Ghosted by Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall

Room

20
    “You can call me Sissy.”
    “Is that your name?”
    She glanced around as if checking for spies in the fluorescence. There was a Harvey’s burger joint in the building next to where Mason lived and he loathed going in, though sometimes he had to—for morning grease salvation. But this one was possibly the worst Harvey’s in existence. Those in the know called it Ho-vee’s. Those in the know were hookers, johns, junkies, dealers, cops and a few purgatorial employees.
    “My dad named me Circe. Like from
The Odyssey
…”
    Mason hoped she hadn’t noticed him wince. He couldn’t picture a less Circe-like woman. There wasn’t a tempting thing about her.
    “I guess he thought it was funny or something.” She took a small sip from her little peel-back cup of apple juice. “He’s a poet.”
    “I don’t much like poetry.”
    “Then you’d hate my father. He’s actually kind of famous…. You know what the kids in school used to call me?”
    Mason waited, hoping he wouldn’t have to say
What?
He took a sip of his milkshake and swallowed. “What?”
    “Circle,” she said, eyes levelled, as if daring him to laugh. She was the roundest person he’d ever met. “Just call me Sissy, okay?”
    “You got it.”
    It had been over a week since he’d discovered the website—TheWayOut.Com. The home page read:
A forum for those with final thoughts
.
    There was a “Hall of Infamy” with bios of Spalding Gray, Sylvia Plath, Hunter S. Thompson, a “Do-it-Yourself” section (whichMason had skipped) and then, at the bottom, a “Classifieds” page. It contained the same sort of ads you’d find at the back of an urban weekly. But here even the most banal of announcements carried an ominous tone:
For Sale: mattress, couch and TV (and some other things)—available immediately
.
Wanted: carving set, preferably silver with ivory handles
.
Cat-sitter needed
.
    Mason realized his own ad need not be detailed. The site itself would supply the necessary context. And so he kept it simple, and vague:
Professional ghostwriter available, for notes and letters. Rates negotiable
.
    Then his new email address:
[email protected]
. All messages sent to this address would be automatically forwarded to his primary account.
    By “rates negotiable” he meant “as much as you’ve got”—his theory being that if someone required his services then, logically, they’d have no use for money.
    Sky’s the limit
, he’d thought, then shivered.
    But now, with this round girl sitting across from him, holding nothing but apple juice, the limit seemed a helluva lot lower. Somewhere near the fluorescent lights.
    “Is this really the best place to talk about this?” He fished with his straw for the milkshake dregs then pushed the cup away.
    “We’re not even talking about anything,” said Sissy. “And yeah,this is the best place. Everyone in here is either loud or passing out, so they don’t listen to anything. And they don’t look at you like you’re disgusting.”
    Her girth spilled over one and a half Harvey’s stools. Her hair looked as if she’d coloured it with a mix of oil and watery rust. It fell over her eyes, and the acne on her cheeks and chin looked like it had dripped there from her bangs.
    “You sure you don’t want a burger?” asked Mason.
    “I don’t eat fast food.”
    “Well, I’m going to get one for myself, okay?”
    She shrugged and Mason walked to the counter. “High School Confidential” was playing out of fuzzy speakers. It was evening outside, but here in the yellow light, people carrying trays back to tables, glaring and grumbling, it felt like lunchtime in a homeless shelter. He was regretting his decision to come here sober.
    Mason paid his money and picked up the tray—a bacon burger, an apple juice and a Diet Coke. He turned and looked at Sissy who was looking down at the metal table in front of her. And suddenly this—on the surface much better than many he’d lived—felt like