by Nic Stone
“If it’s what I want. No one’s ever bothered to ask before.”
And just like that: a point of connection I would’ve never expected. Doesn’t magically make our differences—or his potential motives—a nonissue, obviously, but I’ve certainly never had anyone ask what I want. Honestly don’t even know that I’d have an answer.
“Hey, Zan?”
“Yeah?”
“Congrats on your offers,” I say. “Even if you don’t accept any, it’s a huge accomplishment, and I’m proud of you.”
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t have to. From the way his eyes shine and his knuckles go white on the wheel, I’d say it’s exactly what he needed to hear.
* * *
—
The connection doesn’t last: our investigative visit to Checker Cab Co. is almost doomed before it begins thanks to Zan McIdiot. Excuse me: Macklin.
When we walk into the dispatch center, which is located inside a run-down strip mall, this guy sees the brown-skinned, full-figured receptionist and decides to turn on the charm. “I got this,” he whispers.
“How may I help you?” the lady says in the most nasally voice I’ve ever heard, eyes fixed on her computer screen.
“You doin’ all right today, beautiful?” from Zan.
Oh heaven help us.
She looks up then. But does not look impressed.
“Hey, listen, we’re trying to get some intel on one of your cabs,” Zan goes on, leaning over her desk. “Think you could help us out, gorgeous?” He winks.
Takes everything I’ve got not to smack my forehead. If I weren’t so determined to get this info, I’d leave his creeper ass in here and find some other way home.
The lady smiles. It doesn’t go any higher than her cheeks. “Just one sec, okay, sugar?” She picks up a phone and presses a single button. Tosses us another (fake) smile. “Hey, hon, sorry to bother ya. Need some…assistance down here,” she says into the receiver.
Zan cuts his eyes at me all smug.
This is when I know we’re in serious trouble.
The door opens behind us and a brick wall of a black man walks in decked out in his security officer uniform. KENNY is the name on his silver tag. “There a problem here?” There’s something sickly satisfying about Dolla-Dolla Zan’s smarmy smirk melting off his face like wilting ice cream on a summer day in Georgia.
At first I don’t say a word. I want Macklin to feel the weight of this defeat. To sit in its cesspool-like nature and let the stink settle into his bones. (No moist-wipe prototype to save him now.)
“You harassin’ Ms. Delores, white boy?” Kenny says.
Now it’s my turn.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” I say, stepping forward. “Officer Kenny, is it?”
He perks up at the sound of the word officer. I feel you, Kenny: value validation is everything.
“My friend didn’t mean Miss Delores any harm,” I continue, quickly scanning Delores’s desk space. There are two photos of her and a little girl.
Bingo.
“I lost a locket necklace inside one of your cabs on Christmas Eve, and I really need to get it back. I have the tag info…maybe you can give me the phone number of that particular driver?”
“Sorry to break it to ya, sweetheart, but no necklaces have been recovered,” Delores says, glaring at Zan again. “Christmas Eve was over a month ago. That’s an eon in taxi time.”
I drop my head. “I know it’s a long shot but I’d really like to speak to the driver and maybe look in the cab myself to see if it slipped into the crack of the seat.”
“We clean our taxis thoroughly once a week.”
Crap, I’m losing her. Time for the waterworks. “I understand. It’s just…” I look at the pictures, and exactly as I hope, she follows my eyes. “That locket contains the only picture I have of my little sister. She, umm…” Now the fake tears. “She passed away.”
“Oh no, that’s terrible,” Kenny says.
Zan’s looking at me like I’ve sprouted a chicken head.
“Sorry for crying.” I grab a tissue from the box on Delores’s desk, wipe my eyes, and blow my nose elephant style. “That little girl in the pictures, she reminds me so much of Jada.” Sniff sniff. “Is that your daughter?”
Delores’s face softens and she puts her hand on her chest. Looks up at the pictures, then back at me. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says.
I fake-sniffle again.
“You get over here, young lady,” Kenny says. “You’re in need of a hug.”
Big ol’ teddy bear, that Kenny.
Delores wipes her eyes, and then turns to her computer. “What’s that plate number, honey?”
I look at Zan…who is still staring at me like I shot the moon out of the sky. “My friend here will give it to you, Miss Delores,” I whimper from within Kenny’s embrace. “I’d rather not talk anymore.”
“I understand completely, sugarplum,” she says. “Young man?”
Zan looks at her. “Huh?”
I swear to the taxi gods, if he blows my cover…
“You have the tag number?”
“Oh! Yes, sorry.” He scrambles into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper. “It’s TX 8429.”
Delores punches it in. Then: “Uh-oh.”
Oh no…
“That car was impounded two weeks ago. Driver’s no longer with the company.”
And now I really do cry.
Keep your head in the game, Rico!
“Do you have any contact information? I won’t be able to rest until I know for sure that my locket wasn’t found, Miss Delores.”
“I get it, honey. I really do.” She sighs. Eyes Zan. Scowls. Back at me. “All right, listen: I’m not supposed to give company information to anyone, so if either of you mentions where you got it, I’ll tell the police you tied me up and stole it from my computer.”
Geez, Delores.
She turns back to the screen and hits a few keys. “Driver’s name is Beau Wilcox. Write this down for her, young man.” She hands Zan a Post-it and pen. “The forwarding address we have here is in Birmingham.” She calls it out and Zan scribbles. “No phone number.”
I’m so relieved, I break free from Big Kenny and rush around the desk to hug Delores. “Thank you so much,” I say.
“You’re welcome, sweet pea. So sorry about your sister, and I truly hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I let go and stand up.
“And you need to learn some manners,” she says to Zan.
“My apologies, ma’am,” Zan says. “Won’t happen again.”
“It better not.”
We say goodbye to Delores and Kenny and then head out. The shame of what I just did tries to settle on my shoulders, but then I think of Mystery Granny’s twinkling eyes and light-up sweater.
She needs me to find her. (She does.)
Once safely inside the Jeep, I feel Zan eyeballing me.
“What?”
“It’s terrifying how good of a liar you are, Danger.”
I look at my chipped nail polish. Take a deep breath. “There’s over a hundred million dollars on the line here, Macklin. Just did what I had to do.”
“You enchantress,” he says.
And we pull off.
Zan wanted to drive the two hours to Alabama right then—and fine, so did I—but we couldn’t because I wouldn’t have made it back to work on time.
So we make plans to go after school on Tuesday. (Because how else could I possibly get to Birmingham?) I tell Mama I picked up an additional shift and arrange for Jax to go to Señora Alvarez’s.
Then I spend the next couple of days letting my mind wander without a leash—imagining myself, passenger-seat-reclined and feet up on the dash of Zan’s Jeep durin
g our out-of-state drive, daydreaming about making a pit stop at some random hole-in-the-wall restaurant, hoping the trip will get us that much closer to the ticket…
Which is stupid.
As far as I’m concerned, this is officially a keep your enemies closer situation. Zan Macklin and I are not gonna be friends and therefore will not participate in friends-on-a-road-trip activities.
Also, indulging in these Zan-centric vain imaginings is maybe even a little bit masochistic considering my track record of crushed dreams.
In second grade, I saw a picture of Mae Jemison, laid and slayed in her orange NASA space suit with her giant helmet resting on her hip. From that point, I had one ambition and one ambition only: go to Space Camp.
I gathered the data—summer after fourth grade would be the earliest I could attend. And even through our van and shelter-living days, I kept hope alive.
That summer finally arrived, and Mama broke it to me that we didn’t have the money yet.
Fine.
Same thing the following summer.
And the one after that.
Which meant I aged out. But no big. There was still Space Academy.
The next summer we moved to Norcross.
Cool.
The one after that is when I realized it was probably never going to happen.
I hit fifteen. Then sixteen. Last summer, I finally let it go. Cried every night the camp was happening 186 miles away in Huntsville, AL.
Then I sucked it up. Accepted my lot. Focused on Jax and trying to do all I can to make sure at least some of his dreams come true.
Trained myself to focus only on the day right in front of me—
And I should’ve stuck to that instead of letting my mind drift off into Zan-land. (Why is that even a thing?)
Because when I get home from work on Monday night, Mama is curled up on the couch in her pj’s with Jax asleep beside her. As soon as I’m inside the door, she wipes the tears from her face and forces a smile.
Shit.
Probably literally.
Mama has occasional bouts of colitis, the main symptom of which is uncontrollable diarrhea…with blood in it.
I go and kneel beside her. “Another flare-up?”
She nods. “Had to leave the hotel early. Barely made it up the stairs.” Which means she didn’t make it at all.
She swears it’s stress-induced. “I’ve been a little overwhelmed lately,” she says. “Need to take a day or two off to get things under control.”
Translation: Rico, I can’t work this week, so you’re gonna have to pull doubles to ensure we have enough to pay rent next month.
And there it is. The Hulk *SMASH* on tomorrow’s ticket-hunt shenanigans. What really sucks is that the smash itself is a reminder of how useful that kind of money could be.
The worst thing about these flare-ups is we never know when they’re going to end.
Did I mention my grandfather died of colon cancer? I try not to even think about that, but at times like these…
Why couldn’t I have picked that other ticket? Certainly wouldn’t be in this position if I had—surely millions of dollars would provide adequate stress relief to avoid any future bouts of Mama’s gut-shredding plague.
“Mama, you really need to see a doctor about this,” I say.
“Don’t start, Rico. You know we can’t afford that.”
Right. Because no health insurance.
It’ll never cease to amaze me that my mother’s fear of unpayable medical bills is stronger than her fear of death. Yes, medical debt can and does sink families in situations like ours, but come on.
I think about those (now) forty-nine hundred-dollar bills hidden in my box spring….But no. If I use that, there won’t be any money if we have a true emergency. Mama’s gotten over this every time before….
Jesus, I’m doing the same thing she does.
She shifts, and Jax snuggles in deeper. God, what the hell will I do if she—
No. Can’t think like that.
“We could move somewhere cheaper. I don’t mind changing schools, and I’m sure Jax would be fine with it too.”
She shakes her head. “The places I could comfortably afford with one job are all in areas I do not want you and Jaxy to live in. And we won’t even talk about the schools.”
I take a deep breath and look away from her then. Because this next thing I’m about to say…“Mama, I know you don’t want to apply for public assistance, but thi—”
“I’m not having this conversation again, honey. We’re fine. We don’t need it.”
And this is the problem with her. Clearly we do need health insurance, but the last time she tried to get it through the marketplace, we discovered that even combined, we don’t make enough to afford the cheapest plan. All the site did was confirm what Mama doesn’t wanna hear: for us, it’s Medicaid or nothing.
I grit my teeth. Normally, I would just nod and go about my business. Okay, Mama, that’s fine, I would typically say. Avoid an argument that would end with her being mad at me for days because I made her feel like a “bad parent.”
But that was before I sold that ticket.
Before, I didn’t have the courage to even speak to Zan Macklin, let alone plan a trip to Birmingham with him. A trip I can’t make because now I really do have to work extra shifts while my mother waits for her inflamed bowels to return to normal. The stigma punches at her dignity to the point where she refuses to draw from a system she’s helped feed for as long as tax money’s been taken out of her paychecks.
Which means I get to bear the brunt of the slack.
Before the ticket, I would’ve held my peace because I do get it. Wearing scavenged clothes to that school is bad enough. Being the Medicaid kid on top of that would’ve been unbearable.
Now, though?
“You know what doesn’t make sense?” I say. “You claim you moved us here for ‘a decent education,’ but I struggle to even get my homework done because I work so much to keep us from drowning.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t even go to college. So what exactly is the point, Mama? We live way beyond our means, and you can’t say it’s for Jax because he gets bullied so much for being the poor kid, his self-esteem is like…subterranean. You think a kid who feels as bad about himself as Jax does can muster up the motivation to get good grades? And God forbid me or him get sick—”
“He or I, Rico.”
“Are you seriously correcting my grammar right now?”
She glares at me with so much vitriol in her face, if I weren’t so pissed off, I’d probably cower and apologize.
But I don’t. Because I am pissed off. For more reasons than I can even count in this moment. “This ‘attempt at a better life for us’ is failing, Mama. At what point are you going to accept that and make some changes?”
“You have no idea of the sacrifices I’ve made for you and your brothe—”
“I make sacrifices too!” Jax stirs, so I lower my voice. “Extracurriculars. Parties. Friends. A normal high school experience. I’m even sacrificing college—”
“You think I don’t know that?” she snaps. “You think this is the life I want for my children? You think I want to always be at work? You think it doesn’t scare the shit out of me every time I get sick? I can sell some of your granddad’s stuff I’ve got in storage to give us some extra money, but I’m doing my best, goddammit!”
“Well, it obviously isn’t good enough, is it?”
She looks like I just backhanded her, and I immediately feel like a garbage can overflowing with poop diapers and dirty Macklin wet wipes. Her hazel eyes shift back to the television. Full of tears (again) that will definitely overflow any second now.
Of course she’s doing her best, Rico.
I clench my jaw
to keep my own facial waterworks in check, then march into the bedroom. Before I can change my mind, I lift my mattress, shove my hand into the box spring hole, and remove the envelope.
Back into the living room I go, and into the air it flies.
She catches it.
“My holiday bonus from work,” I say. “Should give us a little breathing room, and maybe you can go see a doctor.”
Before she can look at me again or form a response, I return to my bedroom and slam the door.
And then I cry.
Rico will never know it, but after Stacia Danger put Jax in bed and confirmed that Rico was asleep as well, she took the forty-nine of us that remain—Rico placed Bill Fifty in a checking account to cover some grocery store splurges—into her closet. Then Stacia dropped to her knees, removed us from our envelope dwelling, and counted us one by one.
She counted again.
And again.
And again. (Don’t these humans realize all that friction begins to chafe? Mercy.)
After the fifth time, she gathered us into a pile and stacked us against her knee a few times. Then she squeezed us so tightly, it became impossible to breathe…and promptly burst into tears.
“This isn’t fair, Father!” she exclaimed. “Why is my life this way? How do two full-time jobs fail to cover the bills? Why is my seventeen-year-old giving me an envelope with forty-nine hundred dollars in it?”
“Gentlemen, we have another crier,” Bill Nineteen managed to choke out.
“Who can understand these humans and the myriad emotions we engender within them?” from Bill Forty-One. “Sure wish she’d loosen her grip—”
“Where did I go wrong, Lord?” Stacia exclaimed, pounding our edges against her thigh within her closed fist.
“You know, fellows, the last time I heard a human say that, he was staring me right in the eye after losing a large stack of our brethren in a questionable card ‘game’ called Poking.”
“I believe it’s Poker, dear Twenty-Eight,” Bill Seventeen said.
“Whatever the name, I’ve seen it turn quite ugly.”
“Ay,” from Seventeen again. “The things people do to get their hands on us. It’s baffling!”
