Free Something True by Karelia Stetz-Waters

plunged her hand into the scalding water again and felt for the valve. It was gone. She had to agree with Lill on this one. Krystal should never have been allowed behind the counter with a wrench.
    â€œKrystal,” Tate called. “What happened to the valve?”
    â€œIt broke.” Krystal knelt at her side, pink pigtails sticking out of her head like antennas.
    â€œWhat broke it?”
    â€œYou fix things.” Krystal’s lip was trembling. “You told me I should take responsibility for myself and learn new skills and…” A tear slid down her cheek, taking a stream of black mascara with it. “…it was your book and Maggie says it’s empowering.”
    â€œWhat is?” Tate’s hand stung from the hot water.
    The customers had moved away from the counter as the water began to run in rivulets across the floor.
    â€œPlumbing,” Krystal said. “The book said I’d be more self-confident if I maintained my own home. It said feminists should clean their own sink traps.”
    â€œKrystal, you’re supposed to be studying for the GED, and this is not a sink trap, and this is not your house, and you’ve seen the Pink Pages, you just hire a lesbian plumber. That’s all the empowerment you need.”
    â€œI just thought I could do it on my own.” Krystal’s eyes were going puffy. “I just wanted to help you! My dad would show me how to fix it. My dad would have wanted me to do it.”
    â€œYour dad is doing twenty to life. Your dad could turn this wrench into a switchblade.” Tate felt bad as soon as she spoke. It was only the pain in her scalded hand that made her honest. The mascara streamed from both Krystal’s eyes now. “I’m sorry, Krystal. Please, don’t cry. I know you were trying to help. Now, just get a real bucket. We’ll fix it. Find the Pink Pages. I think there’s a copy by the front door.”
    Krystal disappeared again. Tate grabbed her wrench and made one more go at the deluge. This time she was able to pinch the metal and turn the valve, reducing the torrent to a drip and then to nothing. She was soaking.
    The customers who knew Maggie were filing to the edges of the store, trying to look engaged in the seascape photographs that Tate had hung in place of Mariah Lesbioma’s vagina art. The customers who did not know Maggie were heading for the exit. Maggie had begun to dab at her eyes with a napkin.
    Lill was following her around behind the counter saying, “Maggie, Namaste. Namaste!” It sounded like something one might yell at a terrier.
    On the other side of the counter, young Bartholomew had taken advantage of his parents’ distraction and was emptying the sugar canister into his mouth. And right in front of the counter, little Sobia had taken off her pants, walked up to a stranger, grabbed the woman’s hand, and said, in a shrill voice, “Bartholomew has a pee-pee because he’s a boy, and if he doesn’t want a baby, he’s going to put a condo on his pee-pee.” She pointed at her pink underwear. “But I don’t have a pee-pee because I’m a girl.”
    Only it wasn’t a stranger. No. It was Laura who knelt down in the water so she could face Sobia directly and say, “That’s very interesting. Is your mommy or daddy here?”
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    The rest of the afternoon was less disastrous but no more profitable. For one thing, Tate had envisioned spending the day alone with Laura, but Laura had brought her entourage. Laura, Tate, Dayton, and Craig piled into Laura’s rental car, a large, cream-colored Sebring.
    Tate had decided the first day should be a tour of Portland’s most eccentric coffee shops as well as a few empty strip-mall Starbucks. She wanted to show Laura that Portland loved its locally owned shops and that the big national chains did not have the same pull.
    Laura followed Tate from shop to shop, silent and