AnimeFEST 2002 Fanfiction Contest Grand Prize Winner Valley of Souls by McFarland Campbell An Adolescence of Utena Fanfiction I'm not sure how I got here, but all I see before me is the blank red of the Formica counters, the stripes of chrome adorning every surface like cheap jewelry, the oil-stained mat in front of the doors. My booth is in the corner, next to a tiny jukebox that takes quarters and a wide window encompassing the pit where they service semis. I realize no one is around. Squinting at the jukebox, I also realize that all the songs listed on it are in a strange text, like something halfway between Cyrillic and Japanese. The door of the kitchen bats open, and a waitress comes out. I raise my hand to beckon her when she comes out from behind the rack of pies and begins wiping down the counter. I'm staring. Her skin is dark, tan, and her hair is long, straight, and purple. As she turns, I see the dot between her eyebrows. Her eyes are lowered to her work, but I can still tell they're emeraldine green. She's like a piece of fiction, inserted neatly into real life, a tantalizing bit of fantasy to further bring loathing to my existence. She is dressed in a teal waitressing outfit with a pointy collar and a violently starched white apron over her hips. I try to catch the name on her tag, but she turns and addresses someone in the kitchen in Japanese. My boots squeak on the linoleum as I get up and try to look casual moving over to the red vinyl stools up against the counter. The girl is still talking with the person in the kitchen, and suddenly, like the bright sound of shattering glass, she laughs. Laughs. Lightly and kindly. Then she turns she sees me immediately. " Hello, what can I do for you?" She's clicked back into waitressing mode, though the cute, funny smile is still there. My eyes flicker to her tag. ANTHY, it says in slim, red letters. " Do you have any tea?" I ask. " Green or herbal?" I've never seen a truck stop that offers herbal tea. " Herbal, please." She turns her back on me and starts for a coffee machine in the corner of the counter, adorned with a stripe of masking tape labeled TEA, HERBAL. The kitchen door bats open. Another girl, this one pale, with cornflower blue eyes and a wave of pink curls brought back with a twist-tie. There is a peaked paper cap on her head. The wide, white apron she wears encompasses her whole front from collar to knees. In one hand there is a spatula dripping with grease. She says something in Japanese. There is no tag on her front proclaiming her name, and I have a feeling she prefers it that way. The waitress Anthy says something back, an empty white mug in her left hand. She gestures wildly, and they both laugh. The pink haired girl disappears into the kitchen, and Anthy delivers me the tea. " Anything else?" she asks, leaning on her elbows on the Formica. I pause. " Pie?" " Apple, rhubarb, blueberry, or pecan?" " Rhubarb." I've never had rhubarb pie before, so I decide to try it. She sidles over to the rack of pies on the right side of the counter, the pies that until this moment I have assumed were plastic. She opens the plexiglass door and takes out one that is three-fourths gone. I have this weird feeling she's going to give me the last piece, and my suspicions are affirmed when she pries the last wedge out with a spoon. While she does this, I look up at the silent TV bolted high into the corner, right over the door so that if you look at it and someone enters, they assume you're staring at them. It's muted, but all it's showing is a brown, wasted landscape pocked with fissures and stabbed through with jagged outcroppings. It's very early in the morning, two or three, and the darkness outside is not negated by the giant white floodlights over the servicing pit. I have no idea if the pictures they show are really the place I have managed to find myself in. She gives me the pie on a plate with a chip along its wide edge, then sits there as I eat it. I don't want to ask where we are, and she doesn't ask either. The rhubarb pie is sweet and tangy, with a gummy consistency. The crust is stale, but I eat it because Anthy is staring at me. The double doors behind me open with a sudden gust of temperamental wind, and three truckers enter, each wearing a nylon zip-up jacket and a baseball cap with a worn bill. They are hulking and surly, and Anthy takes up the coffee pot and strides over confidently. The air of a princess in a story, though which story I don't really remember. I turn back to my pie and finish it with a final gulp of tea, the dregs floating in it grey and slightly green. Apparently, all the truckers want is coffee, though they put a quarter in the jukebox at their booth and an Ella Fitzgerald tune comes wafting out as fine and grainy as perfume. A stick-on letter on the over-counter menu comes off and drops behind the coffee tureen with a little plop sound. A semi rumbles to life in the pit outside, its chrome suddenly aflame with the bright hydrogen lights. One of the truckers gets up, leaving a sheaf of bills on the table and draining his coffee in a single swallow. I turn completely in my seat to watch him leave, and outside, once he gets into the monstrous cabin of his truck and pulls it out of the parking lot, they both disappear into the dark. " Where you headed?" someone asks. I turn. It's Anthy, behind the counter again, refilling her coffee pot for the remaining men. " I'm not sure," I say. My voice is quivering, sort of quiet. " It happens," she murmurs, running her fingertip along the countertop. I believe her. The doors open again. This time it's not a trucker, but a tall, lanky man in blue jeans and a leather jacket. His hair spills off his head in a tangle of green curls, his face is pale and narrow, with a long mouth set into a determined frown. A pair of black wraparound sunglasses shield his eyes, but he peels them back and tucks them in his breast pocket. Anthy smiles at him and asks something in Japanese, something along the lines of, " You want some coffee?" " Amari jikan ga ari-masen," he says. His voice is deep. I stare at him. I'm sure I look ridiculous, but this man is intriguing, his roguish manner and the way he wears the leather and denim like he's never done that before. Anthy replaces the coffee pot. The kitchen door swings open, and the pink-haired cook comes out. She takes off her cap and places it on the counter, then goes and stands behind Anthy. She puts one hand on Anthy's elbow, the other on her shoulder. The touch is kind, tender. A realization comes on slow and cool. They are in love. The green-haired traveler goes on and on, talking, gesturing placidly with one hand. Through his charades I find myself involved in the story. Escape, murder. There is a car waiting, he seems to be saying. Then, without another word, he turns and goes back outside. Anthy turns and faces the other girl, and they clasp hands, exchanging a quick, whispered conversation. There is hope there, a place beyond all this chrome and red Formica. I begin to shake. The pink-haired girl rips off her apron and tosses it into the nearest booth. Clasping hands, both of them burst out the door and into the eternal night. There is a curt shatter as my mug of tea hits the floor. The truckers in the corner are not paying attention, perusing their laminated menus. The Ella Fitzgerald song is over, and one of them inserts another quarter. The moment has passed. My chance to join them is gone. Now all I can do is wait for my time to leave. Strolling over to grab the apron from the booth, then tying it behind myself. Quietly, I go behind the counter and pick up the coffee pot, and move over to where the truckers sit.