My Cardboard Balcony

She Goes By Avery by Belinda Roddie Her birth certificate states, "Lindsay A. Feingold," and that's it. A is but the second metal link connecting a chain to keep it sturdy, the singular letter melted like brass in an identity plaque. But she doesn't prefer the name Lindsay, or Lindy, or Linds, or any other hackneyed nickname that her buddies toting Bieber backpacks can pull out of their lunchboxes. She goes, instead, by Avery, an homage to John Scales Avery (the theoretical chemist and peace activist). And she likes it. Avery is a spacegazer, first and foremost. She knows she can't make a career from astronomy, nor build a castle out of stars. Lindsay would be comfortable sucking soda through a straw with friends at the mall, or trying on roller blades and soaring down the sidewalk. But Avery draws attention to the cosmos with each word, remarking that her life is celestial, and every day is galactical, and if she could use a spoon to scoop

She kept an unkempt appearance to keep Mister Shackle away, the tattered leather jacket serving as a deterrent rather than an attraction. It was a bit sad to see that she had to dumb down her beauty to make a creepy old man less creepy, but obviously, when it came down to it, he wasn't going to change his attitude and she wasn't going to leave her job. Obviously, at first, her manager was unhappy with her appearance. However, after he learned it meant no more drooling or shrieking from Shackle, he let it slide.