I didn't plan on going to the bank today.

            No, my list of aspirations didn't branch beyond the goal of getting a few groceries to stave off starvation.  This would not have been an issue in any way, save for the fact that my debit card has run away.  I insist that I did not lose, it, but that it is hiding from me in an act of spite.  Somewhere in the taped boxes it lies, this I know, but despite a straight hour of digging, I remained empty handed. 

            My check book was kind enough to remain faithfully inside my purse, but I was certain I wouldn't get far trying to write out of state checks everywhere I went.  And I was getting hungry.  Also, the absence of coffee in the house was bordering on masochistic.

            A simple trip to the grocery store, which I had planned to run with a hoodie covering my face as much as humanly possible, had now turned into a multi-stop excursion that dramatically increased my chances of running into hundreds of people that I had no desire to see. 

            I was going to have to open a new bank account.  A part of me shivered at the thought, as a bank account seems to be an unintentional commitment to the town of Biddleton, as though I have somehow shackled myself into staying here longer that I would have intended.  A bank account is serious business indeed.  A bank account is indicative of roots being placed.  Roots that I am not willing to lay.

            I debated seriously scraping the entire plot in favor of hiding underneath quilts in the purple room, but my stomach kept noisily betraying me with epic growls that eventually forced me to an upright and mobile state.  My intention of rushing through the whole mess hiding under sweats came to a screeching halt at the thought of a possible encounter with someone from my past.  Was that really how I wanted my new impression to be made?  Bed-headed and wearing a pair of torn flannel pants?  Not so much. 

            The idea sprang to me of dolling myself up right nice.  Not exactly made up to the point of night club readiness, but at least enough for say a job interview.  Just enough that I would feel confident in my appearance hoping to put that extra spring in my step if needed.  It is possible that I may have gotten carried away in the process.

            I started with a shower, meant to be quick and cleansing, that turned into a forty-five minute affair entailing leg shaving, face exfoliating, and body scrubbing.  After that, my usual routine of throwing towel dried hair into a ponytail somehow derailed into me blow drying, straightening, and tugging at my shoulder length hair until it was a glossy curtain of shampoo commercial worthy locks.  The sight of my normally messy dark brown tresses transformed inspired me to dive for my makeup bag.  After more time than I care to admit spent in a flourish of powders, eye shadows, and eyelash curlers, I emerged looking like a freshly minted version of myself, an occurrence usually saved for a special night out.  Although those nights had become less and less frequent over the last year with Eric that it is hard to remember the last time I had the opportunity.

            The more I coifed, the more I became a woman possessed with the notion of walking out the front door as the best possible Max that I could be.  The fact that I had spent the better part of the morning detailing myself and that it was closing in on lunch time didn't deter me from seeking out just the right clothes to wear.  After holding up every item of clothing I could find and unpack, assessing and rejecting it's potential, then throwing it on the purple rooms floor, I started back at the beginning and settled on a black sweater and a pair of jeans that I believe may have super powers due to their ability to make my butt appear more buoyant than it actually is.

            Once dressed, my nerves kicked in again knowing that I no longer had anymore primping activities to keep me busy.  My shame kicked in again and I wondered what was I so afraid of?  Sure, no one wants to run into their childhood tormentors, but what did I think was going to happen?  Were they going to shove me in my locker again?  Give me a wedgie?  Start chanting "Maxi Pad!" the taunting moniker that had me hating the nickname I had previously adored? 

            Yes, that is exactly what would happen.

            By then I felt completely foolish at my paranoia, and I chose to use that as the final push I needed to get out the door, and into my car.

            There are two banks in the town of Biddleton, and as a child, I had little savings accounts at both of them at one time or another, so there was no way to choose one that I had no history with, so I opted for the best geographical selection.  Biddleton Bank and Trust was closer to me by merely a few blocks, but it was enough to wake the win.

            I took deep breaths as I drove, and cranked my radio to nearly ear drum rupturing levels, and distracted myself with the voice of some pop singer whose candy coated song I had never heard, hoped to never hear again, but was repetitive enough to keep my brain from working properly enough for stressful thoughts.  The incessant thumping of the back beat kept me from swallowing my tongue as I pulled onto Main Street.

            I was suddenly surprised as the realization hit me that I wished Ben was with me as I drove.  As uncomfortable as I am around Ben, I can't deny that I was a lot more at ease with him in town last night than I was flying solo.  Maybe it was a strength in numbers kind of thing, the scary is always less intimidating when you have someone at your side.  Or maybe it was the way his smile...

            No.  Not thinking that at all.

            I made the decision before I pulled into the parking lot that no matter how desperately I wanted to slam down the gas and drive on, or should I manage to pull in, hide in my car until the police are called as surely the person hiding behind the sunglasses in her Jetta is casing the joint, that as soon as the car was parked, I would be up and out of the car instantly.  I want to say that a surge of bravery was responsible for that decision, but thanks to the amount of time trying to supermodel myself up in the morning, my stomach decided to make its voice heard, loud and clear.  Loosely translated, I believe it said that if I wasted even a second of useful time in that car cowering that my tummy was going to start feasting on my left kidney in its search for sustenance. 

            It's hard to argue with a rationale like that.

            So, true to my gastrointestinal promise, I was climbing out of the car door before I had even pulled the key from the ignition.  I pulled my coat tight around myself as I walked up the sidewalk, the cold having become inexplicably blistering over the last twenty-four hours.  With my need to remove myself from the frigid air, and my stomachs constant demands, I ended up half jogging my way up to the bank.  Funny to me that my constant reluctance towards a situation such as this ends with me rushing to the source of my fear.

              I walked inside, shaking off the icy feeling that had so quickly invaded my fingers and did a quick scan.  Familiar faces, but vaguely so was what I saw.  A sense of relief is what I felt. 

            I began to feel even sillier than I had before.  Twice now I had ventured into the real world of Biddleton, and twice now there had been no actualization of my ridiculous phobia.  Am I so full of myself that I would think that an entire town lay in waiting for my return to humiliate and mock me, that people would jump at the knowledge that I had wandered back into town?  For god’s sake, how could I have let this become such a huge cloud over me?  Maybe there weren't more than a couple people in town that I used to know, and even then, maybe I wouldn't even run into them!

            "Mackenzie?"

            I froze.  Okay, breathe.  Someone here knows me.  The voice sounds young, my age.  A hundred possibilities flashed through my head, but the realization that I had to turn around took over.

            "Oh my god!" she shrieked, "Mackenzie, it is you!"

            There she stood.  Michelle Lancaster, clad in typical bank teller garb, standing behind the counter in front of me, a huge smile plastered on her face, her face perfectly made up as it always had been, the only difference is the slightest hint of the last ten years showed enough to prove to me that I was not hallucinating the eighteen year old version of her. 

            Michelle was the meanest of the mean girls.  One of the people I feared the most from second grade on.  Her father was a judge in the counties superior courts, and it was well known his lack of parental involvement.  She used this advantage almost daily.  She was the person of "Firsts".  The first person to ever smoke a cigarette publicly.  The first to sneak alcohol into a party.    The first to have any and every sexual experience.  The last trait was really her calling card.  My Grams always said that a girl like Michelle Lancaster would have been labeled as "Loose" back in her day, and Grams was right.  Michelle's lack of parental supervision, combined with a very luxurious home that hardly ever contained her father allowed her to have any type of debauchery she chose, and the security of knowing that she would never get into any trouble of any kind, for as removed as her father was from her dealing, he would always step into erase her damages as to protect his image.  These clean ups were particularly fast near election season.

            She was practically a legend at our school for her conquests.  Rumors of sexual encounters flowed freely through the halls at school.  Tales of a hand job given while on a class field trip to the planetarium.  Stories of pot fueled orgies over summer vacation.  It was all intense, but somehow believable.  She thrived off of the reputation.  With a prominent father, made so by upholding the law, she was bound to rebel.  No one begrudged her that, but the level to which she took it has jaws constantly dropping.  And that was the way she liked it.

            In addition to her unsavory frolics, she had a cruel streak running solidly through her.  She would attack without provocation, swift, and efficient.  Perhaps once a week or so, you would look up from the congealed mass on your lunch tray and see a group of girls led by Michelle descending on some other poor unsuspecting girl.  Each victim had the same look of horror, knowing what was coming. 

            Michelle was very smart with her attacks.  She surrounded herself with a loyal band of followers, always mere inches away waiting for their orders.  Girls with personalities so bland or unpleasant that they had no choice but to function as part of a clique led by a beautiful, but vicious master of bullying.

            The attacks came for many reasons, all trivial beyond belief.  Perhaps one of the Michelle groupies had heard that another student had bad mouthed her.  No reason to verify the words supposedly spoken, the plan was always attack.  Once, the ambush occurred based off a poor freshman who happened to be wearing the same shirt as Michelle.  One of her posse suggested that they bet the freshman thought she looked way better in the shirt than Michelle did, so the plan was to teach respect.  It went horribly wrong, as the freshman apparently didn't understand the seriousness of the altercation and chose to mouth back.  I will never forget seeing Jenny, one of the Michelle minions flying forward out of nowhere, fists already flying.  The possibility that something so inconsequential could bring these young women to blows had never entered anyone’s mind. 

            She stood by and watched her crew members do the dirty work, and also stayed silent as they all were suspended.  She was even quiet as that poor freshman had to wear a brace on her wrist for three weeks after the fight.  It added yet more fear to her already ample horde, and she watched it all take place with a smug little smile, peeking out underneath her put on innocent expression.

            I knew to avoid her at all costs, even down to eye contact, but even that didn't save me from her occasional wrath.  Mostly it was manageable.  A suggestion of offing myself as I stood to give a speech in English class.  A sucker thrown into my hair as walked to my seat in the gym for an assembly.  Always being tripped on days I would dare wear a skirt.  Took me two times of my butt being flashed during class changes to commit to never showing my legs at school again.

            One day, out of boredom perhaps, I saw the group walking my way in the lunchroom, and began to panic.  My accusation was that I had called Michelle a bitch.  I struggled to remember such an event, but came up short.  Sure, in my head I had used the word to describe her many a time, but I couldn't remember uttering it aloud.

            I wiggled out of the whole mess by talking faster than they could think.  It was my only defense.  I knew as they stood over me that should the situation take a violent turn that I stood less of a chance than the freshman.

            With a strong assertion that I had not called her a bitch, I began my defense.  They were not taking that as any kind of answer.  In their minds, no matter what evidence they were presented, I was guilty.  I began a rambling string of thoughts that appeared as a survival instinct.  Admitting to this thing I did not do, throwing in a lightly worded compliment, as in, isn't being a bitch a sign of strength, and ending with the declaration that actually, I had never used the word bitch, but merely referred to her as "bitchy", as in she was not a bitch but her behavior at some point had come off to me as bitchy, which isn't an insult of course, as it was an observation of action and not a labeling of her as a person.

            Whether it was because they bought my story, or because they were just tired of listening to me spew my defense, or perhaps they had lost interest, whatever the reason, they all suddenly dissipated, talking amongst themselves as to my incredible loser-dom.  As soon as they were all turned, I bolted, and spent the rest of the lunch period locked in a bathroom stall, feet tucked up onto the toilet, hoping beyond hope that the urge to strike again never hit them.

            I lived in fear of Michelle Lancaster.

            And there she stood, smiling and waving at me.  A sight I had never seen, nor was I sure I wanted to.

            "Oh my god, I can't believe it!" her voice had the tone that she was greeting a dear old friend, as opposed to the frozen former victim that stood before her, "Mackenzie, how are you?  I haven't seen you in forever!"

            I stood staring, like an idiot.  I wasn't sure what to do, honestly.  The child in me panicked, and waited for the trap to follow through, expecting to see Jenny and the rest of the monsters pop out behind me and finish the job.  This voice told me to run.  The adult in me reasoned that we were in her place of work and that her smile was genuine, and told me to respond to her.

            "Wow, hey Michelle!" my voice was much more relaxed than the body producing it. 

            "How have you been?"  She leaned forward over her counter as if I was about to unload the greatest tale ever told.  I switched into a bizarre type of social auto pilot and began a chipper account of college back east, and photography out west.  It was brief, but detailed enough to be friendly and informative.  I was surprised by how I calmed as I spoke, my brain slowly putting together pieces of the moment.  As I spoke, I took her in, noticing that she wasn't as perfectly made up as my first impression had been.  I could see the line of foundation along her jaw bone, a slightly darker shade than her actual skin.  I saw that her eyeliner was applied slightly above the line of her eyelashes, creating a noticeable line of skin between them.  The paint job appeared haphazard and very unlike the person I had seen known before.  Her hair, still being chemically altered to a blond shade was pulled into a sloppy ponytail, dark roots very visible.  The sight made that time seem even longer ago. 

            That made me aware of the care that I had taken to primp myself in the morning.  It took a long moment, but it started to sink in that between the two of us, for the first time in our history together, I was the bright, shiny, put together person, and she was just there.  The concept pulled my shoulders back a little, standing a bit higher, and my demeanor relaxed even more.  It was like finally finding a chink in her armor, something I had spent years looking for but always came up short.  It was oddly unsettling.

            "You are a photographer?" she asked, impressed, "That is so cool!"

            "So, um," I began, "What have you been up to?"

            "Well, I married Jackson," she explained, referring to her senior year boyfriend.  A very quiet, but frightening fellow.  His silence accompanied by her steely gaze made him all the more frightening.  It was a well known fact that neither participant was faithful in that relationship, and yet the knowledge of their becoming married was not as shocking as I would have thought.  "We have two kids, and we live in this beautiful farm house just outside of town!  We have horses, and everything!  Totally my dream home!"

            "That's great." My smile was forced, but believable enough.  "I am happy for you."

            "So how long have you been back?" she asked.

            "Just a couple days."  I couldn't stop studying her presence, once so intimidating and polished, now ragged.  "I am sort of going through my Grams stuff."

            "Oh yeah, I heard about that." she offered, no trace of condolences in her voice, "So have you seen anyone else?  Man, people will be psyched to see you!"  They would?  "You know Callie just works over at Mort's, have you been in there yet?"

            Callie, wow.  Callie David’s was the free spirited girl who got along with everyone at school, but seemed to take a special interest in me at times.  Making sure to pay some sort of attention to me at the most random times, as if she were somehow doing her part to keep the entire building form being torturous.  I always liked her a lot.  Her free spirit and confidence in herself allowed her to be free from targets from anyone.  I envied her, but respected her an awful lot.  She just might be the one person I would look forward to seeing here.

            "Um, no."  I answered, still lost in my memories, "Oh, actually, I did see Ben Stevens."  I admitted against my will.  Why on earth would I announce that to Michelle of all people?

            "Really!" she trilled, being taken by excitement, "Oh my god, you should so come to this party we are having tonight!"  I suddenly felt sixteen again, but the feeling of being invited to a party was not a familiar feeling by any means.  "It is at Tuckers house!  You should totally come.  There will be lots of beer and stuff, we can all get trashed and hang out!  It'll be great!"

            Okay, I hadn't heard anyone mentioning getting trashed since college. 

            And Tucker still lived here too?  Tucker Johnson was one of the most brainless people I had ever met.  He was like a walking meat-loaf for all intents and purposes.

            "Um, actually, I am still kind of getting settled." I stammered, still reeling from the picture in my head of all these people in their adult forms meeting up on a Monday night to party it up.  It just felt odd.  Not that I wasn't a fan of a good fiesta, but it all seemed so off as she spoke.

            "Oh whatever, take the night off!"  she laughed, "Oh and you should get Ben to come too!"  Why would I ever do something like that?  "We always invite him to stuff when we see him, but he never comes."  Her laugh continued, but there was a very uncomfortable edge to it that I couldn't figure out.

            "Uh.  Well." 

            "Oh come on!"  she insisted, and started writing down numbers on a bank slip.  "Here is Tuckers address, people usually get there at nine or so."  She handed the paper to me excitedly and awaited my confirmation.

            "Sure." I relented, "I will try to make it."

            The hell I would...

            Suddenly I was back in the reality that was my being at the bank for an actual purpose.  The reunion was suspended as she handed me off to a supervisor who sat me down to start up my new account.  I kept glancing from across the bank out of the corner of my eye to look at Michelle interacting with coworkers and customers, waiting possibly to catch her sneering, telling everyone what a loser I actually am, and to drain my accounts as soon as I make a deposit.  But there was no sneer.  Just a person seemingly happy to have people listening to her.  Her face was animated, but her eyes seemed heavy, overwhelmed.  Sad, even.

            I didn't even learn the supervisors name, he could have been speaking Chinese, or getting me to sign away my life savings, I wasn't even listening.  All I remember is that at one point I ordered checks with frogs on them.  An amphibious blur.

            Once the nameless supervisor had finished with me, and armed me with a handful of cash and a small stack of starter checks to be used until the frogs came it, and a new debit card, I headed for the door, turning once again as I heard her voice, closer than before.

            "Remember, nine o'clock!" she smiled at me, "Everyone just gets drunk and plays card, but we all have a blast!"

            She was standing right in front of me, no longer concealed by the banking counter, talking brightly about boozing it up with me tonight, which made it all the more shocking when I looked down and saw her very pregnant belly.  Six months along at least.

            I couldn't hide the shock from my face at the thought of this baby carrying woman inviting me to a kegger.  It was just not something I was prepared to see.

            "Sure," I was barely able to manage above a whisper, "Nine o'clock."

            Once in my car, the details of the scenario kept rushing back to me, overwhelming and confusing me.  Had I really just been invited to a party by one of the cool kids?  Was that cool kid actually with child and planning on getting smashed tonight?  Was I hallucinating all of it perhaps?

            The encounter shook me enough that I couldn't bring myself to shop for groceries in Biddleton and drove the next town over to do it.  I didn't have the strength do handle anymore of that kind of thing.  Sure it wasn't the public lynching that I had feared, but at the same time, it was somehow just as uncomfortable.

            I fled civilization back to the safe confines of the house, and that is where I currently sit, a mug of freshly brewed, way too strong coffee sitting beside me, force feeding myself caramel toffee ice cream as I try to make sense of my day. 

            Clearly, there is no sense to be made.  I have obviously entered an alternate universe where up is down, and the water is actually made from goat hair.

            At least this universe has coffee.