Audre & Bash Are Just Friends(18)
Harper Yao: “He works part-time at Just Because, that random gift shop on Degraw? I’ve never seen anyone there. It cannot be profitable.”
Jagger O’Mally: “And he does tattoos out of the stockroom. You need a secret password, though. Don’t get a tat, Audre, it’s sophomoric.”
Callie Verchinski: “Somebody said he bleaches the tips of his curls with L’Oréal box dye. Honestly? I’m about to ask him to do mine.”
Lulu Watson: “I heard they call him Bash ’cause he parties.”
Georgia Mayo: “No, Calder told me his name’s short for bashful. But don’t believe that shit. I hooked up with him two Saturdays ago. If he’s shy, I’m Lily Rose Depp.”
The reviews were mixed. And, it must be noted, everyone she’d spoken to was on various mind-altering substances. But the reports painted a picture.
The next day, she threw on a tank, a low-waist maxiskirt, and nonprescription glasses (they made her look professional). And then she walked the twenty minutes to Just Because.
It was a scorching-hot day, the sun glinting off strollers and cars. Folks were moving slower than usual, and so was Audre. After twenty sweaty minutes, she saw the shop just ahead of her on Degraw Street. The dusty gray awning read JUST BECAUSE in old-timey typewriter font. She’d passed it a million times on walks, but she’d never been inside. It was the kind of store that sold zany home decor that you couldn’t imagine anyone buying. Like oven mitts embroidered with I WILL CUT A BITCH. A soap dispenser reading YOU KNOW WHAT YOU TOUCHED. Meghan and Harry salt and pepper shakers. Novelty canvas totes, hammered silver rings, a disco ball vase.
Standing outside of the store, Audre started to rethink her mission. What was she going to say to Bash? She’d acted like such a maniac at Prospect Park—Bash would be well within his rights to kick her out of this goofy store. If he was even working there today.
You’re confident, she reminded herself. You’re accomplished. You were interviewed for the National Honor Society newsletter last fall! He’s just some boy.
On a deep inhale, Audre pulled open the glass door, rattling the bell hanging from the doorknob. And then she strode in like she owned the place.
Through the rows of merchandise, she could see Bash sitting on a stool behind the register. His elbows rested on the counter, and one hand propped up his chin. He was slumped over a bit as he scrolled on his phone. His posture was terrible.
A skinny stretchy headband held back his curls, which were popping out all over. He was wearing a white tee with a slouchy mesh shirt over it, joggers, and, again, so many rings. The mismatched ensemble would look nuts on anyone but him.
Bash looked up, locking eyes with Audre. She shot him a wide smile. He didn’t return it.
Which, fair. If she were Bash, she wouldn’t be thrilled to see her, either. But she didn’t let him throw her off. Audre had a job to do. Left to her own devices, she’d never complete the Experience Challenge alone.
“Me again. Hi!” Audre stood at the entrance, waving like a fool.
Bash put on a friendly, neutral expression. “Hi. Umm… you’re letting out the AC.”
“Whoops. My bad.” Quickly, she shut the door and then made a show of browsing the aisles of nonsense. “So, what’s up?”
“Just working.” He held up his phone. “Reading.”
“What are you reading? A book?”
“An essay called ‘Punks, Freaks, OutKasts, and ATLiens.’ It’s about Afrofuturism.”
Pasting on a smile, she headed up the aisle to the register. He watched her cautiously.
“Cool, cool. Outkast, huh? They’re iconic.”
Duh. Of course they were. This was so awkward, she could die.
“Yep. Iconic,” he said. “So, can I help you?”
“Yes, you can! I’m looking for, uh, something to decorate my room. It’s being renovated. Oh, this is cute.” She grabbed an embroidered throw pillow off a small display table. It read: ASK ME ABOUT MY CAT.
Bash glanced over at the pillow. “What’s your cat’s name?”
Audre didn’t have a cat. She was violently allergic. Desperate, her eyes scanned the wall shelves behind Bash for inspiration. She landed on a glow-in-the-dark birdhouse.
“Bird. His name’s Bird.”
“Bird the Cat, huh?” Some of the tension went out of his expression. He bit his lip, looking like he was holding back a laugh. Maybe he was softening up! “What’s the breed?”
Buying time, Audre asked, “Why? Are you a cat guy?”
“Huge cat guy. In preschool, I got bit by a feral kitten and for years after I thought I was half-feline. I found out I wasn’t when I jumped out of a second-floor window and didn’t land on my feet.”
“Tough lesson,” said Audre. What a thing to come out and say. Bash Henry had an odd, unfiltered way about him. It was kind of endearing.
“So, what’s the breed?” he repeated, the ice slowly melting.
“He’s a mutt,” she blurted out. Wait, was mutt a term exclusively used for dogs, not cats? Audre didn’t know anything about animals. In a panic, she picked up a tote that read I’M CRYING MY BEST. She grasped its handles in both hands, needing something to hold on to.
“A mutt, huh?” Bash smiled. “I used to have a ginger guy named Channel Orange.”