All eyes on me.
We walk into the Arvest Bank across from the Sonic where you and I worked, but I go through the door too slow. Cold metal slams into my shoulder on the backswing and I yelp like a kicked dog. The tellers stop typing and look up from their windows. Tie-clad men in offices glance over their computers and the customers turn toward the door.
I lower my eyes and try to shrink—to will an invisibility cloak over my head—but it’s hopeless. I’ve chosen today, of all days, to wear Mom’s Clapton tee shirt. It’s a faded mustard yellow and it glows like an inconvenient sun. The thing’s probably forty years old at this point—twice as old as I am. Even though I thought I would, I never did grow into it. The shirt flaps around my bony elbows like a flag.
Almost as soon as the sound of the door shutting behind me dissipates, my stomach growls and they look again. Jesus Christ. Like idiots, we didn’t eat after smoking earlier, but there’s never food in the fridge. They keep staring. And why wouldn’t they? Along with the shirt, my hair’s been dyed the color of honey since you met me a month ago and dubbed me “Bee” without explanation. You saw me, struggling to balance a tray of slushes, shakes, and tater tots, and yelled: “Honey Bee! Let me help with that.” From that day on, from the moment you skated over and grabbed my tray, your tattooed fingers brushing mine, I was your Bee.
You turn around and take my hand. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “You can do this.”
Hand in hand, we walk to the counter and announce we want to buy a house. We need to get pre-approved for a loan, we say. A few tellers smile, but they don’t speak. We wait a full minute before a man leans out of his office and calls to us.
“How y’all folks doing?” he asks in a drawl.
You pull me toward him. Your purse knocks heavily against your leg and I clutch the manila folder holding our documents. This house thing had been your idea of course.
The day after you called me Bee, we had both worked the night shift and when I clocked out, you were sitting on the curb, smoking under the dull lights. I asked if I could have a cigarette and you handed me one. We didn’t speak for a long time, just sat there and smoked, dry paper wetting between our fingers. Then you asked if I wanted to go for a drive.
“I have a car,” you said. “A fast one.”
So we drove. We drove down Main and across Grand, weaving down the back of the Neosho River, its curves unfolding in long, invisible lines of water. The night was clear and the light shone off the river and I wanted so badly for it to mean something but it didn’t. I held your hand anyway.
“If we were in a movie,” I said, “I’d ask you how far we could get in your car—how far away from here it could take us.”
“Oh yeah?” you asked, long hair whipping the headrest, reaching toward the open window while I shouted epiphanies at you.
“Yeah,” I said. “But that was all based on not knowing what else was out there—on thinking the pastures were greener. Now we know better.”
You thought about this. “You can’t run away on five dollars an hour anyway,” you said. Then you pulled into a parking lot and kissed me.
Five dollars an hour is what the loan officer sees though. Five dollars plus tips. The man scans our documents with his head down. Occasionally he grunts and shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything. The papers got jumbled in my folder and are all out of order. My leg shakes. I adjust my shirt and try not to think about the sweat beading under my bra strap.
Since we couldn’t run away on car hops’ salaries, we decided to be content where we were. After morning shifts, I’d slide into your passenger seat, waiting for you to start the engine so we could drive around the lake, searching for quiet streets and cul-de-sacs, sipping spiked sodas and cruising down rows of houses fronted by sycamores and river birch. Your favorite was a house with a porch that wrapped all the way to the backyard; mine was a little yellow one with siding as soft as Easter morning.
“I’m never getting out of here,” I said to you once, idling in front of that house.
When you looked at me, it hurt.
The bank man looks at us. He hands us each a stack of documents overflowing with small print. “Can I get y’alls signatures on these?” We each sign names we’ve never really gone by: Bee Parker. Kelly Barrow.
Last night, I walked you through every document we might need. Pay stubs. IDs. W-2s. We didn’t have nearly everything.
“What’ll we do when he realizes we don’t have it all?” I asked.
You scoffed. “By then, we’ll already have him hostage.”
I laughed, but it was a scared laugh. For a moment, I wondered if somehow we could still get that yellow house. After it was all over. The yellow house with the green lawn, tucked somewhere far away, engulfed by trees so tall you can’t see the tops.
Jesus. Who even does this anymore?
I look at you and nod.
In one jerking motion, you reach into your purse and pull out the gun. Cocked, you point it at the loan officer. I fish the pistol from under my shirt and step into the lobby.
All eyes on me.
