocks in at a whopping $12 per bar and god-only-knows how many calories.

As the worker bags up our confections, we slide over to the register where the cashier gives us our total.

“That’ll be seventeen even,” the girl says as I take out my wallet.

Whether she means to or not, Shereé hip checks me to talk to the cashier.

“Do you want a tag?”

Shereé tips her sunglasses down and holds up the screen of her phone, which is set to her Instagram profile.

According to what I can see, she is @Sheree_in_the_City and her jaw dropping follower stats are on full display.

The cashier blushes once she realizes that someone who is apparently bonafide Insta-famous is standing in front of her.

“Oh my god. It’s you. It’s really you. Yes, we definitely want a tag.”

“Okay, then you know the drill. It’s a comp order plus a hundred dollars, cash—and make it two fifties if you’ve got them.”

“Absolutely.”

The girl presses a few buttons on the register and the drawer pops open. She takes out two crisp fifty-dollar bills and hands them toShereé.

“Thank you. So much. Like, wow. Seriously,” she says, stuttering her words.

The moment Shereé turns her back, the workers combust in a sea of whispers as they feverishly retrieve their phones, seemingly to tell everyone they know about their brush with this Shereé Jackson girl.

Shereé and I take a seat at an open two-top. It’s as private as it gets in the small shop. I’m just glad we have something to duck under in case Shereé breaks out in another crying episode.

I unbox my frosted cookie and pick it up. I can’t get it to my mouth fast enough before Shereé puts her hand across my wrist and stops me from inhaling it.

“Not so fast. We’ve got to document it for the ’Gram.”

“Oh. Right,” I say, putting the cookie down. “For the ’Gram.”

“Here, do like me,” Shereé says, taking out her bubble-gum-colored lipstick for a fresh application.

I’m not a makeup girl, as I’ve said before, however, deep in the bottom of my purse, therein lies the tube of dark lipstick thatYas gave me the night of my birthday. I fish around for it, take it out, pull off the lid, and hope that the color isn’t dried up and cracked by now.

When Shereé is done applying her lipstick, she slides me her compact mirror. I pick it up and use it to make sure that Blood Moon doesn’t get all over my face and teeth before sliding it back her way.

Next, Shereé lifts her behemoth treat to just under her mouth and plasters a bright, toothy grin across her face. I mimic her, picking back up my treat and holding it near my mouth. My smile is substantially more awkward than hers, but at least Blood Moon still hits.

“Lean in more,” she instructs. I get closer. Her perfume smells fresh and flowery, like jasmine and vanilla.

Shereé snaps a picture, runs it through a photo editor app on her phone, and loads the pic to her stories with the caption, “How sweet it is.” The geotag is set for Sweet Baby’s in Lincoln Park.

“What’s your handle?” she asks me.