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“Not a task force,” August says, heart skipping at the sound of her last name in Jane’s mouth. “Just a… ragtag band of misfits.”
The corners of Jane’s mouth press in a sly grin. “Love it.”
“Very Goonies,” Myla chimes in.
“What’re goonies?” Jane asks.
“Only one of the greatest adventure movies of 1985,” Myla says. “Wait, oh man, you missed Spielberg completely, didn’t you?”
“She would have caught Jaws in ’75,” August automatically supplies.
“Thank you, Encyclopedia Brown,” Myla says. She leans in and tells Jane, “August knows everything about everything. It’s her superpower. She should be teaching you all the ’80s movies.”
“I do not know everything.”
“That’s true, you didn’t know about ’70s punk. I had to teach you that.”
Jane looks at her, smirking slightly. August swallows.
“You’re the one who taught her that?”
“Oh yeah,” Myla chirps happily, “I think she wanted something to talk to y—”
“Anyway!” August interrupts. They’re pulling into a station, and she yanks Myla up by her sleeve. “Billy’s isn’t far from this stop, and I’m hungry. Aren’t you hungry? Let’s go, bye, Jane!”
Myla and Jane both seem visibly put out, but August is one embarrassing non sequitur away from throwing herself out the emergency exit. Those two are a dangerous combination.
“Wait, what’s your sign?” Myla shouts over August’s shoulder.
Jane scrunches her face up like she’s trying to remember where she left her keys, not her own birthday. “Don’t remember. Summer, though? I’m pretty sure I was born in the summer.”
“I can work with that!” Myla says, and August is smiling apologetically back at Jane and whisking Myla away, and Jane is lost in the crowd of commuters.
“I’m gonna kill you,” August says as they pick their way toward the stairs.
“The most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me!” Myla yells over her shoulder.
“What did you think of her?”
Myla hops up on the landing, tugging her miniskirt down. “I mean, honestly? That’s wife material. Like, three kids and a dog material. If she looked at me the way she looks at you, my IUD would have shot out like a party popper.”
“Jesus Christ,” August says. And, involuntarily, “How do you think she looks at me?”
“Like you’re her Pop-Tart angel. Like you shit sunshine. Like you invented love as a concept.”
August stares at her, trying to take that in, then turns on her heel and heads off toward the exit. “No, she doesn’t.”
“Like she wants to eat you alive,” Myla adds, jogging to catch up.
“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better,” August says.
“I’m not lying! She—oh, fuck.”
Myla has screeched to a halt—literally, the rubber of her boots squeaking on the damp tile floor—in front of a sign posted on the station wall. August backtracks to read it.
SERVICE ALERT, the sign declares.
Below, there’s the yellow bubble of the Q. Commuters keep walking right past it, just another inconvenience in their day, but August freezes and stares and feels all her rides on the Q spin out around her in a film reel until a breaker flips and they all go black.
