Missing
an ex-decorated scholar
ve been in New York for 3 days and gone from Chicago for a total of 5 when I first see myself on TV. The picture of me that they run with my story is a nice one-- It's a photo that used to be on my Facebook, one from Jonathan's older sister's wedding a year ago.
I'm wearing a blue dress, my hair is curled, and my makeup is light and shimmery. I look beautiful. There is nothing Americans mourn more than a beautiful missing woman.
The newscasters implore anyone who has any clues about my disappearance to please, please come forward.
In New York, I stay at a women's shelter-- it's cramped and there's little to no privacy, but the ladies are nice and they don't ask about where I came from, because they don't want to be asked, either. They don't even ask about my French accent. This works out well for me. I am a good liar, but it's easier to keep my story straight if I don't have to tell it.
"Always a shame when girls go missing," the girl next to me sighs, "it's a good thing we got out while we could, huh?"
I smile sadly, mock-rueful of poor Mea Constance, and nod. "I couldn't have stood to live there a moment longer." I'm not lying.
*
My next change to my appearance is a nose ring. It helps me look a little more rugged. In a way, I kind of like it, more than I expected to, at least, considering the fact that I got it done my first day in New York and it still burns like hell.
My new appearance closes a lot of doors for jobs. People don't want a girl with choppy dyed-black hair, a nose ring, and a penchant for heavy makeup as an employee-- but I manage to get hired by a small diner after practically begging the manager to please, please, just consider me for the waitress position.
The manager is a pretty lady of around 45 named Linda. She's also the owner of the diner, and in the face of my pitiful pleading with her, finally relents. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me, because if I am anything I am resilient, but I can't say I mind the pity when it works in my favor. "Oh, merci-- um, thank you, thank you so much!" I say, pretending I've momentarily lost control of the English language. "You won't regret it, madame, je promets, I am hard-working, very much so."
She smiles a bit at that, and hands me an apron. "You can start right now, if you want," she tells me, and I do.
*
Working at the diner is a welcome change of pace from the high-strung life I lead as Mea. Celeste works behind the counter, which means she mostly just refills people's coffee mugs and takes their orders to send back to the kitchen.
The most interesting thing I learn over my first week of blue-collar work is that people really, really like my accent. Men in particular will try to strike up conversations with me, asking me where I'm from and 'what brings me to New York'. A common truth of my twenty-one years has been this: For some reason, men love me. I am hard to love in the long run, but initially, I can be captivating. I am well-spoken, even in my English tinged with French, and I am objectively attractive. I can be persuaded to flirt with men at my counter if it means they give me a bigger tip. Sometimes if I'm lucky, or particularly charming, a businessman will leave me gigantic tips in exchange for my company; a $20 bill on a few cups of coffee.
I've always liked people-watching. There's nothing more fascinating than trying to figure out someone you've just met, solely to see if your assumptions are true. Take Linda, for instance. When we first talked, I made a mental note that she seemed like a widow. There was something in her eyes that I saw in my own mother after my father died. Today, Linda told me she'd gotten married around my age, and he'd died in a car accident four years after that. She'd never dated again.
So, I was correct: widow. The game's a lot less fun when you're right, though, and a lot more interesting when you're completely, totally, entirely off the mark. The first time that happens in New York is with a boy named Marcus Hayek.
Marcus is tall, probably around six-foot-two or three, he has dark hair that he appears to be growing out, and he has this big eyes, that, when staring at me from across the diner counter, remind me of a dairy cow. It's not a bad thing. He's in an army jacket and boots when I first meet him, and my first attempt to categorize him is as an art student-- but there's not any major university nearby, not like Columbia or NYU, so I scratch that, unless he's miraculously crossed town just to come to Linda's diner.
"Bonjour-- ah, hello, welcome to City Oasis Diner, what can I get for you this afternoon?"
Marcus stares at me strangely for a second. "Quebecois?"
"Yes," I confess, narrowing my eyes a bit. "You from around?"
"I studied linguistics in college," Marcus shrugs, "and I'll take just a coffee for now, thanks."
I turn around, grabbing one of the mugs out of storage and placing it under our coffee maker. "Linguistics, c'est interessant... Je pense que tu parles le français? Un peu?"
Marcus laughs. "Oui, j'ai fait les etudes à... Harvard? Well, Columbia originally, but I graduated from Harvard."
I bite back the urge to say I studied at Harvard, when did you graduate, because while this may be true for Mea, it's certainly not for Celeste. One of my favorite things about Mea was her prestige; the way people change around you when they know you're a decorated scholar.
I swallow my tongue. "Wow," I say instead. "Impressive."
"I try to be," he teases.
Mea would never be interested in someone like Marcus. He is not a clean cut businessman, someone who could propel her up the social ladder, but he is fascinating. People are almost always boring to me-- pointlessly predictable. I've always been able to entertain myself, but even my own mind gets tedious.
"Would you like to go out after my shift?" I ask. "I've not got a place, though, I've just moved here."
"C'est cher," Marcus agrees. "I'll pay for a hotel."
"Presumptive of you."
He shrugs. "Possibly. Hopefully not. Can you take a smoke break?"
Mea didn't smoke much at all, but I've been trying to get Celeste to form a habit. "Yeah, there are enough people working here right now to have someone work the counter," I tell him, taking off my apron. I am wearing my dark grey v-neck today, my black jeans, and my one pair of shoes; the combat boots.
"Fantastic," he grins. "I'm Marcus."
"Celeste," I say, and the name rolls off my tongue.
I'm wearing a blue dress, my hair is curled, and my makeup is light and shimmery. I look beautiful. There is nothing Americans mourn more than a beautiful missing woman.
The newscasters implore anyone who has any clues about my disappearance to please, please come forward.
In New York, I stay at a women's shelter-- it's cramped and there's little to no privacy, but the ladies are nice and they don't ask about where I came from, because they don't want to be asked, either. They don't even ask about my French accent. This works out well for me. I am a good liar, but it's easier to keep my story straight if I don't have to tell it.
"Always a shame when girls go missing," the girl next to me sighs, "it's a good thing we got out while we could, huh?"
I smile sadly, mock-rueful of poor Mea Constance, and nod. "I couldn't have stood to live there a moment longer." I'm not lying.
*
My next change to my appearance is a nose ring. It helps me look a little more rugged. In a way, I kind of like it, more than I expected to, at least, considering the fact that I got it done my first day in New York and it still burns like hell.
My new appearance closes a lot of doors for jobs. People don't want a girl with choppy dyed-black hair, a nose ring, and a penchant for heavy makeup as an employee-- but I manage to get hired by a small diner after practically begging the manager to please, please, just consider me for the waitress position.
The manager is a pretty lady of around 45 named Linda. She's also the owner of the diner, and in the face of my pitiful pleading with her, finally relents. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me, because if I am anything I am resilient, but I can't say I mind the pity when it works in my favor. "Oh, merci-- um, thank you, thank you so much!" I say, pretending I've momentarily lost control of the English language. "You won't regret it, madame, je promets, I am hard-working, very much so."
She smiles a bit at that, and hands me an apron. "You can start right now, if you want," she tells me, and I do.
*
Working at the diner is a welcome change of pace from the high-strung life I lead as Mea. Celeste works behind the counter, which means she mostly just refills people's coffee mugs and takes their orders to send back to the kitchen.
The most interesting thing I learn over my first week of blue-collar work is that people really, really like my accent. Men in particular will try to strike up conversations with me, asking me where I'm from and 'what brings me to New York'. A common truth of my twenty-one years has been this: For some reason, men love me. I am hard to love in the long run, but initially, I can be captivating. I am well-spoken, even in my English tinged with French, and I am objectively attractive. I can be persuaded to flirt with men at my counter if it means they give me a bigger tip. Sometimes if I'm lucky, or particularly charming, a businessman will leave me gigantic tips in exchange for my company; a $20 bill on a few cups of coffee.
I've always liked people-watching. There's nothing more fascinating than trying to figure out someone you've just met, solely to see if your assumptions are true. Take Linda, for instance. When we first talked, I made a mental note that she seemed like a widow. There was something in her eyes that I saw in my own mother after my father died. Today, Linda told me she'd gotten married around my age, and he'd died in a car accident four years after that. She'd never dated again.
So, I was correct: widow. The game's a lot less fun when you're right, though, and a lot more interesting when you're completely, totally, entirely off the mark. The first time that happens in New York is with a boy named Marcus Hayek.
Marcus is tall, probably around six-foot-two or three, he has dark hair that he appears to be growing out, and he has this big eyes, that, when staring at me from across the diner counter, remind me of a dairy cow. It's not a bad thing. He's in an army jacket and boots when I first meet him, and my first attempt to categorize him is as an art student-- but there's not any major university nearby, not like Columbia or NYU, so I scratch that, unless he's miraculously crossed town just to come to Linda's diner.
"Bonjour-- ah, hello, welcome to City Oasis Diner, what can I get for you this afternoon?"
Marcus stares at me strangely for a second. "Quebecois?"
"Yes," I confess, narrowing my eyes a bit. "You from around?"
"I studied linguistics in college," Marcus shrugs, "and I'll take just a coffee for now, thanks."
I turn around, grabbing one of the mugs out of storage and placing it under our coffee maker. "Linguistics, c'est interessant... Je pense que tu parles le français? Un peu?"
Marcus laughs. "Oui, j'ai fait les etudes à... Harvard? Well, Columbia originally, but I graduated from Harvard."
I bite back the urge to say I studied at Harvard, when did you graduate, because while this may be true for Mea, it's certainly not for Celeste. One of my favorite things about Mea was her prestige; the way people change around you when they know you're a decorated scholar.
I swallow my tongue. "Wow," I say instead. "Impressive."
"I try to be," he teases.
Mea would never be interested in someone like Marcus. He is not a clean cut businessman, someone who could propel her up the social ladder, but he is fascinating. People are almost always boring to me-- pointlessly predictable. I've always been able to entertain myself, but even my own mind gets tedious.
"Would you like to go out after my shift?" I ask. "I've not got a place, though, I've just moved here."
"C'est cher," Marcus agrees. "I'll pay for a hotel."
"Presumptive of you."
He shrugs. "Possibly. Hopefully not. Can you take a smoke break?"
Mea didn't smoke much at all, but I've been trying to get Celeste to form a habit. "Yeah, there are enough people working here right now to have someone work the counter," I tell him, taking off my apron. I am wearing my dark grey v-neck today, my black jeans, and my one pair of shoes; the combat boots.
"Fantastic," he grins. "I'm Marcus."
"Celeste," I say, and the name rolls off my tongue.