Bianca Torre Is Afraid of Everything, page 6
I point to my telescope, and he smiles.
Eight
Another Small Felony
Fear #16: Getting Caught Doing Something Bad
Fear #26: Dangerous Situations in General
And perhaps, since those two are a little vague, I can now add
Fear #55: Breaking into a Dead Guy’s Apartment
My heart thumps wildly in my chest and my stomach squeezes. The idea of it was one thing, but now that I’m actually walking into Anderson and Mr. Conspiracy’s apartment building, I feel I’m on the verge of puking again.
There’s not a muscle in my body that isn’t tense as I step into the elevator, which only worsens the shaking of my hands. My cell phone practically smacks the side of my head.
Fear #35: Elevators
I should have taken the stairs.
On the bright side, I’m alone for the moment. I’m not sure if that makes the elevator situation better or worse. Hopefully the call doesn’t drop. “Do you really think this will work?” I ask.
“I guess we’ll find out,” Anderson says on the line.
“I watched a good fifteen minutes of lockpicking videos, so I’m practically an expert.” I press the button to the second floor and the doors slowly close.
“That confidence sounds good on you.”
I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or sarcasm, but my focus is pulled by the elevator slowing to a stop.
The doors open with a ding. I let out a breath and thank Jesus.
Ronan, Anderson’s younger brother, is in the hallway, heading toward the elevators, and spots me coming through the doors. He’s in a loose Lebron James Lakers jersey and sweatpants. He looks a lot like Anderson, but a little shorter and with his hair dyed a bright red.
“You don’t want to be seen with me,” I blurt.
Ronan blinks a few times. “Are you okay, Bianca? You seem weird. Well, weirder.”
It’s a fair point.
“What are you talking about?” Anderson asks over the phone.
“Ronan’s here,” I say.
“Is that Anderson?” Ronan asks. “Can you tell him to grab some tampons? It’s shark week, and Mom used all of them. I was going to go now, but I’d rather not.”
“We’re gonna buy your brother some tampons after this,” I tell Anderson. I lower the phone a bit to look back to Ronan and keep my voice low. “We got you. But I’m trying to look in Mr. Conspiracy’s apartment, so it might be a minute.”
“I didn’t see or hear you,” Ronan says, “and I’m not asking questions.”
He’s the best. “Thanks, I’ll see you later. If this goes well. If it doesn’t, I’ve never met anyone else in this building in my entire life.”
Ronan winks before turning on his heel and heading back into his apartment.
“Okay,” I tell Anderson. “I’m approaching the door.”
“You probably haven’t even moved yet.”
“I’m about to.” I take a deep breath, and then start forward. I just stare at the door of Mr. Conspiracy’s apartment. “Here. I’m putting the phone down while I try to get this open.”
“Go for it,” Anderson says.
Placing my phone in my jeans pocket so my hands are free, I pull out the bobby pin that I stole from Kate. Apparently I’m taking the “Be Gay, Do Crime” meme incredibly far. I think back to the instructional videos I watched on YouTube and carefully go through the steps.
But there’s no click.
Okay. It’s fine. I look both ways down the hall, but no one else is around. It’s quiet. This is good.
I insert the bobby pin again. This feels better. I think I got it.
A snap!
Oh, wait. That was the bobby pin. I pull out the broken piece sticking from the lock. This isn’t going to work, of course it isn’t going to work. What was I thinking? A few videos and suddenly I’m a locksmith?
It’s not like I can just walk right in.
I twist the doorknob and it opens. My jaw drops.
I fumble inside as quickly as possible, taking the phone out of my pocket and holding it to my face to give Anderson an update. “The door was unlocked. I’m just walking right in.”
“Wow,” he says. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Good thing you didn’t even have to try to pick it.”
My face flushes. “Totally.”
I quietly close the door all the way. There are some remnants of the police going through and likely taking pictures of the crime scene, like they didn’t seem to remove many items after ruling it a suicide. I peer into the living room, which is where the whole thing happened. It looks like the building management is already feeling the end-of-year slacking mood, because they didn’t even get around to cleaning the bloodstains or ripping out the ruined carpet yet. My head spins as my eyes rake over the red.
Deep breaths. Mr. Conspiracy isn’t here. Pretend it’s ketchup?
Doesn’t work. I try to keep my eyes off the floor, which is made a lot easier due to the sheer amount of papers hanging from every available surface.
He not only has some Post-it notes on the walls, they cover the entire apartment—squares of different colors connected by various strings. There are three different maps of Los Angeles tacked up with circles and markings I can’t make out from the doorway.
“How is it?” Anderson asks.
“It’s . . . exactly how you’d expect. There’s maps and notes everywhere.”
I look across the living room to the window where I saw everything.
To where the strange object is taped. I have to do this.
I head toward the window, carefully avoiding the discolored carpet.
“I see you,” Anderson says. “Wave a little.”
I give a half-hearted one.
“I kind of get why you like doing this,” Anderson adds from the phone.
I kind of get why people don’t like that I do.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I tease.
“Yeah, you don’t have to worry about that. You should hurry up though.”
Anderson’s right. Every moment I stay in here is a moment I can get caught.
That’s when I see it. Discarded on the floor, the edges a bit torn.
The Anna’s hummingbird drawing.
I don’t know where Mr. Conspiracy kept the rest of them, but I don’t want to leave it on the floor like that. It was the last one he made for me. I pick it up and quickly fold the drawing so it can fit in my pocket.
Then I turn back to the window. I study it and spot a rectangular object taped to the top, just like we saw from the telescope. The tape is nearly the exact color of the wall. “There really is something there,” I mutter.
“Well, that’s good.”
I set down my phone so I can use both hands to peel off the object and yank away the tape. It’s a small notebook. I flip through a couple of pages and then press my phone back to my ear. “It looks like his diary.”
“You might want to check it later,” Anderson says, his words rushed. “Ronan texted me that he can hear the landlord talking from down the hall. He thinks they might be going into Mr. Conspiracy’s apartment.”
I let out a breath. “Oh, great.”
Fear #16: Getting Caught Doing Something Bad
My heart is pounding in my throat. I hate the feeling. I swallow, like that’ll help.
“The fire escape,” I say. “I can use it to jump down. That’s what the killer did.”
Anderson sighs. “At least no pull-ups are required.”
Now I hear the footsteps. My breathing comes out rapid as my chest squeezes. I’m about to have a heart attack. I rub my fingers over my eyes. My hairline itches. Now’s not the time.
“Bianca, are you okay?” Anderson asks.
I open the window, clutching my phone and the diary. I close the curtains as best as I can as I step onto the fire escape. It’s creaky and almost sways in the wind.
My heart slams in my chest and now my stomach turns. I feel light-headed and want to keep my eyes squeezed shut.
Fear #29: Falling
Behind me, voices echo from the doorway. I have to move.
My legs shake as I look down. A few tears pop up in my eyes.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” I whisper into the phone.
“I see you, you’re okay,” he says. “You can do this.”
Still shaking, I make my way across to where it drops off toward the dirt below. I stand on the escape, wondering why in the hell they made the stair part stop on the second floor.
“I can’t,” I whisper. I’m not even sure if he can hear me. “I can’t. I’ll get caught, it’s fine, it’s . . .”
“You can jump, I promise you’ll make it. See that bush underneath? That can break your fall.” Anderson’s voice is urgent on the line. I look down and spot the greenery he’s talking about. “What would Roronoa Zoro do?”
This would be nothing for him.
I drop down so I’m sitting on the edge and squeeze my eyes closed.
“You sure I’ll make it?”
“I’m sure.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Keeping my eyes shut, I slide off the edge and into the bush. My stomach lurches, but I land right in the mess of leaves and branches. It hurts, and I think I might have a few cuts and bruises, but I’m okay.
I open my eyes. I’m on the ground. I’m okay. And while my heart rate is fast, it’s not overwhelming. I take a deep breath and stand up.
“Nice job, Pirate Hunter,” Anderson jokes on the line. “Now, get the hell out of there.”
Nine
Dead Man’s Book of Conspiracies
We stopped at CVS after my mostly successful break-in to get tampons and Ben & Jerry’s, and brought both back to Anderson’s apartment. Sometimes you have to celebrate the little things, like breaking into your murdered neighbor’s place for his secret journal and getting out alive.
Anderson digs into his pint of ice cream, Strawberry Cheesecake, as I take a bite of Milk & Cookies. He leans back against the edge of his bed, next to me on the floor. “Are we ready to do this?” he asks.
“I mean, I already broke in and stole it. Might as well read what I took.” I have to give myself credit for getting the words to come out calmly. On the inside, I’m a bundle of nerves. Are there any clues inside that journal that will hint at the motive behind the murder?
Anderson puts his ice cream down on the floor next to him and opens the diary to the first page. He reads for a moment. “All right, a lot of this is boring, or just random bird sketches, probably for you—cute. I think we should skim . . .” He starts turning pages. “Oh, he writes about feeling like he’s being watched. I wonder why.” Anderson takes a whole beat to look accusingly at me.
Heat rises to my face. “Okay, sure, that was me.”
He flips through the pages like he’s shuffling a deck of cards until his eyes widen and he stops on one. “He was being threatened.”
I hold my hands up in defense, and a bit of chocolate slides down the end of my ice cream spoon. “Okay, that was definitely not me.” I lean forward to try to see some of the writing. It’s surprisingly neat. I was expecting a frantic chicken scratch, but I guess if you’re going to leave a diary for someone else to read, you should at least make it legible. “I don’t have the balls to threaten anyone.”
Anderson nods. “I believe that.” He eyes the diary. “Especially because they left messages in blood outside his door and sent dead animals. You don’t seem the type.”
The mere thought of it wrinkles my nose and has me biting hard on my cheek.
Fear #10: Blood
And while I’m not sure I gave it much thought before . . .
Fear #56: Animal Carcasses
It’s like they say, fear something new every day.
“Yeah, I’m more of an observer than someone who takes action.”
Anderson gestures to his window. “Clearly.”
I scoot closer to Anderson, so I can get next to him. “What else does it say?”
I reach for the diary and he snaps it to the side, keeping it out of reach. He looks slightly offended. “Well, if you give me a second, Bianca, I’ll tell you.”
“Sorry,” I say, sitting back.
It’s almost strange that the TV isn’t on with some kind of show, but it’s surprisingly comfortable.
Anderson flicks through more of the diary, looking intently at the pages. He bites his bottom lip as he concentrates, glasses drooping on his nose. He’s holding the diary on top of his bent knees.
Since he’s focused on that, my eyes drift around the room to the various figures carefully displayed. They don’t even have dust on them—I know as I’ve helped him clean the shelves quite a few times. I stop on one of Roronoa Zoro, posed in his three-sword style.
“How do you get muscles like that?” I ask.
The words sort of come out, and my face immediately heats, especially when he looks up from the diary and at me.
“Excuse me?” he asks.
“I’m just . . .” I hold up my own arm, with more jiggling skin than muscle making up my barely there bicep. “I don’t know. I might like to build a little strength.”
I don’t feel comfortable in my body and I certainly don’t like it. Maybe a little weight training or whatever would actually help. For some reason, the idea of building up my physique, looking a little more masculine . . . it sends this excited tingle through my chest.
It’s like I’m immediately forgiven for the interruption because his lips turn upward and his eyebrows raise. “Well, first of all, Zoro is a fictional character, so maybe lower your standards a little. And, like I said, you should come to the gym with me.”
I don’t know if I can make any promises. Would it help me feel better? He might have a point about self-defense being helpful. Especially with a murderer on the loose. “You’re okay with that?”
He makes a face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I shrug, leaning back against the bedspread. “I don’t know. It’s just like, I don’t want to overstep. We’re anime friends, and while you’re basically my only friend, I don’t want to intrude into other parts of your life if you don’t want that.”
He thinks for a moment, like he’s trying to pick the right words. “I appreciate that, but I’ll let you know if it’s overstepping, and this isn’t. That’s why I invited you. Besides, they kind of know I like anime there.”
“The Naruto and DBZ variety?”
He nods, wincing, and looks up at the dark screen of the television. “I didn’t really think about it, but I guess this is the first time we’ve hung out and not talked about anime.”
“Is that bad?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I mean, there’s always going to be parts of us we don’t share. It’s just different sides that others sometimes bring out of us or we decide to keep hidden.”
He’s right.
“Yeah, and I guess we don’t really owe all of ourselves to anyone,” I say.
“Exactly.”
I haven’t really thought about that before, but it’s kind of nice. I’ve always felt so pressured to tell everyone I’m a lesbian, including my parents, but maybe it’s a part of me that people should earn the right to get to know.
“That being said,” Anderson continues, “I’m not saying we can only talk about anime and murder. Sure, you happen to be my go-to person when it comes to weeb stuff, but that doesn’t mean I only like you because you’re a geek.” He turns his head toward me. “What’s your favorite bird?”
I shake my head. “That’s like the hardest get-to-know-you question for me. There are so many. I’d at least need to narrow it down by order or genus.”
Anderson laughs. “How is that the most Bianca answer in the world? Moving on. What’s something about you that no one else knows that you’d want to share with me?”
I don’t have that many secrets since I told Anderson I’m a lesbian and about the whole people-watching thing not long after we started hanging out. Sure, he doesn’t know about Elaine, but I don’t think I’m ready to share that with anyone yet.
I’d probably die even trying to admit my crush on her.
“I kind of want to buy clothes in the men’s department,” I blurt. Wait. Why did I say that? I wasn’t expecting to say that. “I mean, actual pockets. I think I’d like the cuts better.”
Anderson doesn’t question or make me explain further. “I can go with you, if that would be more comfortable. Or we can look together online. I have excellent taste.”
I gesture to his oversize Frieza tank top with the words This Isn’t Even My Final Form on it. “Is that right?”
“Please, you’ve complimented me on this shirt every other time I wore it.” He waves me off.
And he’s right. I love that shirt.
“Really, though. Thanks.”
Anderson pushes up his glasses, looking away from me. “I really want to learn to draw comics.”
I wasn’t expecting him to confess that, but I actually love the idea. To the left of us, he has two bookshelves filled with manga and graphic novels. It’s already a shared love, but to be able to read something Anderson created? That would be incredible.
“That’s so cool? Oh my God? You should. I’d read all of them.”
He seems slightly embarrassed as he looks back at me. “Yeah? It’s not like I’m a real artist. I can draw pretty well, but I feel like everyone already has their things at this point, stuff they’ve been doing forever. I’m worried that I’d already be behind.”
I know what he means. I have no idea what I want to do with myself, and my biggest example is a sister who has been obsessed with theater since entering stage left out of the womb. But while I talk to myself in negatives, I don’t want to do the same for Anderson.
“There’s, like, grandmas that start new hobbies and skills and end up mastering them. I think you should try it.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Besides, you’re super smart, creative, and very funny. So, worst-case scenario, make the story so entertaining that people no longer care whether or not it’s actually good.”
He cracks a smile that shows his teeth. “Those are our favorite kind.”
Eight
Another Small Felony
Fear #16: Getting Caught Doing Something Bad
Fear #26: Dangerous Situations in General
And perhaps, since those two are a little vague, I can now add
Fear #55: Breaking into a Dead Guy’s Apartment
My heart thumps wildly in my chest and my stomach squeezes. The idea of it was one thing, but now that I’m actually walking into Anderson and Mr. Conspiracy’s apartment building, I feel I’m on the verge of puking again.
There’s not a muscle in my body that isn’t tense as I step into the elevator, which only worsens the shaking of my hands. My cell phone practically smacks the side of my head.
Fear #35: Elevators
I should have taken the stairs.
On the bright side, I’m alone for the moment. I’m not sure if that makes the elevator situation better or worse. Hopefully the call doesn’t drop. “Do you really think this will work?” I ask.
“I guess we’ll find out,” Anderson says on the line.
“I watched a good fifteen minutes of lockpicking videos, so I’m practically an expert.” I press the button to the second floor and the doors slowly close.
“That confidence sounds good on you.”
I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or sarcasm, but my focus is pulled by the elevator slowing to a stop.
The doors open with a ding. I let out a breath and thank Jesus.
Ronan, Anderson’s younger brother, is in the hallway, heading toward the elevators, and spots me coming through the doors. He’s in a loose Lebron James Lakers jersey and sweatpants. He looks a lot like Anderson, but a little shorter and with his hair dyed a bright red.
“You don’t want to be seen with me,” I blurt.
Ronan blinks a few times. “Are you okay, Bianca? You seem weird. Well, weirder.”
It’s a fair point.
“What are you talking about?” Anderson asks over the phone.
“Ronan’s here,” I say.
“Is that Anderson?” Ronan asks. “Can you tell him to grab some tampons? It’s shark week, and Mom used all of them. I was going to go now, but I’d rather not.”
“We’re gonna buy your brother some tampons after this,” I tell Anderson. I lower the phone a bit to look back to Ronan and keep my voice low. “We got you. But I’m trying to look in Mr. Conspiracy’s apartment, so it might be a minute.”
“I didn’t see or hear you,” Ronan says, “and I’m not asking questions.”
He’s the best. “Thanks, I’ll see you later. If this goes well. If it doesn’t, I’ve never met anyone else in this building in my entire life.”
Ronan winks before turning on his heel and heading back into his apartment.
“Okay,” I tell Anderson. “I’m approaching the door.”
“You probably haven’t even moved yet.”
“I’m about to.” I take a deep breath, and then start forward. I just stare at the door of Mr. Conspiracy’s apartment. “Here. I’m putting the phone down while I try to get this open.”
“Go for it,” Anderson says.
Placing my phone in my jeans pocket so my hands are free, I pull out the bobby pin that I stole from Kate. Apparently I’m taking the “Be Gay, Do Crime” meme incredibly far. I think back to the instructional videos I watched on YouTube and carefully go through the steps.
But there’s no click.
Okay. It’s fine. I look both ways down the hall, but no one else is around. It’s quiet. This is good.
I insert the bobby pin again. This feels better. I think I got it.
A snap!
Oh, wait. That was the bobby pin. I pull out the broken piece sticking from the lock. This isn’t going to work, of course it isn’t going to work. What was I thinking? A few videos and suddenly I’m a locksmith?
It’s not like I can just walk right in.
I twist the doorknob and it opens. My jaw drops.
I fumble inside as quickly as possible, taking the phone out of my pocket and holding it to my face to give Anderson an update. “The door was unlocked. I’m just walking right in.”
“Wow,” he says. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Good thing you didn’t even have to try to pick it.”
My face flushes. “Totally.”
I quietly close the door all the way. There are some remnants of the police going through and likely taking pictures of the crime scene, like they didn’t seem to remove many items after ruling it a suicide. I peer into the living room, which is where the whole thing happened. It looks like the building management is already feeling the end-of-year slacking mood, because they didn’t even get around to cleaning the bloodstains or ripping out the ruined carpet yet. My head spins as my eyes rake over the red.
Deep breaths. Mr. Conspiracy isn’t here. Pretend it’s ketchup?
Doesn’t work. I try to keep my eyes off the floor, which is made a lot easier due to the sheer amount of papers hanging from every available surface.
He not only has some Post-it notes on the walls, they cover the entire apartment—squares of different colors connected by various strings. There are three different maps of Los Angeles tacked up with circles and markings I can’t make out from the doorway.
“How is it?” Anderson asks.
“It’s . . . exactly how you’d expect. There’s maps and notes everywhere.”
I look across the living room to the window where I saw everything.
To where the strange object is taped. I have to do this.
I head toward the window, carefully avoiding the discolored carpet.
“I see you,” Anderson says. “Wave a little.”
I give a half-hearted one.
“I kind of get why you like doing this,” Anderson adds from the phone.
I kind of get why people don’t like that I do.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I tease.
“Yeah, you don’t have to worry about that. You should hurry up though.”
Anderson’s right. Every moment I stay in here is a moment I can get caught.
That’s when I see it. Discarded on the floor, the edges a bit torn.
The Anna’s hummingbird drawing.
I don’t know where Mr. Conspiracy kept the rest of them, but I don’t want to leave it on the floor like that. It was the last one he made for me. I pick it up and quickly fold the drawing so it can fit in my pocket.
Then I turn back to the window. I study it and spot a rectangular object taped to the top, just like we saw from the telescope. The tape is nearly the exact color of the wall. “There really is something there,” I mutter.
“Well, that’s good.”
I set down my phone so I can use both hands to peel off the object and yank away the tape. It’s a small notebook. I flip through a couple of pages and then press my phone back to my ear. “It looks like his diary.”
“You might want to check it later,” Anderson says, his words rushed. “Ronan texted me that he can hear the landlord talking from down the hall. He thinks they might be going into Mr. Conspiracy’s apartment.”
I let out a breath. “Oh, great.”
Fear #16: Getting Caught Doing Something Bad
My heart is pounding in my throat. I hate the feeling. I swallow, like that’ll help.
“The fire escape,” I say. “I can use it to jump down. That’s what the killer did.”
Anderson sighs. “At least no pull-ups are required.”
Now I hear the footsteps. My breathing comes out rapid as my chest squeezes. I’m about to have a heart attack. I rub my fingers over my eyes. My hairline itches. Now’s not the time.
“Bianca, are you okay?” Anderson asks.
I open the window, clutching my phone and the diary. I close the curtains as best as I can as I step onto the fire escape. It’s creaky and almost sways in the wind.
My heart slams in my chest and now my stomach turns. I feel light-headed and want to keep my eyes squeezed shut.
Fear #29: Falling
Behind me, voices echo from the doorway. I have to move.
My legs shake as I look down. A few tears pop up in my eyes.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” I whisper into the phone.
“I see you, you’re okay,” he says. “You can do this.”
Still shaking, I make my way across to where it drops off toward the dirt below. I stand on the escape, wondering why in the hell they made the stair part stop on the second floor.
“I can’t,” I whisper. I’m not even sure if he can hear me. “I can’t. I’ll get caught, it’s fine, it’s . . .”
“You can jump, I promise you’ll make it. See that bush underneath? That can break your fall.” Anderson’s voice is urgent on the line. I look down and spot the greenery he’s talking about. “What would Roronoa Zoro do?”
This would be nothing for him.
I drop down so I’m sitting on the edge and squeeze my eyes closed.
“You sure I’ll make it?”
“I’m sure.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Keeping my eyes shut, I slide off the edge and into the bush. My stomach lurches, but I land right in the mess of leaves and branches. It hurts, and I think I might have a few cuts and bruises, but I’m okay.
I open my eyes. I’m on the ground. I’m okay. And while my heart rate is fast, it’s not overwhelming. I take a deep breath and stand up.
“Nice job, Pirate Hunter,” Anderson jokes on the line. “Now, get the hell out of there.”
Nine
Dead Man’s Book of Conspiracies
We stopped at CVS after my mostly successful break-in to get tampons and Ben & Jerry’s, and brought both back to Anderson’s apartment. Sometimes you have to celebrate the little things, like breaking into your murdered neighbor’s place for his secret journal and getting out alive.
Anderson digs into his pint of ice cream, Strawberry Cheesecake, as I take a bite of Milk & Cookies. He leans back against the edge of his bed, next to me on the floor. “Are we ready to do this?” he asks.
“I mean, I already broke in and stole it. Might as well read what I took.” I have to give myself credit for getting the words to come out calmly. On the inside, I’m a bundle of nerves. Are there any clues inside that journal that will hint at the motive behind the murder?
Anderson puts his ice cream down on the floor next to him and opens the diary to the first page. He reads for a moment. “All right, a lot of this is boring, or just random bird sketches, probably for you—cute. I think we should skim . . .” He starts turning pages. “Oh, he writes about feeling like he’s being watched. I wonder why.” Anderson takes a whole beat to look accusingly at me.
Heat rises to my face. “Okay, sure, that was me.”
He flips through the pages like he’s shuffling a deck of cards until his eyes widen and he stops on one. “He was being threatened.”
I hold my hands up in defense, and a bit of chocolate slides down the end of my ice cream spoon. “Okay, that was definitely not me.” I lean forward to try to see some of the writing. It’s surprisingly neat. I was expecting a frantic chicken scratch, but I guess if you’re going to leave a diary for someone else to read, you should at least make it legible. “I don’t have the balls to threaten anyone.”
Anderson nods. “I believe that.” He eyes the diary. “Especially because they left messages in blood outside his door and sent dead animals. You don’t seem the type.”
The mere thought of it wrinkles my nose and has me biting hard on my cheek.
Fear #10: Blood
And while I’m not sure I gave it much thought before . . .
Fear #56: Animal Carcasses
It’s like they say, fear something new every day.
“Yeah, I’m more of an observer than someone who takes action.”
Anderson gestures to his window. “Clearly.”
I scoot closer to Anderson, so I can get next to him. “What else does it say?”
I reach for the diary and he snaps it to the side, keeping it out of reach. He looks slightly offended. “Well, if you give me a second, Bianca, I’ll tell you.”
“Sorry,” I say, sitting back.
It’s almost strange that the TV isn’t on with some kind of show, but it’s surprisingly comfortable.
Anderson flicks through more of the diary, looking intently at the pages. He bites his bottom lip as he concentrates, glasses drooping on his nose. He’s holding the diary on top of his bent knees.
Since he’s focused on that, my eyes drift around the room to the various figures carefully displayed. They don’t even have dust on them—I know as I’ve helped him clean the shelves quite a few times. I stop on one of Roronoa Zoro, posed in his three-sword style.
“How do you get muscles like that?” I ask.
The words sort of come out, and my face immediately heats, especially when he looks up from the diary and at me.
“Excuse me?” he asks.
“I’m just . . .” I hold up my own arm, with more jiggling skin than muscle making up my barely there bicep. “I don’t know. I might like to build a little strength.”
I don’t feel comfortable in my body and I certainly don’t like it. Maybe a little weight training or whatever would actually help. For some reason, the idea of building up my physique, looking a little more masculine . . . it sends this excited tingle through my chest.
It’s like I’m immediately forgiven for the interruption because his lips turn upward and his eyebrows raise. “Well, first of all, Zoro is a fictional character, so maybe lower your standards a little. And, like I said, you should come to the gym with me.”
I don’t know if I can make any promises. Would it help me feel better? He might have a point about self-defense being helpful. Especially with a murderer on the loose. “You’re okay with that?”
He makes a face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I shrug, leaning back against the bedspread. “I don’t know. It’s just like, I don’t want to overstep. We’re anime friends, and while you’re basically my only friend, I don’t want to intrude into other parts of your life if you don’t want that.”
He thinks for a moment, like he’s trying to pick the right words. “I appreciate that, but I’ll let you know if it’s overstepping, and this isn’t. That’s why I invited you. Besides, they kind of know I like anime there.”
“The Naruto and DBZ variety?”
He nods, wincing, and looks up at the dark screen of the television. “I didn’t really think about it, but I guess this is the first time we’ve hung out and not talked about anime.”
“Is that bad?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I mean, there’s always going to be parts of us we don’t share. It’s just different sides that others sometimes bring out of us or we decide to keep hidden.”
He’s right.
“Yeah, and I guess we don’t really owe all of ourselves to anyone,” I say.
“Exactly.”
I haven’t really thought about that before, but it’s kind of nice. I’ve always felt so pressured to tell everyone I’m a lesbian, including my parents, but maybe it’s a part of me that people should earn the right to get to know.
“That being said,” Anderson continues, “I’m not saying we can only talk about anime and murder. Sure, you happen to be my go-to person when it comes to weeb stuff, but that doesn’t mean I only like you because you’re a geek.” He turns his head toward me. “What’s your favorite bird?”
I shake my head. “That’s like the hardest get-to-know-you question for me. There are so many. I’d at least need to narrow it down by order or genus.”
Anderson laughs. “How is that the most Bianca answer in the world? Moving on. What’s something about you that no one else knows that you’d want to share with me?”
I don’t have that many secrets since I told Anderson I’m a lesbian and about the whole people-watching thing not long after we started hanging out. Sure, he doesn’t know about Elaine, but I don’t think I’m ready to share that with anyone yet.
I’d probably die even trying to admit my crush on her.
“I kind of want to buy clothes in the men’s department,” I blurt. Wait. Why did I say that? I wasn’t expecting to say that. “I mean, actual pockets. I think I’d like the cuts better.”
Anderson doesn’t question or make me explain further. “I can go with you, if that would be more comfortable. Or we can look together online. I have excellent taste.”
I gesture to his oversize Frieza tank top with the words This Isn’t Even My Final Form on it. “Is that right?”
“Please, you’ve complimented me on this shirt every other time I wore it.” He waves me off.
And he’s right. I love that shirt.
“Really, though. Thanks.”
Anderson pushes up his glasses, looking away from me. “I really want to learn to draw comics.”
I wasn’t expecting him to confess that, but I actually love the idea. To the left of us, he has two bookshelves filled with manga and graphic novels. It’s already a shared love, but to be able to read something Anderson created? That would be incredible.
“That’s so cool? Oh my God? You should. I’d read all of them.”
He seems slightly embarrassed as he looks back at me. “Yeah? It’s not like I’m a real artist. I can draw pretty well, but I feel like everyone already has their things at this point, stuff they’ve been doing forever. I’m worried that I’d already be behind.”
I know what he means. I have no idea what I want to do with myself, and my biggest example is a sister who has been obsessed with theater since entering stage left out of the womb. But while I talk to myself in negatives, I don’t want to do the same for Anderson.
“There’s, like, grandmas that start new hobbies and skills and end up mastering them. I think you should try it.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Besides, you’re super smart, creative, and very funny. So, worst-case scenario, make the story so entertaining that people no longer care whether or not it’s actually good.”
He cracks a smile that shows his teeth. “Those are our favorite kind.”
