Aquila marveled at the kid-sized juice box with a soft smirk of satisfaction and her bright, silver eyes burning with greed.

She raised the offering up to the sun with both hands. The juice box seemed to glow with a golden gleam.

“The covenant... has been formed!” she declared.

Some of Aquila’s friends ‘ooh’d and clapped at the offering. (Shay did too. It felt right.)

--”Oh, I love that flavor.”

--”They still sell those?”

“Yep!” Shay grinned. “I got a whole pack on sale last week.”

“Xue of Yan,” Aquila said, “the answer you seek lies within a mix of detergent powder and heated, but not boiling, waters!”

Nice. Shay locked that fact away in her memory. She was going to try that after school.

Aquila always had answers. Gossip, dating, chemical solutions. Even if her advice wasn’t perfect, it at least offered a new perspective.

Shay asking about her current problems came with a LOT of gossip-risk, but... she really didn’t have any better ideas.

“Ever heard of a place called Toonsy Chevap?”

“Yeah,” Aquila nodded. She hopped off her stack-of-chairs throne (which was extra impressive, since she was wearing demon-idol-appropriate heels.)

“I can get you in for 20 dollars,” she said.

“wat?”

Shay shook her head, trying to recover from her shock to formulate a better question.

“Aquila, what do you mean-- what are you talking about?”

Aquila grabbed her things, putting her juice box into her backpack’s side pocket before waving forward.

“Walk with me.”

They walked around a corner, out of sight and earshot from the rest of the other students. Then, Aquila produced a flat zipper pouch.

“Tužni Ćevap is the name of a bar. And you need to get in.”

Shay nodded slowly. She wasn’t entirely sure-- but that sounded right.

“So... how do I--”

“20 bucks,” Aquila interrupted, “and you get one, brand-new, fake ID-- courtesy of, uh... no one.”

“Uh huh?” Shay frowned, “And does ‘no one’ already have that made for me?”

“Of course, she does,” Aquila grinned. She rooted through her little zip bag and showed it off.

How did she... Ugh. Whatever.

Shay snatched it out of her hand, “I’ll give you the money when I get paid.”

Aquila shook her head, clicking her tongue, “You drive a hard bargain, Xue of Yan.”

Shay had a lot of questions. Why did she have so many fake IDs made? How and when did she take those pictures? ...How did she know what a Tuna Chevap was, in the first place?

Aquila and her weird, incriminating secrets...

“ShaYyy,” Aquila sang... “How about you tell me more about your relationship with you-know-who?”

Shay put her newly acquired fake ID in her bag.

“You mean my relationship with Andy Zhang?” she said in a flat voice.

“A word of warning,” Aquila said, “Some secrets are more dangerous than others.”

Shay took a deep breath. She knew that.

She was still in high school. Tyvan was not. Even though they were close in age, that kind of relationship wasn’t normal. Then, there was the fact that he had ties to some very dangerous people-- people just as dangerous as her grandpa.

Despite her anxieties, Shay forced herself to smile.

“Is my secret more dangerous than carrying around a stack of fake IDs in your backpack?”

“It miGht be~” Aquila said, “One or two wrong moves and you might get hurt. Is it worth the risk? And for you, the goody-good Student Council President with her perfect grades and perfect-er reputation?”

“If it’s not... does that mean I don’t have to pay you?”

“H-hey, don’t be like that.”

----------------------------------------

Friday night, 6 o’clock...

Shay stared at the front door of Tužni Ćevap.

Old, splintery... painted over more than once in a faded red.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

She glanced down at her jeans. Everyone wore jeans-- even adults.

She was tempted to check her makeup using the front window, but that would only make her feel worse. She already knew she wasn’t great at makeup. And she didn’t exactly know how to use makeup to look older than she was. (Contour, maybe?)

The dark blouse she wore was something that belonged to her aunt; it must have gotten mixed up in the laundry. If anything made her look old enough, it was that.

Her biggest problem was her height. There were middle schoolers who were taller than her. But there were also plenty of short adults. Legally, her aunt qualified as a little person.

Shay turned the door handle and stepped inside. A few heads turned to look at her, but not many. Still, she felt those stares burning a hole in her soul.

The interior had a lot of wood-browns, golds, and greens. It looked like an old-timey gentleman’s club where women weren’t allowed in. And it smelled like old tobacco laced with vanilla and a hint of... cookies? That can’t have been right.

She weaved between the tables and chairs toward the bar, almost losing her shoe to the stickiness of the floor.

The bartender was an older guy with peaked, slicked-back hair and a face like an old, scarred shark. He wore a vest over a long-sleeved shirt, roughly rolled to his elbows, showing off his hairy arms. He didn’t look too much taller than she was, but his back was hunched over, giving him a classic, villainous appearance.

“Hi,” Shay said, “I’m looking for--”

“ID,” the bartender said.

Shay took a breath to calm her beating heart as she looked around.

The old, scratchy jukebox kept playing its jazzy, dated vinyl.

A trio of old men were smoking pipes by the fireplace, talking in a foreign language-- Russian? No, it sounded a bit softer.

Ash trays. Ash trays everywhere. And even on tables with ash trays, there were half-cups of water filled with cigarette butts.

No one else seemed to be looking at her with suspicion.

Also, the sign in front said ‘no entry without ID.’

Everything was normal. P-erfectly normal. She wasn’t suspicious. The bartender was just doing his job.

She got her ID out of her bag and offered it forward-- in both hands.

It was unnecessarily and embarrassingly Chinese of her, but she was nervous!

She gulped... and as she waited, her eyes drifted away.

The tag on the bartender’s chest said... ‘Dajik.’

Behind the bar, there was a display of counterfeit bills, frames of sepia-stained photographs... and a pinned-up flag of... Croatia?

Dajik squinted his eyes at her ID...

“You are Chinese?” he asked, “from big family?”

“F-from the Song family,” Shay said. “You might have heard of it.”

“Oh.. hohoho...” Dajik’s laugh was a mix of a wheeze and a cough. “Song family. They say not doing good. Maybe you go. Maybe good for family if children living for longer.”

Shay pursed her lips. Leaving sounded like a great idea. Or...

Her employee pin had a special significance. She didn’t know what it was, exactly, but it would probably be enough for a random bartender-person to answer her questions.

She took it out of her bag and held it up.

Dajik reached forward to grab it, but Shay kept it just out of his reach.

A slow smile crossed his lips. Oh. His teeth were unnaturally and disturbingly pointy.

“Where did you get snake? Snake is very dangerous symbol.”

“Is he here?” Shay asked.

Dajik laughed once more, louder-- snorting and hissing.

For that short moment, he stood at his full height.

Oh, he was tall... as tall as Tyvan, maybe.

And that made Shay really, really uncomfortable.

“Good, good. Come,” he said. “We go to special room.”

After returning her ID, Dajik exited the bar area, leading her further into the building.

Shay ignored all of her brain’s warning chemicals and followed.

Past the bargoers... past the kitchen... and to a hallway with a series of rooms-- none of them looking particularly special.

“Is this... where Tyvan is?”

Dajik didn’t reply. He motioned for her to enter a door.

It felt like she was walking into a trap. She did so willingly, with her own two feet.

The air stank of wet, musty fur and disinfectant. They obviously didn’t use just a little bit of detergent and hot water.

There were two couches with beige sheets tossed over them, splotched with stains and cigarette burns. On the low table in front of it was a lone, razor blade that gleamed as the dim ceiling lights hit them just right.

And... there was a thick, black curtain that blocked off half the room.

Dajik stood at the door, silently looming over her, eyeing her with suspicion.

So... Shay immediately looked for something nice to say.

There was a painting on the wall. A city built next to water. Clay buildings in orange, red, and gold.

“Is this... what Croatia looks like?”

Dajik’s eyes grew wide, almost like he was a cartoon character.

“You know Croatia?”

“Well, not really,” Shay said, “but I saw the flag.”

Dajik snorted another laugh, “You are first! First in long time! Everyone thinking Tužni Ćevap is Russian. Maybe sound of language close-- but is very different, Russia and Croatia.”

He shook his head, “But very sad. You are good thief, but you steal from wrong people.”

Someone knocked on the door and Dajik moved aside. Two larger, assumedly Croatian men, entered wearing suits.

Dajik said something in Not-Russian. One of his men moved forward and shoved her, forcing her back on the couch. The other took her bag, spilling its contents on the table.

They found... her gardening shears!?

Shay wanted to scream-- but she forgot how to.

The thugs handed the potential weapon over to Dajik.

“Very good thief,” he repeated.

“I--I’m not a thief,” Shay stammered. “That’s mine.”

Dajik kept smiling, but he lifted his chin and looked down over his nose. He held the shears handle-side toward her.

“Maybe thief tell truth. Maybe thief lose head. You choose.”