High-altitude salt air air-conditioned my lungs. A slice of ocean peeped over the wobbly, winding cobblestone road, out beyond the crooked Victorian row houses. A fiery sunset, electric orange and pollution pink, gilded the water like molten metal pocked with shipping freighters. Lights on the surrounding cliffs winked on. Surf sighed in the distance. I waited for a rusted, 80s-white 4Runner to putter by, then jaywalked across the steep street to the convenience store.
I knew the clerks there by name. Granted, I also knew their addresses and RUT numbers, but it was family-owned and operated, non-threatening, safe to be friendly. Mateo, the ownerâs son, was at the register. Mat was a hardy, red-faced teenager with messy, honey-colored hair. Friendly, usually, but a woman was being difficult at the register, so all I got was a muttered âhey,â as I came in.
The storeâs buzzing fluorescent lights couldnât compete with the barred, west-facing windows. Serpentine aisles were awash with a sunset pallor. Greasy snacks and overpriced sundries were stacked floor-to-ceiling, smelling like sweat and wet cardboard. Flies orbited corrugated shipping-boxes of bruised tomatoes and unwashed oranges. 80s pop music crunched from ancient overhead speakers. With no real work to go back to, I languished through the snack section. Itâs hard to remember how I felt then, with no clue what was coming. Hopeless, I supposeâlike an insect in the world, and all I could accomplish was misery: mine, my parentsâ, the crewâs. If I turned myself in, I thought, Mom and Dad would visit me in prison. I wouldnât be so alone.
Passing a spinner of gift cards, one for the Ekko music store jumped out at me against my will. I spun it out of my sight hard enough the carousel nearly tipped over. It wobbled back into place and I shoved my hands in my pockets. Too much thinking. After snatching some chili-lime chips and an iced tea, I wound back to checkout.Â
That woman was still there. It took a second behind her in line to realize whyâshe didn't speak Spanish. This area of Valpo was definitely touristy, but it was mostly folks in from Santiago, visitors from other parts of South America, or Italians who could more-or-less stumble through conversations. This woman was, apparently, none of those. She spun around, and with a squawk, she barrelled into me. I yelped as she stumbled back.Â
She waved a hand and frowned at me with a wide mouth. âGomen, gomennasai!â She bobbed a few times, backing up. She was tallâvery tall for a woman, with a low, whiny voice. She attacked me with a litany of what I assumed, based on her looks and my limited knowledge of the language, was Japanese. She gestured at Mateo, the cigarettes on the counter, and the foreign coins piled next to it. They definitely weren't Chilean pesos.Â
âHey Lola, can you tell this lady I canât take this crap?â Mateo whined to me. âMy dad would kill me.â
âWhy do you think I can talk to her?â
âMaybe she speaks English?âÂ
My accent in Spanish gave away that I wasnât local. Trying to lie about it just made it more suspicious, so Iâd long given up. The woman pointed at the counter, adding more worried, incomprehensible chatter. Mat, unhelpfully, yelled back at her in Spanish. It scraped my eardrums.Â
âShut up! Just put her cigarettes in with my stuff, my god.â I pushed the pack and her weird money into the tall womanâs hands, pointing to the door. After a moment of bewilderment, she grinned with grateful relief.Â
She had an interesting face. Certainly not prettyâher nose was hooked, eyes sunken, mouth wideâbut it was sharp in an arresting way. She looked sort-of charming with her wrinkled suit and waxed-back hair. âArigatou,â she crooned, inclining slightly. Something about her expression shifted. She looked at me from under her lashes, and her broad smile went crooked. Straightening up to spin on her Oxford shoes, she sauntered out of the shop with a jingle of the bell. According to the anti-theft chart, she stood around 6-foot.
âThank god that's over,â Mateo complained. âItâs $10,500. Man, that lady was a nightmare, huh?â
âYeah,â I muttered, watching her through the barred windows as she strolled away. My wallet wasnât in its usual pocket, which wasnât alarming until every pat on my pantâs pockets yielded nothing. âSorry, Mat. Iâm sure I grabbed it when IâŠâ Hold on. That bump, that smile. She wasnât an idiot touristâshe was a pickpocket.
Yesssss so excited for yâall to meet this character. Itâs back to the regular schedule after this post, so check for the next chapter this Wednesday!
P.S. Iâm seeking beta-readers! Leave a comment or DM me if youâre interested.
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