“What are you trying to say?” Kim’s eyes are wide and her lips are pressed together and oh hell, that expression never precedes anything good.
“I’m saying that even if you didn’t see me, when you realize you’ve made a mistake, you don’t ignore me and continue making your purchase. You move away and let me make mine. Like a civilized person.”
Kim’s face is pink now. “You need to stop attacking me.”
The woman tilts her head in confusion. “Attacking?”
“You’re making me feel unsafe, and if you don’t stop, I’ll—I’ll call the police.” There’s a malicious glee on her face as she says it, like when she knows her renovating work has woken me up. An expression that says, I’m fucking with you just because I can.
Everyone in the bodega has gone still, and there’s sudden tension in the air that’s as stifling as the humidity outside. The people who’ve been in my peripheral vision come into focus. An older man holding a lottery ticket form, gray haired and blank faced as he looks at Kim. A woman in her thirties with a teenage boy almost taller than her. Her arm has gone around the boy’s shoulder, and there is anger in her eyes. A Hispanic teen covertly recording the interaction with his cell phone, his lips twisted with amused disdain.
The employees are also still. The cheerful guy behind the counter has a neutral expression, but his eyes suddenly flick to mine, pleading.
“Got the beer!” I say with aggressive cheeriness as I step forward, the same tone my mom used to distract from the bad concealer that covered her bruises.
Kim’s head whips toward me, her vicious expression crumpling as she does. Tears suddenly spill down her cheeks and she runs into my arms. I feel both relief and confusion as her warm breath breaks against my chest in bursts. I haven’t held her in so long and I’d forgotten that it made me feel good. Needed.
“Theo, she was saying the most awful things to me!”
The woman sucks her teeth and grabs her bag from the counter. “Bye, Abdul.”
“I threw something special in your bag. Have a good day, habibi,” Abdul says, looking at her regretfully.
“Too late for that.”
Kim peeks past my arm, eyes narrowing as the woman heads out of the store.
“Can you believe that?” There are no more tears in her voice, just anger. “Just because I didn’t see her! These people are always looking for a reason to be angry.”
I disentangle myself from her, feeling the weight of the other customers’ gazes.
I pay quickly, my face hot. I think of the last time Kim cried to me, and the boundary she laid down.
Us.
Them.
Gifford Place OurHood post by John Perkins:
The annual Labor Day block party is next weekend! We’ll be having our final planning meeting this Monday evening at my house at 7:00, or whenever you can make it before Law and Order comes on at 9:00. Refreshments will be served. :-)
Amber Griffin: We might be late bc we have dance practice for the West Indian Day parade, but we’ll be there!
Candace Tompkins: Get it, young ladies! If you’re lucky, I’ll show you some moves at the meeting.
LaTasha Clifton: X__x
Jen Peterson: Yay! Looking forward to hanging with Count!
Jenn Lithwick: Super excited to help plan our first block party!
Kavaughn Murphy: I’ll be there after the community board meeting. Folks are seeing if there’s anything we can do about the VerenTech deal but looks like it’s too late.
Chapter 3
Sydney
MY PHONE VIBRATES IN MY POCKET AS I WALK THROUGH THE front door of the house.
I switch the plastic bag containing chips and salsa to my left hand and tug the slim rectangle out. My stomach flips when I see the label MOMMY’S LAWYERS pop up. I never updated the contact to Gladstone and Gianetti, which would be easier on my nerves every time they called. I consider sending them to voicemail, but Mommy needs me to handle this shit since she can’t.
“Hello, this is Sydney Green,” I say in a pleasant voice as I turn to the mailbox hanging next to the door. I haven’t checked it for two weeks, and a quick flip through the envelopes shoved into it makes me wish I hadn’t. Scammy credit card offers; collections notices from hospitals, ones here and in Seattle; the water bill; the electricity. The latest bill from the retirement home, too. I’ll have to try to figure out a payment plan next time I force myself to go out there.
“Hi, Ms. Green.” The cool, familiar voice of the receptionist at the lawyers’ office. “I’m sorry there’s been such a delay in getting back to you about your mother’s case. I hope she’s doing well?”
I flip the mailbox lid shut and start down the stairs.
“She’s hanging in there. She’s about as tough as they come,” I say. A peek over the railing shows that no one is early for the meeting at Mr. Perkins’s and lingering within earshot. “Any news about the situation?”
“As you’ve been told, with cases like this there often isn’t any recourse. But Ms. Gianetti has found some things that she’d like to share with you and your mother that might be helpful moving forward. Can she give you a call on Thursday morning at eight thirty?”
“Yes! Yes, that would be great. I’m—I’m really hoping we can get this figured out. It’d make Mommy so happy, especially with everything else going on.”
“Will she be on the call?” the receptionist asks.
“We’ll see how she’s feeling,” I say.
“Of course,” the receptionist says, followed by an awkward pause. “There’s the matter of the payment . . .”
I scoff. Chuckle. Some combination of the two sounds. “Don’t worry about that. I sent the next payment by check, so you should be getting it in the mail soon.”
“Right,” she says. “Great. Talk to you Thursday at eight thirty.”
“Thank you.”
I slip the phone back into my pocket with shaking hands. Okay. Thursday. I try not to get my hopes up, but if it was bad news they would’ve told me, wouldn’t they? This isn’t a medical diagnosis.
I take a deep breath and head next door.
The garden-level entrance to Mr. Perkins’s house is shrouded by the leaves of the plants that fence his windows—they started as clippings from my mom, like so many of the plants in flower boxes and pots lining this street. The leaves brush my face as I walk in, soft and smelling like Mommy’s green-thumbed hands.
The door is unlocked and ajar, and I huff an annoyed sigh as I step inside. “How many times do I have to tell you to lock this door?”
No response, apart from the low murmur of television announcers and the drone of the air conditioner.
More familiar scents greet me, even if Mr. Perkins doesn’t—Folgers coffee grounds, newspapers as old as me and stacked as tall, moldy carpet, though the old carpet had been pulled up at last after Hurricane Sandy.
When Mrs. Perkins was around, she called this part of the house City Hall because people would pop in to talk about neighborhood business like local elections, how to deal with troublemakers of both the criminal and police varieties, and who needed help and wasn’t asking for it.