Plain Janes

If her cuticles didn’t grow up and lay nice by eighth grade, Tamrya was seriously gonna lose it. It didn’t matter that her acrylics extended far too long for normal typing. Text to speech apps handled her homework just fine. Typing is pretty much the way of the past anyway, more of a Millennial's thing. 

Where are they?

Mils. Speaking of, would Mom ever get her nails done? She was an ok looking mom, but it was like she could care less about those fingertips. Did she just not get it? People judge that sort of thing. And by consequence, Tamrya. No one really said anything snobby out loud, but middle school was hard enough without the entire world scrutinizing everything about her and her jetsetting family. Surely, tween paranoia this strong couldn’t be wrong, right? 

French manicure. Something. Strong womanhood could also spank Milan’s runways. Just saying.

“Call Mom”

The encrypted screen blinked a hard pass. But three little dots promised a text apology on the way. 

So, hoofing it back solo was definitely gonna become a regular occurance. Never mind they were supposed to be knocking back barely virgin mimosas on a family vacation. No, they had to ruin the Cayman Islands just like Vienna. But who could possibly be entertained at an event called the Continental Economic & World Bank MMXLV Gala? Clearly, it was soooo entrancing that they skipped out on it all together; oh, but unthinkable her rsvp could get lost in the mail. Glamour and fails, all in one. At least the scuba dive lesson tomorrow came with a ride, the concierge assured her earlier this week. One thing needed to go right this summer.

Sorry Hun, you know how the Ambassadors are. 

Tamyra tapped an auto-reply with her knuckle.

Lasagna, microwave, 1:30min, popped back.

wat i didnt ask abt dinnr i axed whr r you im outside banquet lobby AGAIN 

Longtype, worth it.

Sorry Hun, you know how the Ambassadors are.

Sometimes, ya know? Sometimes. Mixing business with pleasure on these hot getaway vacation spots obviously came with baggage. The Caribbean sunset disappeared hours ago and walking back to their private villa in this getup was going to be sweaty, buggy, and uphill. Great. 

“Call Mom again. Ugh!” 

Sorry Hun, you know --- 

“I know!”

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Her mangled toes and ankles were gonna sting like everything once they hit the salt water tomorrow morning … or later that morning … what time was it anyway? Timestraps.v4 didn’t just tell schedules anymore. Too many apps and crap these days. Mental note to swipe those out later. 

She fumed the whole fifteen minute hike, adding up how long a yelling match would initially take, a few more minutes added for slamming doors, a good long soak in the sparoom, the makeup hugs… 

“Yeah…that should leave…four hours of sleep.” 

The lowlight path ran up to a creamy villa, elegantly highlighting the wraparound porch, shaded by faux island architecture. The bordering grove huddled in the telltale humidity. A soft entrance glow streamed through translucent panels, telling her Mom and Dad were already home. 

“Now I’m even more pissed.” 

Cold lasagna awaited her on the other side of ceiling-high candlenut doors. Ornate hardware clicked open, smooth like butter, dissonant to her growling fit and appetite. 

Her body, on the other hand, barely crossed half a meter past the threshold. 

CRACK 

-----------------------------

Stupified, Tamyra did not connect the dots like her forehead did against the door. Jarring pain broke all sense of direction and her hearing. She could not break out of the shock between quasi-blackouts to clear a path. These insipid tropics, their insectoid residents, and her swollen ankles no longer bothered her. Broken decor shards stabbed her searching palms. Wooden floor panels mucus-y with that sharp iron scent of blood, provided no grip as she rolled searching for a hideaway. Gloved hands appeared out of the cross eyed haze. 

Aimed for her throat, she erratically escaped down and away from her misshapen nightmare to the bathroom. Conveniently placed in the foyer for washing off sandy adventures, her numb face and hands reached in for safety. An instinctual serpentine, retracting her abs, she kicked the door closed.

The lock though.

The tile smashed across her ankle bones as she swiveled onto her knees and shoulder slammed against the door. The lock. Scraping her hand up, metal finally connected. Locked.

Hard, I need big, hard.

Fighting through pain is never something training can prepare you for. You just get your innards kicked in more than once to learn how much you can take, and then need to recover. PE was dumb, and clearly wholly inadequate. 

Where were Mom and Dad? The only thing loose was a metal trash bin. So be it. Everything, far too blurry still. 

Hazy red blotted the towels and bathroom surfaces. Touching her face, If this is someone else’s was too stomach churning to consider. Identifying the liquid runs confirmed that at least part of it was hers. So not better. But kinda. 

Deafness brought on by concussion was slowly waning but adrenaline pumping on overload replaced it. How thick was this door? Would it hold? Oh God, what if there were bullets coming? Was it enough? A wild swing began cranking through her muscles, strung so tight rationale was not going to hold her steady. Puberty could be such an ass. Jitters set up ferocious surges of called upon strength. 

This was it. 

Movement under the door sucked the fear right down until she could make out the invading shapes underneath. Oh wait, those were fingers. 

She wiped to clear her vision. Instantly, nose throbs made her regret the arm swipe. She was going to scream. She was. But all the adrenaline crashed in one second when her throat constricted. Why wouldn’t anything come out? An imaginary ball expanded, seizing the scream from pushing out. Or was she too deaf to hear her own scream? Was that a thing? Ugh! Why hadn’t she made more deaf friends to ask.

Emptying power. That’s what this was. 

------------------------------------

Hot. Cold. Both, hot and cold.

Sensations don’t make much sense when you’re feeling your way through the darkness. Prickles command the senses. Whether you are moving or not isn’t clear. 

“Tamyra baby, wake up, slow and easy. Wake up-- Finn!” 

“Bags are in the car, we’re out Sasha.”

------------------------------------

The tropical resort entrance glitzed past the backseat window. Tourist addresses for mostly visiting tax evaders, melted behind the rented sedan. She leaned against Mom’s muscular presence in the back seat and felt those bare fingernails nursing the bits and blobs clinging to her face. Dad mutely steered toward some destination in a hurry. 

“You told me the driver service was reliable.”

“You debugged the room, didn’t you?” Mom readjusted the ice on my face. 

No further terse details leaked from those two. The dark leather interior pounded uncomfortably quiet. Is this what banking careers get you? Count me out. 

The unspoken puzzle-solving made her headache louder. “Mom, are we going to the police?”

“Shh, can you move your neck alright?”

The airport’s after hours darkness passed by them with the local unharried attitude. Droplets covered the view. 

“Aren’t we going to the police?”

“First things first. Let’s get a new place for the night.”

Those creeps…local thieves? Oh, this hurt. The aftermath of invaders is so chaotic. 

But bank thieves don’t follow clerks and managers to their vacation spot or to stuck up business galas. Not that Mom’s hair would tell you it was a gala night. I don’t always see Dad’s combover, but there was the silhouette tonight. 

Wet red towels, shards, metal bin, hard tile. Blood.

Frenchless nails still had bodily fluids encrusted into her cuticles. Sweat perfumed that back seat. Male pattern baldness looked no better post fight. Wait, the airport. If we’re here, that means we passed the police station too. 

“We missed it. Diving is definitely canceled tomorrow … later … what time is it again?” Fidgeting with her timepiece with whatever colorful nails she had left, she only managed to bump redial. Instant message: Sorry Hun, you know how Ambassadors are. 

What.

“Mom!” Both parents jumped in unison. “You set autotext so you could ignore my phone calls?!” Oops, shouldn’t have yelled. Whoever shoved that door in my face must have broken my nose. Everything hurts. “How bad does it look … is there a clinic? You ignored my calls on purpose! Is every text just on autosend? You left me outside waiting again,” pitching as loud as she dared. “Look at this! Vienna, again!” A manicure with a nose job was not going to cut it this time

Mom’s eyes studied Tam's injuries, not bothering to look down. Because she knew.

“I’m sorry Hun.”

“Is the contract dinner with all your hobnobs that important?” she whined.

“Finn…”

“Save the ‘I told you so’s’ for later.”

“Finn…”

“We got hung up Tam. We’re here, so keep your voice and head down.”

No fancy landscape lighting, not even automatic ones once they stepped out of the rental, illuminated anything. This sketch road motel somewhere on this beach was unacceptable. Mom was already pre-checking a way too retired tourist boat’s startup and shaky dock clearance. 

“We’re gonna do some midnight island hopping,” Dad offloaded some answers with suspiciously ready bags. “Private yacht trip anyone?”

“That. Is not a yacht. Where are the police.” Tamyra demanded.

“It’s after hours.”

“That’s not a thing.”

Mom threw off an impossibly well handled rope line, something long nails or flowing hairdos would not survive. Navigation controls lit up the pilot house a muted red. “You either tell her now why we were hung up or she’s gonna have a cow when I finish off the car.” 

“Finish the car.”

“Finn!”

“Fine! Tamyra, this is coming in hot and fast so sit down while I reverse us out of here.”

Her angry spats matched the resurrected engine. 

“We don’t sign contracts, we fulfill contracts.”

“Finn.”

“Contracts on … bad guys. Very bad guys. That’s who showed up tonight.”

Stupid answers got stupid looks. "Liiiiiike secret agents?” Why do banks need secret agents?

“Secret, yes.”

“So those creeps were thieves? Or not. How does a bank fulfill contr--”

“Finn, seriously.”

“We do assassination contracts. They were more or less retaliating after the last one in Vienna.” The ex-cruiser reached the reef edge. “Make sense? Sash, the car.”

Lethal fingers released the trigger, just before a rainburst kept the exploding car in check. She added over the growing roar, “ … and now you know why we end up in company-paid ritzy places every month!”

“wwwwhhhhhhhaaaaaAAAAAA???”