The Search for Juno

Chapter V

Talking on the phone was bad enough—Angie had never liked the sound of anyone's voice that close to her ear. Talking on the phone with Hermes present, however, was near impossible.

    Though she'd excused herself to the living room, she could still hear him banging around behind the shut door of her bedroom. Angie shuddered at the thought of what he could be doing to her precious safe haven. He'd claimed he was helping her pack, but from the awful sounds coming through the wall, Angie could only imagine the worst. Ruined sculptures. Clothes torn from her clothing hangers and scattered across the floor. Bookshelves gone topsy-turvy.

    Every part of her wanted to toss the phone down and stop this madness—but alas, that would be suicide.

    "It should only be for a few days, Mom," said Angie for what was likely the five-hundredth time, or somewhere near there. She was perched on the arm of her couch, cell phone held up to her ear. "I talked to my boss about it and I'm ahead in all my classes. You don't need to worry so much."

    "Juno, baby," said her mother, for all of Angie's insistence that she was Angie now had minimal effect on her parents, who were set on the name that was printed explicitly on her birth certificate. "I know you're young. I agree you should be...exploring things. Life. And things. I just don't know if packing up to go on a last minute trip like this is very smart. I mean, is anyone even going with you?"

    There was a thunderous noise from her bedroom again, like an elephant toppling over. Angie rubbed her temples. It seemed that whenever Hermes arrived, so did a headache. "No," she said into the phone. "It's just me."

    "Just you. To Las Vegas. By yourself. Alone."

    "'By myself' and 'alone' are the same thing, Mom."

    "I don't like this," said her mother with a sigh. Angie echoed it, leaning backwards until she toppled over onto the couch with a gentle thud. "You understand why I don't like this?"

    "It's business," said Angie, another phrase she was likely saying for the near five hundredth time. She supposed that had something to do with the fact her mother wasn't terribly convinced by it anymore. "I'll let you know when it's handled."

    "Juno—"

    "I know, I know. I'll be safe. I love you, Mom."

    Another ruckus from the bedroom, this one like metal screeching. Angie winced, a physical pain striking her. If that idiot had done anything to one of her sculptures—

    "I love you too, honey. Call me as soon as you get there! I need to know you're alive."

    "Roger," said Angie, and hung up, tossing the phone down beside her.

    In an instant she was up on her feet, swinging her bedroom door open. "Hermes, you imbecile—"

    She stopped dead in her tracks. Her desk was clear of the random assortment of half-scribbled papers that had formerly graced it, her bed tautly made, all her metal masterpieces mounted on new shelves on the wall, organized by size. It was...clean. No. Spotless.

    Angie hated it.

    Lounging on the floor by her open suitcase was Hermes, whistling to himself as he plucked a T-shirt from the pile she had made, folded it, and set it inside the suitcase. "Hermes," said Angie, and when he looked up, the unease in his face was plain and plenty. "What the hell did you do?"

    "Oh, this?" he said, and tossed a hand around as if to distinguish that this was the disgustingly immaculate state of her bedroom. "Call it a spring cleaning, if you will. I needed something to do while you were on the phone."