The Illusion of Separation

They made me promise not to look.

Carter and Chris had found a hair salon that wasn't too expensive, considering the lack of money we had. Carter had been saving since he was young and had enough for a few months' rent in the studio apartment he was planning on getting us, but it wasn't much, and before the winter was over we'd have to move out. Unless we got jobs, of course. I was already looking around for retail or restaurant work I could pick up so that I'd be bringing in income. The difficult part was putting that I hadn't graduated highschool on my applications, and then having to explain to the managers that I had dropped out. Most of them didn't take kindly to that. I wondered what I was going to say when they asked me why I'd dropped out.

Carter didn't have much trouble. He made music, too, so his plan was to go out, get a license, and busk, which is what they call it when people sit on the sidewalks with a guitar and play for tips. In L.A., you couldn't busk without a license, since so many people were doing it to be able to buy drugs. Carter's background check had come up clean, so he'd had no problem getting the license.

Back to the salon, though. They wouldn't let me in because they said I had to see only the finished product. I whined and said there was nothing for me to do, and why couldn't I just sit in the front and read some magazines, and Carter rolled his eyes and said because I wasn't supposed to see the process, I was supposed to be shocked by the end result, and I whined some more and said I was gonna go back to the hotel and look for work, and Carter finally thrust ten dollars into my hand and told me to go to Starbuck's and sit there for a few hours while Chris got his hair done.

Frustrated and tired, I obliged and stormed off down the sidewalk. It was morning, so there were a lot of people walking to work or to the bus stop to get to work. Back home, a person storming angrily down a sidewalk (if there even was one - we had a grand total of about four sidewalks in the entire town of Joplin) would make everyone back away, slink to the sides like they'd just encountered a cottonmouth. Here, no one moved out of the way, and I got even more frustrated as people bumped into me, some accidentally, some purposefully. By the time the Starbuck's was in sight, I was furious. I could feel myself ready to explode.

Someone jostled me from behind and reached for my wrist.

I snatched it away, horrified, and whipped around to find the culprit.

I found him, alright. And he was running the other way like a crazy person. As I stood there in shock, I realised that the ten-dollar bill that used to be in my hand was now gone, and I could see a flash of green in the would-be molester's hand.

He stole my ten dollars.

I had never hated Los Angeles more in my entire life.

The only thing I could do, really, was to go to the Starbuck's anyway and hope that I had a little bit of money in my bag. I guess I should have been grateful. At least he didn't root through my bag and grab my debit card or something. Not that there was anything on it, but debit cards are apparently vital information, and if someone gets a hold of yours, it's bad news, no matter how much or how little you have on it. My social security card was in there, too, rescued from the boxes we had piled in the car.

Not like that made me any happier. Just a step down from how angry I would have been if he'd managed to snatch my wallet instead of the ten dollars.

When I got into the Starbuck's, I headed right over to one of the barstools and started rooting through my bag. I ended up with three dollars and twenty-nine cents, barely enough to pay for a small cup of tea. Regular tea. With, like, nothing in it.

I tipped my head back and groaned.

"Miss, we're gonna have to ask you to leave if you're not gonna buy anything," said the girl behind the counter. She fit California to a T - bleached blonde, way too much makeup around the eyes, hair pulled back into a casual ponytail, and looked like she had been in athletics her whole life. She was even smacking bubble gum, which I was sure was against the employee rules, but it wasn't like I was going to say anything.

"Sorry," I said, my anger deflating in one big rush, until all that was left of me was this very sad and slightly pathetic Missouri girl. "I...there was a guy and...my ten dollars...I'm from Missouri," I finished lamely, as if that alone was enough excuse.

Apparently it was, because a guy sitting a few barstools down from me turned to see me and said, "Missouri? Really?"

"Joplin," I confirmed. I turned around in my seat to face him. I have to say, if I wasn't already with Chris, this guy might have given Mr. Drew Ingle a run for his money. He wasn't like Chris, really - Chris was one of those slender indie kids that listened to weird music and thought gauges would make him "different" and smoked pot to get away from it all. Instead, he was more of the traditional kind of guy, tall (definitely taller than Chris), shoulder-length dark hair, amber eyes. Had to be contacts. Skin halfway in between shades, like it was usually light and had to decide whether to tan or not. "I just moved out here the other day. My boyfriend's getting a haircut and I'm not allowed to see, apparently."

When I said it out loud it sounded so retarded.

"Ah. Well. I would normally let your boyfriend do the honors, but seeing as he has a prior appointment, I suppose I could take it upon myself to be chivalrous and help out a young southern girl in her time of need." He looked up at the board with the drinks listed on it. "Just pick one. I've got it covered."

"What? No! I can't do that."

"Of course you can. I'm offering. Besides, pay day is in three days. It's fine."

"No, come on."

The girl behind the counter rolled her eyes and smacked her gum even louder.

Finally I was forced to take it (half because of the glares the girl was giving me) and I ordered a mocha cookie crumble frappucino, which came out to about five dollars. I handed the five back to him, which he tried to refuse, but I said, "It's a tip. One hundred percent."

He sighed and took it, but there was a smile on his face. Arguably, that frappucino was probably the most refreshing one I've ever had, even if it was just because I was so hot from the temperature outside and from being angry. Seriously, why was it so hot in the winter? I knew L.A. wasn't the Siberian landscape, but come on.

"By the way," the guy said as the barista handed me my drink, "I'm Alex."

"Hannah," I told him. "Good to meet ya."

He stared at my outstretched hand for a second before taking it in his and shaking it. "Sorry," he said. "I'm not all that used to shaking hands. I mean, sometimes, but..."

"It's okay. We do it to everyone in Missouri. I can't really see people out here doing it to, you know, their friends and stuff. Are you in school around here or something?" Perfect. Not creepy, just casual. Maybe there was hope for me after all.

"Yeah, I'm going to UCLA." Ooh, a college boy. "I'm studying music production. How about you? I mean, obviously you're not in school in Missouri and I'm betting you're not in school here either, at least not yet."

I shook my head. "This is gonna sound terrible, but I dropped out. Not because I was lazy or hated school or anything. There were...a lot of personal problems," I said. "Home problems and stuff like that. My dad. So my best friend and my boyfriend and I packed up and moved out here so he could try and get an album released. Maybe I can get my GED here and go to college. I don't know what I want to do yet. I think animals. Like, veterinarian, maybe." If you had asked me a few months ago, I probably would have been able to lay out my entire life's plans for you. Right now, I had no idea. I wanted a fresh start. I didn't want to feel like I had any ties to my old life. Carter and Chris were all I needed.

"Oh, that's really cool. How about your best friend?"

"He does music, too."

"Two guys?"

For some reason, I was proud of this fact, as though having two guys living with me, neither of which had or ever would have raped me or touched me in any inappropriate way, was some sort of major accomplishment worthy of a Pulitzer. "Yep. Two guys. Grew up with 'em, practically."

We talked for a while more. I carefully left out any mention of Christofer's death, but I let Alex know about my father's emotional abuse. I wasn't one of the people that clammed up whenever anyone asked them about that part of their life. Not that that was a wrong thing to do or anything, but it wasn't like me. It was something that had happened, so there was no reason for me to hide from it. Alex told me all about his classes in college and how strange they were but kind of interesting, and he told me about his highschool here in L.A. and how the city really was as weird as they made it sound and at least six people showed up to lunch every day in these freaky costumes and there was one guy who would chew on his own arm. He told me that he was dorming at the college but they kicked everyone out during the breaks so he had his own apartment when that happened, paid for by a trust fund his grandma had left behind when she died. He said that Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays were his Starbuck's days and I was extremely lucky to have caught him during one of them.

"Extremely lucky," he emphasized, grinning. "Do you know what would have happened if you'd come on a Friday or, god forbid, a Sunday? You'd be staring longingly at that board, wishing you had two more dollars to pay for all the hyperprocessed caffeine and sugar you're drinking right now."

It wasn't like he had much room to talk. He was drinking a vanilla bean frapp, which had the double effect of being a girly-looking drink and was also hyperprocessed caffeine and sugar.

"I'm sure someone would have given me two bucks to buy a drink," I told him.

The barista made a snort-laugh sort of sound as she emptied out the soy container.

"Little Miss Hannah," Alex said knowingly, "you're not in Mizzouri anymore."