#oc jackson

“This is crafting fabric,” she tells him, voice croaked and thin with age.

“I know,” he sighs, fists his hands behind the counter where she can’t see. “My, um, mom asked me to pick some up for her.”

Lie.

His mother was too busy for a time-consuming hobby and was absolutely horrible at crafts and sewing. But it doesn’t hurt anyone to fib about it. It’s just a little lie, not a crime (like unsponsored underaged vigilanteing). It was fine. Normal, even. Moms sent their sons on shopping errands all the time. 

She picks up the strip of firetruck red fabric with her nails. “So she sends you to grab half a yard of red linen? That’s all she needs?”

“That’s... what she told me to grab, yeah. I think she was running low?”

“Are you asking me?”

“No? No. That’s... that’s all. Please.”

“Alright.” She presses a few keys, pulling the fabric closer to peer at the tag. “Half a yard of red linen.”

He nods, feeling like a bobble head. “Yep.” He pops the ‘p’ and winces. “Half a yard of bright red linen for, uh,” his mind blanks on anything that can be made with linen, “...something. She didn’t say what.”

...and he wasn’t asked a question. Cool. Yeah. He was totally acting normal, just running an errand for his mother. Buying fabric for a perfectly normal home project and not to use as a half-baked mask that was going to be ruined in about a month, if he was lucky.

He knew he was somehow making this much worse than it needed to be, but he doesn’t know how.

He does know, however, that if he acts too off she might know what he’s really doing. Buying fabric to DIY a superhero costume. For vigilanteism. A punishable offense on two parts — unsanctioned Supers weren’t allowed to roam the streets and he was a minor.

Minors aren’t allowed. Period. It was too risky, too stressful, too much for any child to bear. He really wishes he had the option to wait until he was eighteen.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“Yes.” He responds too quickly, a little loud for the quiet bumble of the shop, snapping back into the situation at hand and not his runaway train of thought. “I’m fine. Why— why would you ask?” He narrows in on her eyes, wondering how people can see a soul past them. He just sees brown.

“You seem a little jumpy.”

He shakes his head. “No— I’m not... jumpy.” He laughs and it’s forced so he stops. Did that sound suspicious? It probably did.

She hums unconnectedly. “Alright. This’ll be $8.49.”He grabs at his back pocket and hands her a ten. “Keep the change,” he says, pretending his anxiety is the only thing making him think she knows. He smiles and it feels like the exact wrong move.

This would’ve been so much easier if he was a girl. He wouldn’t be questioned so much than and this could be a smooth experience.

“Here you go,” she says, holding out his now-bagged purchase, the curl of her lips smug.

He grabs it and ignores how his fingers fumble for the handle. “Thank you.” His heart pounds a rhythm in his chest, stirring up an urge to puke. He feels sick — does she know? Is she going to call this in? Is he done for? Has he finally been caught because he thought he had one more spare mask when he hadn’t?

That’s why he was here, though, because linen was supposed to be harder to burn than cotton. He needed something less flammable.

“Have a good day, hun. Be safe.

”His breath stills and he idly wonders where all the air went. “Yeah.”

Definitely. He was totally... going to do that.

Not.

Dang it, she really knew what he was actually doing, didn’t she?

He walks out the door and slaps his palm against his forehead as hard as he can. “Dang,” he whispers. “Should’ve just ordered it online and waited. Stupid. I was a wreck. That was horrible.” The heels of his hands press against his browbone, the plastic bag crinkling against his skin.

He sighs, feeling like the water running down the street and into the drain. He shoulda just — not done that. That was bad. That was really bad.

God, how was he so awkward? How did people hold normal conversations? He feels like his chest is about to implode.

He jimmies his phone from his pocket and types a note one-handed to his list of things to remember. He writes the name of the shop and in caps (for emphasis so later him will remember) writes not to ever go there again. Ever.

The little old lady behind the counter knew who he was. Maybe.

That, or he was just really paranoid. Or bad at reading social situations.