The Catalyst

How stupid could I be? To think, that I’d be the one to make it out, to overcome the odds. I’d done it all the correct way, made it through high school with all the correct grades, made it to a prestigious university and for what? To have my ideas stolen right from under me by the first white male who is about as qualified as my doormat.

Fuck you, Chad.

I made my way past the corner store at the edge of Parkway avenue across from the children’s playground. The sidewalk was still wet underneath my feet as my torn Doc Marten’s pounded their way onto the pavement, in part due to my anger at the day’s events. The sun was just starting to set, and the sunlight was doing that thing where it makes the rain drops that adorn everything, shine ever so slightly like diamonds. If only they were real diamonds. Wouldn’t that be convenient?

As I grew closer to the entrance of my apartment building, I began to drag my feet knowing I’d have to break the news to my overworked, stressed out mom that despite my working hard enough to be successful, today I fell short. Beyond short, I dropped the ball. In fact, I dropped all the balls. But arguably, was the ball in my court in the first place? I could beg to differ.

I wasn’t always this cynical. I used to be the optimistic girl always raising my hand in class, believing all of the lies that I was being fed about the American dream, only to realize that that dream is far more accessible for others. I reach the steps that lead to my apartment building, the brown brick building hovering over me foreshadowing yet another sour event to the most awful day, disappointing my mom. I can hear the tires drive past the freshly moistened road and the indistinct chatter of the residents of the neighborhood.

That’s when I see it.

An empty hotdog stand. Suddenly, the hunger overtakes me, and I find myself hastily crossing the street to get to the sustenance. Only, when I get there, there are no hotdogs, just books. A less hungry me probably could have reveled in the boundless opportunities to acquire knowledge that can be found in literature but the really hungry me wanted to curse and cry. But hey, I had already made my way over here, might as well see what they have? But wait this belongs to somebody, right? Then there’s also finders, keepers. Before I could resolve my inner battle,

“Excuse me,?” said a deep raspy voice.

I turned around to see a freckle-faced surfer guy with dirty blond hair who looked like he owned stock in Zumiez. Like a major stake. I’m talking like 60% at least.

“..Oh um I’m sorry I thought this was a hotdog stand and I haven’t eaten all day but I can see now that it’s not so, I’m just gonna get out of your way. You have a goodnight.” I replied in a way that could not be any more awkward.

“So this isn’t your hotdog stand? What a bummer!”

“Do you know who it belongs to?” I said.

“If I did, would I be asking you?”

What a smartass.

“Sucks there’s no hotdogs, maybe I’ll see you around, uh?”

“Soraya”, I replied smugly.

“Nice to meet you”.

He skated away and I, starving like crazy now began to make my way across the street.

That’s when I heard it,

something fell to the pavement.

Do you need to investigate? Curious black people get killed. Curiosity killed the cat, true. But satisfaction brought it back. Screw it.

I turn around and as I’m making my way towards the cart, I see a little black book, on the ground with some sort of red markings. Oh great, it’s a devil worshipper’s book, this cat is dead. I pick it up anyway, only to open it and find one thing, a name, “Phillip Leeman”.

Well that was a waste, I’m definitely not going to go on some sort of mission to figure out who this Phillip Leeman is, right? Of course not, we are career-focused and ready for bigger and better pastures. But what do I have to lose? I lost the chance at a promotion that I’ve been working so very hard to get. Let’s sleep on it.

I make my way back to my apartment building, turning the key to the lobby entrance only to be greeted by the familiar smell of mold and cat piss. I hit the elevator button, walk inside, still enamored with the red markings on this book. For some reason, they look familiar. Like I’ve seen them somewhere before, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. I unlock my apartment door, 907, to find my mom on the couch binge watching the Housewives of Atlanta.

“Hey noodle, how was your day?”

Oh god, do I tell her now, or tomorrow? Let’s go with tomorrow. That works, well rested. But she’s also in a good mood right now.

“Not so good, one of my colleagues stole my idea and got a promotion”

“What? Did you report it or tell your boss?”

“Can’t be the ‘angry black girl’ at work ma so I just let it go” I said.

“They can’t get away with that, there’s got to be a way to contest that or something?” she replied.

“I’ll let you know if I figure that out, it’s been a long day, I’m headed to bed, love you good night”

“Night, love you too” she said.

I sat down on my bed and placed my backpack beside me, still racking my brain about these unknown symbols.

No information came to mind so I yanked out my laptop to start researching a Phillip Leeman, a long shot but might warrant more results than some strange symbols that I “sort of” remember.

Three hours later, with bags of Lay’s and Oreos everywhere, I arrive at a potentially obvious conclusion, there are like 1,000 Phillip Leemans that have an online presence, and this is assuming this guy has one or that he even knows his name is in this book in the first place.

I pass out, hoping for better results tomorrow.

“Eshua, mitia, looshio…”

“You are the chosen one, forged from the lands of the blessed”

“I NEVER THOUGHT THAT IT’D BE SO SIMPLE BUT I FOUND A WAY, I FOUND A WAY-AY-AY-AY” (alarm sounds)

I wake up to the sound of my Drake and Josh ringtone, whoever said put your favorite song as your alarm is stupid. Now, I hate this song. What was that dream last night anyway?

I sit up in my bed, staring at the little black book beside me except now, it’s got words on its pages. I pick it up, only to realize it’s the same words from my dream.

When’s the last time they checked the carbon dioxide levels in this building? I’m probably just tired.

I head to the bathroom, only to see the same red characters from the book on my freaking shoulder like some sort of red tattoo. I immediately begin scrubbing at my skin till it’s raw with every kind of soap we have. Only for it to become more apparent as time passes. Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, you had a long day yesterday, we’re going to go to Starbucks and in a few hours this whole situation will rectify itself. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Happy thoughts.

I brush my teeth and wash my face then throw on a hoodie and some leggings. My mom’s at work so I finish getting dressed before making my way downstairs.

“Hey Soraya, how are you?” says Ms. Klein as I lock my door.

“Fine, good, great actually, see you around” I reply.

“Can you--?”

I don’t catch the rest of her sentence because by that time I’ve made my way to the elevator.

The second I open my lobby door, I am greeted with pure sunlight that burns my shoulder, right where the markings are. Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, just breathe. I somehow convince myself that magically Starbucks will cure everything.

I make my way onto the sidewalk down Parkway avenue and then a quick left on Lincoln Drive and there it is, the purest expression of capitalism, my muse, my healer, Starbucks.

I get in line and contemplate my life decisions and why I picked up that little black book in the first place, the start of all of this mess.

The “Karen” at the front of the line doesn’t understand why her gift card isn’t working and her preteen son seems understandably embarrassed while the burly man in scrubs and a lab coat behind her seems to be growing increasingly impatient. I don’t mind, this place is giving me a sense of normalcy that I desperately need right now.

I see a man in a suit make his way in, towards the mobile order section, “picking up for Phillip Leeman”.

My heart stops. What do I do? The only thing to do.

I leave my space in line and approach him, “Excuse me sir, this is going to sound super weird so please bear with me here, so last night I found your name in a little black book with all these super weird markings and now all of this crazy stuff has been happening and---”

“Soraya, I’ve been looking for you. Take this and meet me at the address written on the note inside. I have so much to tell you” he says ever so calmly.

Normal me would have been like what the fuck? But new me with weird burning symbols on her shoulder is a lot more optimistic and open-minded to meeting new people.

I sit down in the corner of Starbucks and peel open the package only to see $20,000 cash and an address that looks to be in Paris.

The next few days were kind of a blur as I made up some excuse as to why I had to go to France and quit my job. Oh, how I hate lying to my mother.

So, there I was, making my way to Les Champs Elysees on a cold November night with the streetlights casting their reflection onto the intricate architecture of Paris.

I waited and waited to the point where I began to think I’d wasted all of this time.

Then as I was just about to leave, there he was, but he wasn’t alone.

“Soraya, I am glad you could make it”

“look, we can skip the niceties I need answers, I have turned my whole life upside down for this” I said.

“Understandable. Those symbols you acquired on your shoulder represent a long line of really powerful witches but lays dormant in most descendants. Your symbols were activated by a catalyst of immeasurable power, in your case, that little black book”

“So, you’re saying that I’m a--?” I said in sheer and utter disbelief.

“No, not just a witch, you are destined to become the most powerful witch in existence” says his unnamed female companion.

“And we need your help to save the world” says Phillip.

TO BE CONTINUED…