The Nobody People by Bob Proehl (manga ereader TXT) 📕

He hasn’t furnished the apartment. He occupies a triangle within it, vertices at the couch, fridge, and desk. Gowanus is convenient to Ikea. Avi’s cabbed back and forth a couple of times to purchase the desk and chair, some kitchen stuff. A bed for Emmeline sits unassembled, a trio of long, flat boxes open like coffins in the small, bare area that’s meant to be hers. Anything more would make this feel permanent, which it isn’t.

There’s a picture on his desk in a simple frame from the Public Day parade almost a year ago: Emmeline joining the crowd, skipping away from him.

Avi straightens his tie, smooths his lapels. If Kay were here, she’d tell him not to wear a suit. Everyone in a courtroom is used to wearing suits, she’d say. They know how to do it. You look like you dressed out of your dad’s closet. Being around young people has taught Avi that he’s no longer able to pull off youthful insouciance as an aesthetic. His days of walking into newspaper offices in ripped jeans and faded, pit-stained tee shirts are behind him.

He picks up his cane. It’s a requirement lately. He’s been falling asleep with the prosthetic on. Proper care and maintenance are necessary, he reminds himself every morning he wakes up with his leg throbbing. He suffers through days and ends up collapsed on the couch, too exhausted or drunk to take the fucking thing off.

A door appears on the bare wall. Avi grabs the two coffees from the desk and tugs the door open. Kimani’s holding the knob on the other side, and Avi surprises her, almost pulling her out of the room and into his apartment. She catches herself on the door frame, regains her balance. He wonders what would happen to her if she stepped out. Would she disappear in a puff of smoke or burn up like a vampire in daylight? Or would she become a grainy black-and-white image of herself, Dorothy Gale leaving her Technicolor Oz for a drab Kansas?

“In a rush?” Kimani asks.

“I brought you coffee,” he says, holding out the cup. A tongue of steam seeps through the lid.

“Four-dollar coffee to save yourself a three-dollar subway fare,” she says, taking the cup.

“It’s not the cost,” he says. “It’s the time. The F is a crawl.”

“Yeah, your time’s precious,” she says, almost inaudible. She’s on the edge of tired where she’s making an effort to hide it: her hair is in a tower of curls, but her clothes are rumpled.

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s cool,” she says. “I’m just ragged. Bishop’s got me running around.”

“Anything interesting?”

She hesitates, then shakes her head. “New students,” she says. “Thank you for the coffee.” Avi shrugs it off. “What time do you need to be there?”

“Not till this afternoon,” he says. “I was going to go by the academy first. Take Emmeline to lunch.”

“That sounds nice,” Kimani says. She shuts the door behind him. Avi doesn’t understand how the decor changes in here, and he can’t bring himself to ask Kimani about it. It’s furnished better than his apartment. Kimani is the kindest of them, but her kindness is a way to avoid talking about herself. Everyone else has explained their abilities at length, but Kimani’s seem like magic. She sits in a wicker papasan chair, takes the lid off her coffee, and inhales deeply before venturing a sip. “Nice suit,” she says. “Remind me why I’m taking you to Montana.”

“There’s a woman on trial there,” he says. “One of you. Harper’s is going to pick up the story.”

“That’s great, Avi,” Kimani says. “It’s great for us. I hope it has been for you.”

“Pays the bills,” he says. “I’m doing what I can to help.”

“You’re helping,” she says, but there’s a weariness in her voice. He can’t tell if it’s exhaustion or if she’s gotten tired of telling him how important he is, how special.

—

The elevator delivers a load of students into the lobby. Upperclassmen leave during lunch and free periods. The stores and fast-food spots along Lexington fill up with Resonant kids trying to look cool. They pack the Magnolia Bakery in Bloomingdale’s on Third, floating cupcakes across the room over the heads of the patrons. They binge on Skittles and gummies at Dylan’s Candy Bar, making their insides transparent so their friends can see the rainbow-colored boluses as they slide down their throats. Avi’s interviewed some of the local business owners. They’re split on the issue. Some think the kids are good for business. They bring in gawkers, tourists who spend money. Others have been thinking of ways to ban the kids but can’t come up with language that doesn’t sound racist. “I don’t let people bring guns into my shop,” the manager of a nearby Chipotle told Avi. “But I have to let in these kids who could blow my place up by thinking about it?”

After the teenage flood comes Emmeline. She spots Avi and continues toward him without increasing her pace. When she was little and he’d pick her up from school, Avi would watch the other kids sprint into their parents’ arms while Emmeline moseyed, confident that Avi would be there when she got to him. When she does, she throws her arms around his waist.

“Hi, Dad,” she says. “Nice suit.”

“Hey, Leener,” says Avi. “You hungry?” Avi feels her nod against his rib cage. He releases her and puts out a hand for her to hold, noticing her quick glance around the lobby before she takes it. “I was thinking that Indian place over on 53rd.”

“That sounds great,” she says. “I have to sign out.” She walks over to the desk and talks to Shen, who looks over at Avi, nods, and hands Emmeline a clipboard. When she returns, she takes Avi’s hand, more confident this time. They’ve barely started down Lexington when a man rushes at them, brandishing a microphone. He’s breathless from chasing down every other student who’s come out the