Trouble at the Flagship Cinnabon by Layla Ormbrek

Soon after my family moved to Federal Way, my mom told me that the SeaTac Mall had the first ever Cinnabon. The flagship. In my seven-year-old mind, this meant importance, gravitas. We tried it out one day, the gloopy mess of dough and icing practically heaving atop our paper plates. Even as a typically greedy child, I knew that there was something excessive about a Cinnabon, that it could be the gateway to some very bad things. Judiciously, my mother sliced mine into quarters with the flimsy plastic knife. Soon after gobbling up a few bites, I went droopy and lethargic for the rest of the afternoon.

That day, I learned that Cinnabon was a luxury that would make you pay in the end. But it was one of the few claims to fame that Federal Way had, other than being a place where the Green River Killer would go hot-tubbing or where apartments were cheap. I’d felt part of something important when we lived in Seattle, where you could travel 600 feet up the Space Needle or watch people throw fish in the Market. Down in the suburbs, I felt beige and insubstantial. Even at a young age, I noticed this difference in how a place could make you feel.

Federal Way was suburban malignancy. There was no center, just relentless, blind growth. Being here made me nervous in a way that I couldn’t explain, like my soul was being siphoned away to power the neon signs lining Pacific Highway South. Still, I remembered the Cinnabon trivia. It was something to hold onto. And naturally, decades later, when I heard that the flagship was closing, I had to return and pay my respects.

One August afternoon, I drove down I-5 South, exiting on 320th. Traffic was a tedious, grotesque snarl. After finally parking, I passed through the food court entrance, and memories flooded back.

There was the closed-down movie theater, where I had seen Home Alone 2 and Titanic. The Baskin Robbins remained, still sporting the same poster of the white, Black, and Asian American children who all appeared to enjoy ice cream equally, a lame message of unity from the early Nineties. Like most other local kids, I’d had my share of nametag and hairnet jobs here, the most notable being the virtually abandoned craft store near the Sears, where I read all of Crime and Punishment, and where a Renaissance Faire enthusiast came by weekly to hit on me until I made up a fake boyfriend with rage issues. He likes to bust skulls, I’d say. On days off, I’d still find myself strolling past Victoria’s Secret, carrying a mini Sbarro’s pizza box, munching on a slice. Just like New York City, I’d think, because I was a moron.

Absorbed in the past, snaking through the dim, warren-like food court, I emerged blinking under a skylight. I was gratified to see a line in front of the Cinnabon. Apparently, other people wanted Type 2 diabetes as well. Craning my neck, I saw workers with their heads down, hands busy rolling dough. I prepared to wait in line for a few minutes when I noticed someone. Someone I didn’t think I’d ever see again.

I’d recognize that widow’s peak anywhere, I thought. Seeing that forehead shot me back fifteen years in a second, though the rest of her no longer matched. Time hadn’t been kind; she was hunched and dumpy, wearing bedazzled jeans meant for a teenager. Mental shorthand quickly clocked these details and dismissed them; the age, the weight, the poor posture, they were just surplus layers. Megan Fowler. High school. Her tanning bed skin, a screeching orange. The pierced navel, perpetually infected, its fake jewel winking underneath her t-shirt that read 99% Angel. Thong underwear sticking out of low-rise jeans. And that night. That night. Oh, shit.

That night was like so many other nights when I was in the Bermuda triangle between eighteen and twenty. I’d graduated, but I had no idea what I wanted to do yet; I still lived with my parents. I’d just counted out the till at the Crafter’s Corner where we’d cleared less than a hundred dollars that day, and during those hours, I’d plowed through half of White Teeth. Driving across 320th as the light waned, I pressed play on my mixtape, cranking the volume. Attitude, you got some motherfuckin’ attitude, I can’t believe what you say to me, you got some attitude, Glen Danzig sneered. I pulled into the Denny’s parking lot and cut the engine.

My friends and I always crowded into the big wraparound booth, staying until after midnight, monopolizing the waitress with a revolving order of drinks, reveling in the pleasure of sharing cigarettes we could finally buy. We called ourselves The Regulars when none of us could be bothered to order a Grand Slam Breakfast or Moon-Over-My-Hammy, not even having the decency to be embarrassed about it.

From the window, I registered Mike’s royal blue Best Buy polo hugging his lanky frame. I’d had a thing for Mike since eighth grade, but God forbid anyone knew. While I could have said something, it was as if some curse had rendered me romantically mute. And besides, Mike was saving up to move to The City, as he called Seattle. I just knew that he would find someone else, someone dynamic and confident. So I kept quiet.

It looked like Josh was there, too, bopping his girlfriend Amanda on the head with a laminated menu. We’d all known each other for years, and I thought we would forever, which left me feeling reassured and also like I was choking. Josh and Amanda had been a couple since sophomore year, and they called themselves “poor-people engaged,” meaning that Josh wouldn’t pay for a ring so long as there was weed and car stereos to think about. Instead, one afternoon at Steel Lake, after we’d had a six-pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, Josh asked solemnly for Amanda’s hand, giving her a gumball machine ring with a fake spider on it. Afterward, we celebrated by picking up the park’s metal picnic tables and throwing them off of the end of the dock.

Walking into Denny’s, I gave the hostess a quick nod as she rolled her eyes at me. I kept moving. When I rounded the corner, I saw some extra people. Registering their faces, my shoulders fell. Sitting in the red vinyl booth was Kurt Morgan, who I knew as Josh’s dealer. Weed mostly, but sometimes other things too, when Josh felt like being stupid. Kurt’s pale eyes were constantly red, his breath redolent with unchecked dental emergencies. He had a rotating cast of girlfriends, mostly those who’d squeaked through high school without learning about what makes chlamydia happen.

“Hey, Sydney,” Amanda said distractedly, in the middle of play-fighting with Josh over sugar packets.

“Hey,” I breathed.

Two groupies were here tonight, flanking Kurt on either side, their thighs pressed up against his, each of them possessive, sweaty. Crystal McNamara and Megan Fowler. Meth sister- wives, I thought, as I slid into the opposite side of the booth. I imagined that if he ordered anything, they would fight over who fed it to him.

Crystal was oblivious, but Megan eyed me like an eagle. Her eyes, brown, edged with gold, were beautiful indeed, and they instilled fear. I hesitated to reach for my ice water, fearing that any moves would make her lash out, the way that she had when we were in seventh grade and she had shot her fist into my solar plexus. I had been in the restroom drying my hands, and she thought I looked like a dyke. To her, it seemed fair. Sitting across from her years later, I couldn’t tell if she remembered, or if it blended together in some watercolor montage of other homophobic ass-kicking.

Meanwhile, Kurt recounted a tale of watching as some Federal Way cops chased a Ukrainian teenager, who’d been carrying an open bottle of champagne, across the Applebee’s parking lot until they overtook him, tasing him repeatedly. “Little bastard pissed his pants. That shit was freakin’ hilarious, man. Like watching Rocky IV all over again.” Kurt guffawed, sending clouds of poison breath across the table in my direction, causing me to imagine the contents of his stomach, a cartoonish, murky green with floating fishbones and stink lines.

I resigned myself to them. In retrospect, I don’t know why I couldn’t have made up an excuse and left. But I didn’t, and like the poet says, that has made all the difference. Soon, my stomach and anxiety convinced me to order some fries for the table. When I sked, the waitress showed the whites of her eyes.

“Did you hear that, people?” she asked the whole booth. “Fries for the table? What a concept. Looks like we’re learning.”

The fries were like a gesture of goodwill, and we chatted as we snacked. I still felt on edge, but I tried to suffocate that feeling. Only a fucking stick in the mud wouldn’t feel at ease holding court with the person responsible for supplying your whole high school with crank. A new round of drinks arrived. I still remember the waitress’s platter held aloft, with more sodas, and in the midst of them a strawberry milkshake, topped with whipped cream and two maraschino cherries. She set the milkshake down in front of Kurt. I almost wanted to laugh: what a frivolous, frou-frou drink for such a self-professed badass. As the waitress set out the other glasses, I saw Crystal lean forward and whisper something in Kurt’s ear and laugh. He laughed too, turning toward her and breathing in her face; I didn’t see how she could stand it. Apparently, Megan couldn’t- because she took the milkshake and poured it slowly all over Kurt and Crystal.

The table froze, silent. Then it was all noise and action. “You fuckin’ bitch!” Kurt growled, as Crystal, her face covered with pink ice cream, blindly reached out for fistfuls of Megan’s hair. The rest of us hopped out of the booth. Dishes crashed, soda spilled everywhere. Kurt wrestled Megan toward the entrance, dragging by her arm. Confused, the rest of us followed. People gawked, staring up from their mozzarella sticks.

Staggering out into the parking lot like they were in some drunken three-legged race, Kurt and Megan screamed obscenities at each other. The sun was sinking behind the mall, casting them in golden light. Just as we reached them, I heard Kurt say, “I told you this was the last time, and I warned you, bitch.” He popped his trunk, a white Crown Victoria with tinted windows. Megan stood there, her face a stone, her arms crossed over her chest. Kurt pointed to the empty trunk. “Get. In.”

We formed a semicircle, staring, waiting. Megan’s jaw worked furiously.

“I told you.” Kurt repeated.

I looked around. Who else could see this? Traffic raced by down 320th, an implacable chrome river. Megan climbed into the empty space of the trunk. It seemed like she had done this before. Like a child receiving Communion, she obediently ducked her head and closed her eyes as Kurt closed the lid over her. We remained standing dumbly. Then Kurt lifted his strawberry stained t-shirt. Tucked into his belt was a gun. “Now the rest of you, get the fuck in in my car.” We didn’t hesitate. Crystal and Josh in the front, with me, Mike, and Amanda in the back. I squashed into the middle, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder to Mike. I felt him breathe. These were the situations I usually loved, where we were forced into incidental contact. He grabbed my hand, his palm clammy with sweat. We glanced at each other. He wasn’t trying to take an opportunity, he just looked like a scared kid. I squeezed his hand until my knuckles were white as we plunged down Peasley Canyon Road under a darkening sky.

Once we reached the Auburn-Kent Valley, Kurt merged onto Highway 18, cutting off semi-trucks, zipping past cars. Crystal gazed fixedly out the window, whipped cream still in her frizzy hair. Kurt turned on his stereo, blasting Bob Marley, bass thumping so hard my teeth vibrated. “No woman, no cry,” Kurt sang along, relaxed. I wondered what Megan could hear. We headed east until we hit I-90, and I could barely make out the outlines of Big Si and
Little Si in the distance. Kurt turned off the freeway, down more remote streets until we reached a trailhead. He turned off the engine. “Everybody out,” he commanded.

He opened the trunk, and before I could register what he was doing, he had zip-ties around Megan’s wrists. She looked resigned and dead-eyed. “I’ll bring up the rear,” Kurt said, pointing to a steep trail. “We’re going that way. Gonna be a hike.” He tossed Mike and Josh some flashlights. “Use these.”

And it was a hike. Switchbacks never seemed to end, the incline was extreme, and my low-top Converse sneakers weren’t faring well. My adrenaline kept me upright. I prayed silently that no bats or owls would land in my hair and pressed on, with Mike in front of me, illuminating the trail just barely in the weak beam of the flashlight.

After what seemed like hours, we reached a plateau overlooking a narrow canyon. On the other side, I saw an outcropping of rock resembling a massive shelf. This was as far as we could go.

“Now, we wait,” Kurt said. The sky, full dark now, allowed me to see the stars with so much more clarity than I could in the suburbs. I sat staring silently at constellations, shivering, until my head tipped onto Mike’s shoulder and I fell asleep.

“Hey.” Mike jostled me awake.

I rubbed my eyes, which felt gritty, with my contact lenses still in them from yesterday. The sky was slowly brightening, but it wasn’t what commanded my attention. Wedged into the outcropping, was a giant mass of branches, sticks, leaves, and grass, woven together. A nest. A nest big enough to fit a McMansion.

“What the hell?” I gestured at it.

“I don’t know, Syd,” he whispered. “This is totally fucked.”

Toward the edge of the plateau, Megan sat, legs splayed out in front of her, head bowed, muttering bitterly to herself every once in a while, wrists still zip-tied behind her. Kurt sat dozing, his back against a nearby rock, gun resting on a thigh. Amanda and Josh were whispering to themselves. Crystal was awake, wide-eyed, mute.

As the sun crept high enough for us to call it morning, we heard a rustling sound. Immediately, we sat up straight. A large, vibrant wing stretched out of the nest, the size of a boat sail, articulating its glossy feathers. Then came a monstrous head, beaked, beady-eyed, watchful. It was the largest bird I had ever seen, sleek, a lustrous blue-black. It crowed, a deafening sound amplified by the acoustics of the canyon. The thing took flight, its shadow blocking the sun, covering us all. I shook.

It glided nearer, angling its body down toward Megan, who gawked up at it, an unwilling offering. “No no no! Get it away,” she begged, a note of desperation I had never heard before in her voice.

Kurt, now fully awake, lit up a smoke and repeated what he’d said earlier in the Denny’s parking lot. “I told you,” he said. “I told you you’d find out.”

The creature hovered close, its feet down like the wheels of a plane about to land, its talons thick. Megan screamed; I could feel her terror in my own chest cavity. As I looked up again, The Bird had secured her, grabbing her gingerly around the torso. It lifted off. We felt the whoosh of air under its wings as it propelled itself upward. Megan screamed more weakly, then went limp, arms and legs swaying to and fro like a puppet’s. The Bird returned to its nest.

The rest of us, except for Kurt, stood up, petrified. I hated Megan deeply, but even she didn’t deserve this. Kurt rose, brushed the dirt of the back of his pants, untucked his pistol, and said. “Well, that’s done. Let’s get the hell out of here.” We stood perfectly still, and in response, Kurt barked, “Did I stutter?” He gestured with his gun, and we fell in line.

We filed down the trail, stumbling over rocks and exposed roots. The sun rose higher as we made it back down, and I listened for more sounds, screaming, flapping of wings, anything, but I heard nothing. When I did catch a glance at the others, they were white-faced, their expressions blinkered. Finally, we reached the trailhead and Kurt’s Crown Victoria, a dusty white in the morning sun, its trunk now empty.

In North Bend, we stopped at some diner that was important because it had been on a TV show. Kurt bought us breakfast, making a big show of his generosity, implying that he was a nice guy after all. While I left mine untouched, everyone else dug in. Josh ordered a black coffee and cherry pie, and he kept making a big deal out of it. “Damn fine cup of coffee,” he kept saying, waiting for the rest of us to laugh. I shook my head, my first reaction in many hours that wasn’t terror or surprise. Gazing into my own mug of coffee, I knew that I needed to get the hell out of Federal Way.

The remaining weeks of that summer trickled by, and with them, my hypervigilance. The police never called. No one at the Denny’s had said peep. If anyone had seen Megan climb into the trunk, they must have forgotten. Only we knew the rest, and it had to stay that way. Kurt
would make sure of that, one way or another.

So we moved on with sociopathic ease. Instead of meeting up at Denny’s, we went to Shari’s, another chain diner close to the skating rink, falling into similar routines with the gruff waitstaff. A month or two later Mike brought a girl with him, someone he met at Best Buy
selling flatscreen TVs. It turned out he wasn’t so serious about leaving for Seattle after all.

That fall, I started community college. I got fired from Crafter’s Corner when my boss played back surveillance tape of me reading American Psycho while a mother-and-daughter team stole decorative signs that said “Bless This Mess” and “Dance Like Nobody's Watching.” And over time, I showed up to fewer Saturday nights until I wasn’t a Regular anymore. The day that I moved out, driving north up the freeway to a mildewy basement apartment where I’d live for the next several years, I wept with relief. I’d made a getaway, I didn’t know how clean.

But now, though, the past had resurfaced. Megan had survived, and she was striding through this dying mall, right toward me. I was in her sights now, the last place I wanted to be. Standing toe-to-toe with her at thirty-five year-old, I still had the urge to shit myself. As ever, she wielded a death glare, no matter how weathered she appeared. She looked me up and down, weighing my weaknesses. Who would break eye contact first? I did, gazing past her at a middle- aged couple trudging into the Kohl’s entrance.

“Hey, don’t I know you?” she asked, her voice low. She smiled like a shark, with only the bottom half of her face.

I looked from side to side, then decided to be honest. “Yeah, you look familiar. Did you go to Decatur?”

“I did,” she nodded. “But I recognize you from somewhere else too.”

I shrugged, all exaggerated innocence.“Don’t think so. Nice to see you, though.”

“I’m Megan,” she put her hand to her chest. “And you’re...?”

“Sydney.”

“I’m horrible with names, but I have a memory for faces. I never forget.” She smiled at me, flaring her nostrils, locking me in. She knew. “Anyway, can you believe how much this place has changed?” She waved her hand around vaguely. “It’s like I wouldn’t recognize it at all. I mean, this mall used to have carpets.”

“I’m here to grab a Cinnabon before they shut this place down,” I replied. We both stared at the marquee and sighed.

“Such a shame,” Megan said. “Running a business can be hard around here-there’s always something new. So much competition.” I looked around at the empty shops and the few that were open. If I wanted to, I could buy a taffeta quinceañera dress for 30 percent off and accessorize it with a katana sword. It was something to think about.

Megan continued. “That’s why I make sure to tell everyone I can about greatopportunities. Luckily, I’m able to work for myself, and I love helping people.” She took a measured pause, as though reading from a script. “And it’s always easy when you work with a great product. Have you heard of VitaPower?”

“Oh. Yeah.” I had. It was the latest pyramid scheme that my sister-in-law had gotten roped into at her megachurch.

“Great. Then you know that it practically sells itself. And I’m not only an independent contractor, I’m a customer, too.” Megan reached into her bag, but before she could show me the brochure, she was interrupted by a tall, raven-haired teenage boy. “Mom,” he mumbled, sounding helpless and bored at once. He shook his hair out of his eyes, and I got a good look at him. He had an actual beak. I blinked, looking around. No one else seemed to notice. “I’m hungry, Mom.”

“Just a second, Griffin, Mommy’s working.” She rummaged in her bag, handed me a glossy tri-fold of women riding bikes, full of toothsome laughter, and she then passed her son a plastic snack tub full of earthworms.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I’ll be at GameStop.”

She waved at him distractedly and then focused on me. “Now, where were we?”

I never got my coveted Cinnabon that day, and I never would. Fifteen minutes later ,after my reunion with Megan Fowler, I walked into the August heat, sitting in my blazing sedan for several minutes before I turned the key in the ignition. I had become part of her downline, selling supplements and essential oils; or, rather, letting cardboard boxes full of them multiply in my garage, a reproachful presence that would always remind me of that day. Monthly, I would receive a new box in the mail along with a new charge on my Visa card. When I saw my monthly statement, I would grit my teeth and then shove the expense under my mental rug. And from then on, every time I drove south, I would glance at Exit 143 and keep moving down the road.