By Trixie Kennedy
by Marcia Richards
"Choose your name," the guy outside the bus says. He has a clipboard and a pen, and he is blocking her path.
She stops, confused. "I have a name."
"Did you choose it?"
"My parents named me, of course," she says. He looks at her like she's admitted something shameful.
"Choose your name," he says again. Behind her, she can hear muttering, as other passengers wait to get off the bus.
This is stupid. She has a name. Caroline Berking: it is the name on the brass plate on her office door. She wants to give him that name and be done with it, but her mouth opens and shuts without the name coming out.
"Come on, lady," a man behind her says.
She glances back at the line beginning to pile up in the doorway of the bus.
"Choose." The man with the clipboard positions his pen.
"Trixie," she blurts out. Where does that come from? She tries to imagine Trixie engraved on a brass plate.
She remembers playing a game with her sisters, a detective game, running around in the backyard looking for clues under rocks. They found a lot of worms, but few clues.