FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #8

'I wouldn't do that if I were you,' she told me the first time we met.

In the twenty-six years since, she must’ve told me that a thousand more times and I imagine those would be the last words I hear from her when my time comes. But the first time is and will forever be, etched perfectly in my memory.

It was my first day of seventh grade in a new town. I arrived at homeroom with ten minutes to spare but she was seated at her desk as if she had been there all day. She spoke without lifting her head and briskly flipped through the pages of her notebook. I just assumed she wasn’t talking to me – the big city girl with a chip on her shoulder. I shrugged and hung my jacket on a hook in the classroom closet that smelled like pencil shavings and old paint. Then I took a seat at the desk behind hers and unloaded my schoolbag. The flutter of her turning pages made me nervous.

From the corner of my eye, I watched her thick braid of brown hair oscillate between her shoulder blades as she moved her head from page to page, searching for something in her notes. In a moment’s time, it seemed she found it. Her back straightened with confidence, bingo! She turned in her chair to face me then leaned an arm on my desk – she waited for me to look up.

“You’re Beth.” She said as I met her eyes. They were gray. I would discover later on that the hue would change depending on the color of the blouse she was wearing; green made them green, blue made blue and red made her eyes appear purple.

“Yes, that’s my name. Just Beth, I mean, it’s not short for anything.” I stammered.

“I’m Gemma,” she said as she offered her hand to shake.

I remembered how her smile and the gentle “j” sound of her name instantly relaxed me. I played tricks in my head so I wouldn’t forget; jem-ah, like a gem, is it spelled with a j? And before I got too lost in my thoughts, she tapped my forearm and nodded toward the closet with her head. Little wood shavings were falling in the classroom closet like a light snow. Gemma stood up in one swoop and reached for my jacket, which was slowly being covered by the debris. She shook it out and made for the far right closet – the one I avoided because it was ominously crowded. Dusting off the final tenacious flecks, she hung it underneath a light yellow spring coat. It was hers.

“Termites,” she explained. “Sometimes rodents. Just hang your stuff near mine and you’ll be fine.” Then she pinched my cheek the way my grandmother would. The peculiarity of it was unforgettable as far as first impressions go.

Since that day in seventh grade, Gemma had become my guardian in some form or fashion. I’d like to say that we were best friends, but friendship is reciprocal and I had not given anything back.  Sure, I gave her birthday gifts and phone calls but I had never saved her from unapparent danger or steered her clear of wrecking her life as she did for me. If I considered myself her friend, I would say it was about on the same level as a sheep is a friend to its shepherd.

In eighth grade, she saved me from being kidnapped. My better judgment was clouded by the prospect of making three hundred dollars in cash when the strange Mr. Tibbs offered to buy my 35-millimeter camera. It was worth half my asking price, which would have tipped off a more mature victim but for me, it was an irresistible lure.

“It’s a rare model, did you know that?” He said convincingly. “But I’m glad you’re not trying to take advantage of me. You’re a smart girl.”

With that compliment, I took the bait and innocently applauded my negotiating skill. He told me to meet him in an hour at the secluded butterfly farm citing the privacy was for my protection against muggers who would inevitably steal the cash if they knew I had it.

Soon after he left, Gemma ran past me – she was chasing a rabbit.

“Gemma! What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Why, chasing a rabbit. Didn’t you notice? I knew it was leading me somewhere,” she said and caught her breath. “It led me here to you. So, what are you doing?”

“Oh, I was just taking pictures with my dad’s old Nikon. But get this, you know that nerdy guy, Mr. Tibbs? Well, he offered me three hundred dollars for it. He said he’s going home to get the money and I’m going to meet him over there, by the butterfly farm.”

I could see she surmised the whole scene in her mind. Her gray eyes scanned me then my camera and flashed towards the butterfly farm. We both saw the rabbit that had led her to me. It twitched its nose like a secret code that only Gemma understood and then it darted off towards the woods. She looked me square in the eye.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Three days later, after I stood him up, Mr. Tibbs made the front page when he was caught trying to shove a frightened thirteen-year old, Cindy Lewis into the back of his faded blue Chevy Impala.

I could do no more than be forever grateful. She saved me then and numerous times thereafter. From bullies to catastrophes, she managed to intervene. The most I ever did for her, without her asking, was picked up her suit from the dry cleaners. But anyone else would have done the same – she was too distraught over the death of her father to do anything for herself.

The day of his funeral, I combed her thick hair and tied it up in a low ponytail. I applied makeup on her emotionless face and when all was done, I stared at my vacant friend. At twenty-four, she was orphaned. Her doting father, a hard working tailor who left Sicily to give his only daughter a better life, died peacefully in his sleep. We sat in his quiet shop and waited for the limousine.

“I hope when I die, it will be as graceful,” she whispered. “Because I will never be as angelic as he.

     “His hands tailored all these clothes, bringing beautiful fabric together with angelic stitches and I can’t even sew a button.” Gemma said with a tone of regret.

I looked around the shop. At the exquisitely tailored suits and dresses, his neat office desk that I felt sorry for because it was oblivious to its master’s departure and then I realized how every article of clothing she ever wore was lovingly stitched by him. The light yellow spring coat she used to cover mine the first day we met.

“You have a gift, Gem. It’s something special, like, I don’t know, psychic or something. People would pay for your advice.” I told her in jest. But she shot me glance as if I had insulted her.

Then she shrunk inside herself. Her eyes followed the hypnotic rays of the early morning sun, which cast a shadow of the windowpane onto the floor. “My mother was a prostitute,” she said.

If there was ever a time to step up and prove my friendship, that was it. The problem was, I had no idea what to say or do. So, I sat down on a chair beside her and joined her examination of the shadows on the floor.

“I thought you said she was dead.” I managed to say after some time.

“I only wished she was. Maybe she is now, I don’t know. But it makes me feel responsible.” She turned to face me and I felt her gray eyes reaching.

But my soul was a neophyte. I had no answers for her and as a result, I could not meet her gaze. Staring at the floor, I asked her instead, “Responsible for what?”

“To stop the pain in this world.”

She never spoke of her mother again though it lingered above her ever since she confessed it. Shortly after her father was buried, she closed his tailor shop and stored what was left of her belongings in the attic of my parent’s house. I convinced her to do so, if only to have an excuse to meet when we were both in town. Then we went our separate ways.

As a teenager, I used to daydream that we would be famous detectives. Gemma’s talent would metaphysically locate missing persons while my scientific deductions would describe the crime in detail greater than Sherlock Holmes. It turned out so different.

I should have known Gemma would use her “gift” for much greater good and it took her around the world. When the opportunity arose, she would contact me for help. I did what I could to further her cause, regardless of my schedule, my studies and the demands of a budding family life. I wrote letters, called senators, agencies and philanthropies, what ever she needed, while she personally helped devastated families that were swindled of their children and life savings.

She faced great perils in retrieving the children of well-meaning parents, who consigned them to strangers promising education and a better life for a fee. She was a valiant warrior protecting both the anguished family and the endangered children – working her magic endlessly before they became untraceable in the industry of child labor and prostitution. They called her a saint because her “gift” could lead her to the lost, like the rabbit that had led her to me once. And like me, many were rescued from the nightmare.

The last time we caught up with each other was when she flew into Washington D.C. to sort out paperwork for the displaced children. She had spent two years in Nepal thwarting the slave trafficking of children and successfully rejoined hundreds of families. Still, many more needed to be rescued or were lost for good. After so many, she looked as if she appreciated the ones who came out alive. We survivors were her beacons – a reason to go on.

We met over a bottle of wine at the Hotel Monaco. Her sun and wind weathered hands twirled the glass as we talked and reminisced for hours. As I looked into her gray eyes that appeared blue against her blouse, she was again like the girl I first met in seventh grade. No longer was she just my guardian angel but a tailor who stitched together families, I reflected and told her.

“Now don’t you think that’s worth more than a button?” I said.

She smiled at my comment. Then she leaned over and pinched my cheek.

back to Contest #8