“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!”
“I know I’ve made some mistakes, Lord,” Stacia goes on, “but come on. Rico doesn’t deserve this. Help me out for her sake, if nothing less. She and Jax deserve to have lives. To be kids, for crying out loud. To hang out with friends and have fun and go on beach trips—”
She droned on for a while, then sighed, shook her head, and gave us one last look before returning us to our envelope. We were lifted quickly enough to make our stomachs drop, then shuffly scuffling filled our ears before it got very dark and the smell of human feet filled our paper olfactory glands.
“I believe we’ve been placed in a shoe box!” Bill Twenty-Three exclaimed.
“Ah, well. Better than being tossed into the air and made to cascade to the floor like raindrops. I got trampled the last time that happened,” from Bill Six.
“At least you’re not torn,” said Bill Forty-One. “One of my previous owners left me on a cold marble table next to his Rolex, and a downright beast of a miniature human got ahold of me. Almost ripped me right in two!”
“I’ve barely been touched,” Thirty-Two said. “Came off the presses mere months ago.”
“Count yourself lucky, son,” said Bill One. “Eventually the humans will begin to treat you as though you hold the secrets to the universe. It’s exhausting.”
“That Rico sure was nice to us,” Forty-Eight said with a yawn. “Very gentle.”
“Too gentle, perhaps,” replied Bill Seven, equally drowsy as the dark settled in. “From the way she cried when removing Bill Fifty from our stack, I suspect that if she had the choice, she would’ve never let any of us go.”
When I tell Zan about my “family emergency” he’s way more bummed than I expect him to be. His eyes drop, his shoulders slump, and he spends most of History sighing and tossing sad puppy eyes in my direction every few minutes. It freaks me out so bad, I camp out in the library during lunch to avoid seeing him again before the school day ends.
Right now, I’m thankful for the mindless task that is restocking Coke products in the soda fridge. I even take the time to make sure the label on every bottle is face-out. It actually feels pretty good, being in control of something.
Last night, I had a dream I found Mama…no longer alive. I woke up in a panic and reached under my mattress so I could ground myself by counting my bonus.
But of course it wasn’t there.
I cried for a while before miraculously drifting back to sleep.
“Ricooooo?” my name rings out in Mr. Z’s signature trill. When I come out of the cooler and pull off my hat and gloves (don’t judge), he smiles at me from his perch behind the checkout counter. “Break?” he says.
I shake my head no. Gotta stay busy. Breaks equal wandering cyclical thoughts of lack ticket lack (that throws wrenches into plans to find the ticket).
“You work register then. Come. We’ll refill coins while the store is empty.”
I shuffle my way up front while he disappears into the office and closes the door to get coin rolls from the safe. As soon as I unlock the register drawer and pull it open, though, the bell on the door rings, and three voices flow into the store:
Guy #1: *Grunt* Ness, can you hold the door for me? This box is kinda heavy.
Guy #2: I look like a doorman to you, fool?
Guy #1: Oh boy, here we go. You carry the box and I’ll hold the door then.
Guy #2: I’m not a butler either—
Girl: Oh my God, I’ll hold the damn door.
Guy #2: No, babe, that’s not your job. The white man gotta do for theyself someti—
Girl: Can it, Ness!
And I watch with my mouth open as Zan practically tumbles into the store carrying a massive box with MACKLIN ENTERPRISES printed on the side. Finesse comes in after him, and bringing up the rear is Jessica Barlow.
Macklin makes it halfway to the office before he sees me, and when he does, he totally drops the box. Unfortunately, Finesse isn’t paying attention—too busy making goo-goo eyes over his shoulder at Jessica—so he crashes into Zan, and they both trip over the fallen box and go sprawling.
“Imbeciles.” Jessica shakes her head at the guys and then turns her attention to me. “Hey, neighbor!” With a grin that could make a nun drop a habit.
“Uhh…” is all I can muster. Barring the two smiles she kicked my way—one on the shared strip of concrete between our apartment doors, and one on that fateful day in the cafeteria that started this whole Macklin Mess—those two-point-five words are the most we’ve ever exchanged. “Hi?”
“You know, I’ve never told you this because I didn’t want you to be weirded out, but you’re really pretty, Rico.”
“No she’s not,” Zan says from the floor.
Wow.
Jessica turns to him as he gets up. “Asshole much?”
“What?” He’s got the nerve to seem confused. Then he looks at my face.
Guess I look hurt?
He flushes bright red. “I didn’t mean it like that—”
“So how’d the hell you mean it, Zan?” Jess punches the crap out of his arm.
“Ow!”
I think I like this girl.
Finesse comes and drapes an arm over Jessica’s shoulders as Zan narrows his eyes and looks over my face. “Pretty is too flimsy a word to describe Rico,” he says. “She’s like…fuller than that.”