Frightened Boy

Chapter Two - White Cat

2. White Cat

“What the hell is your problem?” I huffed as we put the building behind us.

“I’m not usually like this, I promise. I just…” she said as her voice cracked, eyes watered. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t have anything. I don’t have anywhere to go. They were going to send me into the Red! I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved. I’ll go. I’m so sorry for what happened.”

Erika Bronton turned and began to walk away.

She was a beautiful girl, and I hated to see her cry. Even more, though, I hated the way she’d almost gotten me exiled from the city. I decided to let her keep walking.

Except, before she was more than ten feet away from me, she stopped and turned back. This time she was smiling.

“Wait,” she said. “Maybe it is a sign. Maybe this means something, you know? Like fate.”

“There’s no fate,” I said. “It’s getting dark anyway, and I need to be getting home.”

Erika walked back over to me and looked directly into my eyes. We were about the same height. I diverted my gaze to her full, curvaceous mouth, glistening where her tongue wet her lips.

"Tell me about yourself," she said. "Come on, I will walk with you."

I didn't really want her walking with me. First, I didn't know the area very well. Second, she might figure out where I lived.

Erika turned and pressed her shoulder into mine. She took a step forward, and I did too.

"I am a security guard, sort of. At Tasumec Tower." I pointed at the skyline of downtown Banlo Bay. "That big grey building."

"The tallest one?"

"That's the one."

"You must be very brave, to be a security guard," she cooed.

I laughed; at first reflexively, then again at the notion I might be brave. "You are the first person ever to think that. I just watch the security cameras all day, I don't even have a gun. What do you do?"

“I’m an artist,” she said, sounding very serious about it.

“I see."

“Some people don’t think it’s important anymore, the way things are,” she lifted her hands and presented Banlo Bay and its tenuous grip on order to me. “I think it’s even more important. If we forget about art, what do we have left?”

Our lives, for one.

She looked at me expectantly, so I asked her for more information. “Alright, so what kind of art do you do?”

“I’m a Situationalist,” she said. “You know, a performance artist—an actor. It’s like being in a play except everywhere is the stage and everyone is a performer whether they know it or not."

“For instance?” I asked.

“For instance, once I covered myself in fake blood and lay in an alleyway for two days straight. And then another time, I dressed up like Santa Claus and passed out toys straight from the shelves of department stores.”

“Sounds crazy,” I said honestly.

“I was involved in a sort of protest with my art once, and I got arrested for it. That’s why I had to give them a fake name. They won’t let me live here otherwise.”

“A protest?” I asked.

“It was noble, I promise. So, where do you live?"

Gulp. "Y'know, over there. What about you?"