* * *
“Just One Kiss” pulsed through Lark’s headphones as she hopped onto her bike and headed to work. A motorcycle would’ve been ideal, but her old-fashioned, rusty bicycle worked just as well. She preferred the term rustic.
Halfway out of the trailer park, she slammed on the brake pedal and plopped her feet to the cement to keep from tipping. Her mop of curly brown hair swung forward as she reached into her large jacket pocket to pull out her second-hand store Walkman. She pressed the stop button, bringing the band’s chanting to an end.
“Sorry, boys, this won’t do it for me today.”
Lark shifted her backpack, and her cluster of tapes clacked. She performed a mystery grab and quickly exchanged the Cure for the Pretenders.
“Brass In Pocket” drifted through her ears. The singer, Chrissie, knew just how to get Lark in a focused mood. And focused was what she needed today since she was going to impress a boy named Auden by wearing something outside of her baggy comfort zone. Besides that, today was her best friend Imani’s last day at work.
Maybe “Under Pressure” would’ve been a better song choice.
She pedaled her way through the scorching heat to the store—beads of perspiration gathered on her forehead and hands, more so from nervousness than the temperature. It might’ve only been the end of June, but in Texas, the sun’s rays liked to go ahead and start frying people a little early. Lucky for Lark, she didn’t get hot so easily.
Her bike wheels vibrated over the uneven parking lot as she pulled up to the gray-and-white painted strip mall. A large black sign with the name Bubble’s Oddities scrawled across, along with a picture of a skull and bubbles, loomed from in between the other stores. The owner, Jimbo, had originally named the store Oddities when he’d opened it a few years ago, but had thought adding the name Bubble’s to the title would draw more people in.
He was right.
Lark supposed people were attracted to the idea of happy, soapy spheres floating majestically through the air as opposed to having zilch—she sure was.
She pressed the brakes once she made it beneath the overhang. With a hard push on the rusty kickstand, she glanced up at her shop’s window, catching sight of the Help Wanted sign. The glass was black on the outside, yet clear on the inside. No one could peer in, but whenever she was inside the store, she could see all. A lot of people did interesting things when they thought no one was looking.
Lark stepped off the bike and slid her hands in the pockets of her heavy black jacket. The single piece of cloth was her security blanket, and she felt naked without the thing—whether the world was hot or not, she’d be seen wearing it.
Biting her lip, she avoided glancing at the music store for the time being because she wasn’t ready to face a certain boy just yet. Her heart pumped a little harder. “Calm down, you troublesome heart,” she whispered.
Before she could head inside Bubble’s, something caught her eye from the right. She slowly turned her head in the direction of the laundromat, just past the music store where Auden worked. Her stupid heart accelerating even faster as she thought it could be him. Instead, her brows lowered a fraction when her eyes focused on a man wearing all black—a pork pie fedora hat, ski mask, trench coat, and gloves.
Beside him, a large rectangular object covered in what looked like black crushed velvet, leaned against the store’s window. Lark yanked down her headphones and wondered if she needed to call the cops, but she’d dealt with plenty of odd customers at Bubble’s before. For now, she’d leave it alone.
He turned his head in her direction—the ski mask was solid with no eye, nose, or mouth holes—and pushed off the storefront’s glass. Had he seen her staring?
The blood in Lark’s veins sang with warning. Her hand automatically clutched at her backpack and the knife hidden inside. She’d began carrying a knife with her after what almost happened to her sister with Beth’s—her mom—ex-boyfriend. Just as she opened her mouth to call him out, he turned his head and moved in the other direction. Lark huffed and shook her head. Scared, and for what? Nothing.
She whirled around and pushed open the door of the oddity store, the cowbell clanging as she entered. A musty smell—so her cup of potion—hit her nose, the familiar odor like a second home.
Small animal skulls and bright pink and green tarot cards dangled from the ceiling. Lark shuffled down the aisle, making her way toward the counter in the back. Her hand skimmed over the items covered in a thin layer of dust. Shrunken and stuffed heads of animals, chakrams, Kpingas, and other unusual weapons filled the shelves. She reached the mini guillotine—a perfect fit for Barbie. To test her theory, Imani had brought her sister’s Barbie doll to the store. Together, they had experimented and concluded the trial a success as the blade sliced through the neck, cleaner than a knife cutting through butter. It had been a temporary cure for boredom, even though Imani had ended up owing her sister a new Barbie and Ken doll.
Speak of the devil, Lark thought when Imani slid into view behind the counter.
“Finally!” Imani sighed when Lark set her backpack on the floor beside the empty stool.
Lark glanced at the Kit-Cat Klock, its tail clicking from side to side. “I’m ten minutes early.”
“I’ve had to keep a conversation going with Jimbo.” Imani hiked a thumb over her shoulder, pointing to the partly open storage closet. “You know how that is. It’s basically like talking to myself.”
“I heard that,” Jimbo grunted as he scuttled out from the cracked door, carrying a huge cardboard box that his aristocratic nose was buried in. His head was bald on top, shining under the light like Mr. Clean. In complete contradiction, a ratty black braid fell down his back. Jimbo’s skin resembled worn leather, and mostly Choctaw blood ran through his veins.
“I hoped you would, Jim-bo.” Imani’s eyes were glued to the cardboard.
With careful precision, he set the box of trinkets down on the counter and ducked back into the closet, his feet scuffing along the floorboards.
As soon as Jimbo disappeared from sight, Imani lunged toward the box and rummaged through the goods. Her black locks, pinned on the side of her head with a hot pink bow, framed her face like a dandelion.
Imani’s brown eyes snapped to Lark’s. “Are you going to remove the jacket so I can see?”
“I’m thinking about it.” Lark had been all gung-ho about sporting a different outfit for her impending music store visit. Now, she wanted to rewind those moments of optimism.
Jimbo popped out one more time from the closet with a smaller box, containing a cluster of Native American artifacts and old books. “You girls got it handled?”
“Of course. We’re your best employees.” Imani issued a Cheshire Cat smile, showing off her white teeth.
“You’re my only employees. Now I’ll be down to one.” His gaze shifted to Lark, then back to Imani. “Seeing as this is your last day here, Imani, you can pick something off the wall to take as a souvenir.”
There Jimbo was dredging up gloom and reminding Lark of how much she was going to miss her friend.
Imani had been wanting to work at her family’s hair salon for a while, but her mom wouldn’t give her the position just because she was her daughter. When the receptionist spot finally opened, Imani jumped at the chance to apply.