Nice Girls

I am that kind of girl.

I mean it. I'm not a nice girl. I am that kind of girl.

I know a lot about a lot of things. Physics. Nail polish. Cars. Bondage.

I know how to get bloodstains out of anything.

I walk into the storeroom at 6 o clock in the morning, my steps echoing hollow and metallic. The sky is still black, and I am doused in Sweet Honesty because Kendra tends to look nervous when I come in reeking of cigarettes and earth and last night's tangled bedsheets. I wonder if the sweet old waitress who sells me Avon would approve of my reasons for using her product. But I would buy stuff from her even if I didn't so frequently need to mask myself in fragrance. I respect her for working. Her husband has a pretty decent job- I don't know what- but she still works, and she loves both the Avon and the waitressing because they both let her talk to people. They let her build connections.

Kendra gives me the old fisheye as I pass her to grab a price gun from the shelf. Or maybe I am imagining this. Ever since she caught me in one of my honest moods and began asking me questions, I worry she thinks terrible things of me. Which is ridiculous. In three years I will be gone; in five I will have forgotten her name. In ten she will be a vague ghostly "pretty girl" in every memory of this place, stuck in the background in some corner.

This place is Paper Penny's; more precisely, the stockroom of Paper Penny's. The store sells exclusively paper products, but they are paper products of any sort you can imagine. Paper party supplies of all themes. Papier-mâché kits. Paper piñatas, ponies, pansies, paper busts of Pauline Cushman. It's an odd specialty for a store, but they pay me to price and stock and therefore I really don't care. I just come in after closing and slap prices on things and generally don't talk to anyone for 8-14 hours. I haven't decided whether this is an advantage or not.

I don't know why people ask questions they don't want the answers to. And every time I fall into that trap, the inquisitive faces, and I hesitate trying to determine if this will be the person that will respond in a normal way, and at first sometimes it is, but then they grow away from me and I'm left wondering was it the things I told them, about what happened at the party and how as a result I got to ask the hot Wal-Mart pharmacist (Chris, his name was Chris, with cornflower blue eyes, I swear to God)how exactly the Plan B pill works, or the time I Googled sadomasochism when I was thirteen because I didn't know what it was and maybe I was a little curious, or that sometimes I wish I had stolen that girl's boyfriend sophomore year because I totally could have and maybe it would have changed things, or when I was seven and accidentally killed my dog because I forgot about him while we were playing in the shed, and no one found him until days later, god I haven't been able to look a dog in the face since. Even things completely inoffensive, if I really misjudge my audience. I like guns. Occasionally, I think about sex. I always stay up too late eating. I don't like to plan things, ever. I think nerdy boys are fascinating. I kissed one on the first date once. God, I didn't even know that stigma was still around.

The stockroom is spooky. It's big, and echoing, and cold. There's enough room to lose yourself in it, to turn a corner too fast or even just sit too long, three hours sorting stationery and suddenly you can't remember who you were or what you were doing before you got here, there's only rows and rows of white shelves and subtly flickering lights that could do a number on your eyes if they weren't totally consumed with paper products. Besides the main room, there is George's tiny office on the east wall next to the door leading into the store itself, and the mailroom for online orders ready to be shipped in the opposite corner.

I seize a box from the shelf and tear it open. Party napkins, Disney Princess patterned. I begin to price, the CLICK-CLACK of the tool satisfyingly repetitive. $2.99. $2.99. $2.99. $2.99. $2.99. The smell of my own perfume is making me a little queasy. Kendra already hates me, ostensibly; I should have just gone without and at the very least sickened myself a little less. George probably wouldn't come by today anyway; he already said he was going fishing. If he's not here, he can't smell me. Luckily, the reverse is also true.

Kendra gets ready to leave, picking up her matching hat and scarf, looking tired and cold but flawless as ever. She passes me and my pink sea of napkins as she leaves and gives me a small smile and a pleasant, if quiet "Bye." I instantly reexamine our relationship. Maybe we can be friends. Maybe she doesn't hate me. After all, I'm sure she's heard worse than anything I've done. All right, it's doubtful, but it's possible. Anyway, maybe I've misjudged my ability to get along with the innocents, and their ability to get along with me.

The only personal story that Kendra has told me during our long hours together revolved around her first and only date with Flor, the guy who used to work here with us. He had told me that he thought she was cute- she was definitely his type, being well-accessorized and impossibly fragile-looking- and one day he asked her to dinner and a movie, an eminently traditional sort of date, and she accepted.

"So," she had told me, "We had a perfectly lovely time. Dinner was nice, and the movie was really good, I almost cried at the end, and then he took me back to my house and then, as we're standing outside the door, he asks if he can come in! And well, of course," she said, looking at me, assured of my complete agreement, "I told him that of course I just wasn't that kind of girl!" She blinked at me in expectation of my inherently feminine understanding. I tried to find something to say that wouldn't scandalize her.

"Well, he didn't necessarily want sex. Maybe he just wanted to hang out for a while?"

Kendra looked slightly scandalized, either because of my suggestion or because I'd said "sex" aloud. "Well, even then. Letting boys in after a date…nice girls don't, you know?"

Me and Flor exchanged knowing glances on the subject later on as he fumbled with my bra clasp in the mailroom. We had a silent understanding cultivated over three months of secret fucking and mutual disinclination to discuss it.

The story did not trouble me because of her involvement with Flor. I never really got all that attached to him. It troubled me because I then realized there was a huge identity rift between us that would make it impossible for us to communicate. She was from a completely different world than me, obviously. Yet I had somehow forgotten about this by the time she started asking me questions, innocently curious questions that she didn't really want the answers to.

But maybe I was wrong, I think as I repack the napkins and put them on the appropriate shelf. Maybe she can put up with me despite our differences, or maybe something happened and now she understands a little more, or maybe, I think as I move to another shelf, another box, maybe she needs a friend here as much as anyone.

I am halfway through a box of plaid streamers ($2.10, available in multiple tartans) when I hear something, a scuffling sound that would be unnoticeable if the room wasn't so silent. I wait, struggling not to crinkle any plastic wrapping. I hear something, I know I do. Maybe it is Kendra, come back to get something she forgot. But I don't see her lavender shell purse anywhere. Maybe it is George come to check on me, make sure I'm not stealing anything like Flor was last summer. It sucked when he got caught smuggling out all those paper plates, he was pretty cute and had a fairly low douchebaggery quotient. Except for the, you know, theft thing. And blaming it on me. But other than that.

But George is fishing. The sun's not even up yet, he can't be back already.

I hear it again, like maybe someone is walking around in the store, except the store is supposed to be locked. It is locked. There's a crash, then muffled swearing, I can't recognize the voice, can't even tell if it's male or female. Kendra wouldn't walk around in the store if she came back for something; she'd just come in the stockroom door that we always use. Besides, she wouldn't swear. Besides, the store is locked. This seems like one of those situations that I should do something about. I would use the phone, but it occurs to me that I don't have the fucking unlock code. George puts on the parental controls when the store isn't open so we can't waste all our time talking on the phone. He is just so trusting.

I open the door to George's office and flip on the light, and calmly pull the Beretta from under the desk. It is empty (safety first, you know), so I open the top drawer on the right and take out a magazine, then load the pistol with a sharp and somehow businesslike SNAP. I make sure there's one in the chamber. He leaves his gun practically lying out in the open, but the phone he locks up. It's well cared for, however. The pistol is slightly oily and smooth and reassuring in its hint of familiarity.

I've known about guns my whole life. My dad really liked them- he was an avid collector, mostly of historical pieces, and he used to take me to gun shows on weekends to look for them. Myself, I was taken with them all, new or old, rifle or revolver. When I held them in my hand, it was like feeling conflicts since eternity resonate through my body. The firearm is an object designed to give power to the powerless. The amount of damage one could do astounded me. So it is with a steadying mix of confidence and respect that I take the gun out of the office and pause to listen. I don't want a confrontation if I can avoid it, especially not knowing what or who I am up against. If there's someone there to burgle the place, it might be wise for me to stay out of the way. For all I know, they're packing better firepower; for all I know, there are six of them.

It sounds like just one, though. As I listen, it sounds like a single person, approaching the door. Rapidly approaching. I fancy I hear a revolver being cocked, but this is probably my imagination. I force myself to calm down. The first thing I learned is to never handle a gun when your mind is not completely serene. That is how people get hurt.

Of course, in real life, there aren't a lot of times when you need a gun while you're feeling completely serene. These things tend to be mutually exclusive.

I head for the west wall, breaking into a run as I go, slipping behind a shelf as the person comes into the stockroom. Step. Step. "Hello?" A voice calls softly. "Anyone here?" They continue up the aisle, coming closer to my hiding place. It feels like the sound of my breathing echoes hollowly around the huge room. The whole space is alive with the sound of air entering and escaping my lungs. It seems impossible that the walls are not undulating in and out with the rhythm.

Step. Step. The person is one aisle away from discovering me. I peek through the items on the shelf in an effort to get a look at whoever it is, and I see a pair of eyes looking straight back at me. I stumble back in panic. I don't register anything about the person except that they are not Kendra, they are not George, and they are standing between me and all possible exits. I break for the back of the stockroom and fumble wildly with the mailroom door before it opens. Slamming it behind me, I survey the room I'd been in so many times before. The familiar view of the ceiling sparks a realization in me, and I climb up the shelves to reach the fluorescent lights. I hang from the light fixture, my legs wrapped around its hard plastic body. It occurs to me to worry about it breaking and hurtling me to the concrete, but the point for that particular type of consideration is pretty much past. Instead, I find an odd sort of comfort in its faint warmth and dim yellow light. My face is pressed against the metal pipe the light clings to. It smells of rust and wet pennies. The Beretta looks big and black in my hand. It is bigger than what I'm used to, but I feel like I can handle it. The grip is becoming slick with sweat, so I set the pistol atop the light casing and wipe my hand on my jeans. I hear the stranger moving around in the other room. Sounds like they're pacing, but that's probably the sound of the stranger looking amongst the racks. Seeking whom he may devour. Did the stranger really not know I had come back here? Or were they looking to be sure there was no one else out there. I grasp the gun again. It feels really remarkable in my hand, natural as a baby. The only way out of this is to surprise them.

I hear the doorknob turning and tense.

"Hello?" The stranger looks around the room. "Come out, I don't want to hu-"

In one fluid motion I drop from the light onto the stranger, my momentum pushing them to the ground. Sitting on top of the unknown intruder, I put the gun to the stranger's head and with my free hand push their face into the concrete. Now I am no longer scared, only angry that they scared me.

The stranger feels the barrel against his skull. "All right, just chill out, chill the fuck out. Let me up."

"Fuck no."

"Let me up, dammit. I'm not gonna do anything. I'll just go, okay?" I feel the stranger shift impatiently between my thighs.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was just gonna take some stuff. I didn't think anyone was here and I knew the place didn't have an alarm. I don't want to hurt you, so just get off me already."

Staying on top of the burglar seems like a futile idea. I need to get the police over here somehow. I begin to stand, and while I am off balance the stranger rolls quickly and knocks me over. I keep a hold on the Beretta as I come down hard, but by the time I am able to aim effectively the stranger is on me, pinning my wrists to the floor. The whole thing has a sort of warped familiarity. From this angle I am able to get a better look at them. The stranger has blue eyes, short blonde hair, and is astonishingly androgynous. He or she seems to be slim, but it is difficult to tell under the bulky sweatshirt they wear. They bang my wrist against the floor until I am forced to let go of the pistol. It skitters into the corner, a piece of dead metal, potential energy. The attacker's blue eyes peer oddly at me. "What's a nice girl like you doing with a gun, anyway?"

I fake some weak writhing beneath the weight of the attacker, then bring a knee sharply up into their ribcage. I hear something crack, and the sound satisfies me more than I would care to admit. My attacker emits a mid-range cry and curls into himself, or herself- I still have no bearing on which may be the case. I push them off of me and go for the gun in the corner. Its place in my hand reactivates its energy and makes it once again an agent of change.

My attacker heads toward me, gasping with pain. I don't think they know I have the gun back. I level it calmly at the intruder.

"I'm not a nice girl," I say, and fire.

My attacker falls onto a pile of marked merchandise, their blood soaking into the absorbent paper towels, making them look like used tampons. The smell is mineral and reminds me of a thousand different things. I feel like I should take a step back, but I don't.

Because it's true, what I told them.

I am that kind of girl.

I know a lot. About guns, and climbing trees, and control.

I know how to get blood out of almost anything.