Cle0patra

I hate dying. At the ripe old age of sixteen, I’ve managed to get myself killed fifty-seven times, and it all starts like this. I was wiping the many java stains off the tables of Gogo Café while the hot summer air battled the half-broken air conditioner. The cafe was mostly empty, save for a short kid in the corner reading a book with his headphones in, and I was one of only two baristas working the afternoon shift. My mouth watered as the smell of freshly baked chocolate scones wafted through the air from the kitchen. I stopped wiping the counter to check my watch. How long was it until the shift ended? Just then, four tall women strode in looking as if they’d raided a high-end costume shop’s reject bin. “Are you open for business?” They chorused with voices that sounded like scratched records. One of them was dressed like a rockette from the 60’s, with a rusted gold monstrosity of both metal and real feathers peacocking proudly atop her crimson curls, and a too-gold sequin-covered dress of a dark mustardish colour. Many of the sequins and rhinestones were barely hanging on by a thread, and the costume had zigzagged stitches and torn apart seams, complete with a short, poofy skirt of torn tulle, complete with platform heels. The next fashion disaster wore a costume that was a mix of something stolen from the set of the Teen Beach Movie, and roadkill, because she wore bright red stilettos, a very big wig of poofed up hair, a candy striped necktie, and a black leather bodysuit matted with patches of what seemed to be silvery rhinestones and faux fur. The third wore something that could only have been described as a steamrolled Christmas tree with yellow fishnets and thigh highs, and the last looked like a nutcracker and the black swan from Swan Lake had been merged together. She wore a charcoal botched feathery tutu with only half of a skirt and black tights covered in gold buttons. She also wore stilettos, with blue, red and yellow splattered patchily over the shoes, complete with gold trim and embellishments that had been sloppily glued on. So what did I do when confronted by tall strangers who wore monstrously mismatched outfits? I did what any red blooded rationally thinking person would do. I bolted out the back door. Actually, I misspoke. I don’t think that the same four people who keep killing me over and over again qualify as strangers. My stained white apron dragged behind me, a cotton flag of please-stop-killing-me waving in the wind. I balled it up in my hands and tossed it behind me as I sprinted down the back alley, the clouds above suddenly clustering together, darkening the sky. It was as if the cumulus clouds were gathering together to laugh at my upcoming 58th demise, now in theaters. “Here we go again.” I muttered, glancing behind me, and sure enough, the barber shop quartet came running after me. Out of all the fifty seven times this has happened in the past year, I’ve died every time. Unfortunately for the costume thieves behind me, I can’t get murdered. It can’t happen. Trust me, they’ve tried. I can still feel pain and I can still die. I just get better. It’s somewhat of a blessing, I suppose. The first time the four spies girls, as I like to call them, showed up, threatening that if I didn't join MI6 and work for the British Intelligence, they’d send me to jail for life for my many cyber crimes and art thievery exploits, they didn't mean to kill me. They accidentally pushed me and I tumbled off the bridge and landed in the lake hundreds of feet below. And then we all discovered that I couldn’t die-die, and the onslaught of attacks commenced. A ninja star whizzed past and grazed my ear, making me shriek. “Oh, come on!” I yelled, forcing my legs to move faster. A quick glance behind tells me that all four of the heel clad monstrosities were hot on my trail. “I keep telling you guys, I’m not Cle0patra!” I screamed. That’s right. I’m not being chased by just any spies. Not just anyone can mess up their target so badly that they keep trying to kill a sixteen year old barista.  No, these are the most exceptionally awful spies in the entire world.  “My name is Anastatia LaCroix! I'm an orphan! I grew up in the convent across the street and I was homeschooled! I’m not a hacker!” I shrieked with panic. “Do I really look like someone who would hack neopets.com or whatever?” I added, exasperated. I turned my head, waiting for a response. Another ninja star. The leader of the world’s worst dance troupe looked ready to shoot fire from her flaring nostrils. “You didn’t hack neopets!” She yelled back as I pushed over a crate of cabbage skins from the pad thai place at the end of the building unit. “Thank you!” I screamed, slowing down. Finally! “You hacked multiple government servers, accessed private matters regarding national security, and you’ve stolen from the Uffizi, the Louvre, and the Acropolis, to name a few!” She screeched accusingly, barrelling towards me. My eyes widened and I returned to sprinting. Fear made my feet fly, and I found myself on the other side of the road, being chased through the public park. “Ever thought about voicing cartoon villains?” I asked, panicked as we ran past a large fountain. I glanced momentarily at the water’s reflection; my short auburn hair flying out, my copper eyes brimming with terror, my olive skin sunburnt, my small frame frozen mid-bound, and the four crazy ladies chasing after me. Little children playing in the grass stared after us in a mix of mild horror and fascination as we ran past. “It’s just manhunt!” I yelled helpfully at a particularly concerned little girl, who had dropped her daisy chain in the grass when she saw me dodging ninja stars, sharp kitchen utensils, and one particularly large rolling pin that I caught mere centimeters from my face. “They’re just really competitive!” I added, swerving between concerned parents and useless stone statuettes. The girl still looked permanently scarred for life. The minute we were out of the children’s earshot, I lost it. “What the hell, guys? A rolling pin? Seriously?” I asked, glaring at the four women. They collectively glared back, and their glares were scarier, so I turned my head back around and resumed focusing on running for my life. We ran onto the boardwalk, and I found myself dodging shouting parents and people angry cause I made them drop their ice cream. “Hey, watch where you’re going, young lady!” One man yelled. “I’m sorry!” I yelled over my shoulder apologetically. The rolling pin in my hand didn’t serve as much of a help as I picked up speed, going up a tall ramp that made my legs ache with effort. I was seriously done with the Great Escape ensuing every week. I turned the corner before my badly dressed pursuers, and the ramp led to the highest point on the boardwalk with a beautiful view. It was also a dead end. Suddenly, an idea struck me. A dumb idea, but hey, an idea nonetheless. I ran back down and stood at the edge of the ramp, teasing and making faces. “Where did you get your costumes? The dumpster?” I stuck my tongue out like a five year old for good measure, and began running up the ramp at full speed. Sure enough, the nightmare quadruplets picked up the pace, too, and were only a hair’s breadth away when I leapt over the railing of the boardwalk. Unfortunately for them, they smashed through the wooden railing and fell into the water at least a good sixty feet below us, while I was still hanging on to the boardwalk. Sighing, I pulled myself back onto the ramp, and hurried away from the quickly gathering crowd. I tossed my wig into a nearby trash can, revealing my shoulder length dark hair the colour of molten chocolate with just a touch of gold, never stopping my crisp pace. I squeezed out my contact lenses, too, and let them slip from my fingers, revealing my hazel eyes. I wiped off the “birthmark” I had drawn on with eye pencil everyday for the last year just above my left eyebrow, and smiled. My name was Celeste Aurelia-Rose DiMaggio, otherwise known as Cle0patra. I was sixteen years old, but I wasn’t an orphan. I was the sole and only heir to the DiMaggio fortune. DiMaggio as in Francesca DiMaggio, the world's most renowned art thief and hacker extraordinaire. Among other things, of course. And I am her daughter. I snorted in mild amusement as I glanced behind me in the general direction of the broken boardwalk, and the four fashion disasters, breaking into a slow jog, and putting my earbuds in. Like I said, the world’s most exceptionally awful spies.