Vassa in the Night by Sarah Porter Page B

lethargically. “Vassa, my imp. You may call me Babs. We have a deal, then? Three nights?”
    â€œFine,” I say. There’s not much else I can do at the moment. The hands herd me up to the counter, thumping at my back and prodding my ankles. I swing my hair, trying to dislodge that hideous clinging paw, and it punches my ribs to retaliate. I’m dragged around to the back of the counter then jabbed by glitter-slicked nails until I sit down in the chair Babs vacated to come after me. Torn mustard stuffing shows through shredded upholstery. Unlike everything else in the store the chair is filthy, its cushions the color and consistency of soot-crusted oatmeal.
    â€œYou can start,” Babs wheezes, “tonight. Be careful you don’t make mistakes when you’re counting out change. I’ll expect the balance in the register to be exact . Otherwise, we’ll have to attend to you. A reliable numerical sense is the first foundation of the mind. It lets you count the seconds you have left. It adds rigor, little one. And you seem … shaky.”
    At least the hands have finally stopped grappling at me. They’re balancing on their wrist-stumps on the counter, palms facing inward and their fingertips curling. Those green-spangled nails seem to watch me like a row of quizzical eyes. Their postures are perfectly matched. “Got it,” I tell Babs absently. Once she’s asleep and the hands are off patrolling I can wait for the next sucker to arrive and sing the jingle, coax the store down to the ground again. Then I’ll just have the motorcyclist to deal with.
    â€œThat’s nice to hear,” Babs says. “I’ll be asleep in the back.” She turns to leave, her hand on a narrow door in the corner. Erg pokes me. A reminder.
    â€œWhat if I get hungry?” I ask.
    â€œOh … You can eat what you like while you’re here. Just don’t take anything out of my store. You understand.” She glances lazily at the hands. “Dismissed, you two. Back to your duties.”
    And then they’re gone, and I’m in a chair that wobbles with each hop and twirl of the floor below me. The first thing I do is take out my phone; I need to tell Chelsea I’m okay. The phone is dead, though, and I feel like I should have known it would be. There’s nothing I can do but sigh and stuff it back in my pocket.
    Almost the entire wall to my right is made of glass and in it the city dances with manic enthusiasm, the houses and stores rushing up and down as if all those glowing windows were caught in a dark tide. The light projecting from BY’s waves like a flag across the parking lot, sometimes catching one of those skewered heads and making it shine: dead women and men becoming moons in my personal night. When Babs told me I owe her more than I owe myself, I thought that more than nothing might not amount to much. Now Joel’s head bounces by, gazing with blank rotten rapture through the glass, and I want to ask him: What do I owe myself, Joel? What did I borrow from myself, and how on earth will I ever give it back?

 
    CHAPTER 4

    Erg crawls out of my pocket and up my arm, then perches on the counter with her tiny legs dangling over the edge. “Nice work!” she says. The blood on her chin has dried into a garnet smudge. “I mean, that’s what you should say to me, now. And you could add something poetic about your inexpressible gratitude, and how super dumb it would have been to leave me outside.”
    I look at the shelves; I think I might have just seen an emerald-tipped finger cresting behind some cans like a shark fin coming up in a horror movie. “You knew those things were after us, Erg?”
    â€œSure I did! The nasties. But I wasn’t going to let them hurt you, Vassa. Oh, I taught him a lesson, didn’t I? Chompers!” Her blue eyes are wide and, God, happy.
    â€œAnd you still think everything is fine