19
N
icole's brownstone was a warehouse of goods. What she'd taken out of the car trunk couldn't put a dent in what was before Charly. They stood in the front of the house on the bottom floor, and shelves that extended to the ceiling were stocked with imperishable groceries. Canned goods, cereal, bags of rice and oats, condiments, and any food items with extended shelf life that Charly could think of were there. Around the perimeter of the room, stand-up freezers, the kind that major supermarkets had, were stocked. Some stuff was frozen, other things like eggs, milk, cheese, and quick mixes of hash browns and microwavable entrees filled them.
“I don't follow,” Charly said.
“You will,” Nicole assured, walking toward a staircase, then climbing it.
On the other floor were housewares. From living room sets to bedroom suites to breakfast tables and mattresses to towels and rugs, Nicole had them all. On the third level, Charly discovered, were clothes and shoes on one side, and electronics on the other. She shook her head, sure that Nicole was just a higher-level thief. What else could explain all the goods?
“Okay, so here's how it goes.” She leaned against a table with a bunch of electronics on top, folded her arms, then deadpanned Charly. “I'm sorta like Robin Hood.”
“You steal from the rich and give to the poor.” Charly eyed her.
Nicole shook her head, laughing hysterically. She sneezed. “No. I'm no thief. At least not in the literal legal sense of the word, but I do get away like a thief in the night. I do what I do, get in and get out, and they never see me coming or going.”
Charly nodded. That was all she could do. Nod and try to figure out if she should run or not.
“Today, for example. When you saw me in Panera . . . well, I don't work there, I just had to look like I did. I know someone who knows someone who knows someone elseâthat's always the first key to getting in. Knowing someone. Well, restaurants like Paneraânot necessarily Panera per se . . . that's the second keyâyou
never
give your resources. Anyway, many restaurants and fast-food joints throw their food out at the end of the day. There's no recycling unless I recycle.” She shifted, eyeing Charly. “I take what they're throwing out and I give it to families, the community. Churches, shelters . . . you get it.”
Charly nodded again. That made sense, but it didn't cover enough. “The groceries, clothing . . . electronics? I mean, the phone you just took out of the trunk hasn't even been released yet.”
Nicole shrugged. “Same difference. Some grocery stores, mostly the ones in affluent neighborhoods, discard food when it reaches the expiration date or right before.
But!
” She held up her index finger. “The food is still good according to government standards. The clothes have inconsistencies . . . could be a label was sewn in upside down, same with shoes, mattresses, et cetera, et cetera. Now the electronics . . . that one is a hard one. But I'm sure you've heard of scratch and dent.”
Charly cuddled Marlow 2. “Not that phone. That phone's not even out yet. Trust me, I know. It was because of the model that's on the market now that I left Illinois. Brigetteâmy motherâstole the money I was saving to buy it. She did the same with my computer money, mountain bike savingsâyou name it, she took it.”
Nicole turned around, shifted through the items on the table, then turned to face Charly. She threw a box in the air, and Charly caught it with one hand. “Take it. It's yours.”
Charly's eyes bulged. In her hand she held an even newer edition of the Android she'd been saving months for. “I . . . uh . . . I don't know what to say.”
“Thank you is good enough. And, just so you know, even things that haven't hit the market are thrown out too. Most stores just report the problem to the manufacturer, input a few things in the computer system, then toss the stuff. I think it's a write-off on both ends. Something like that. No one loses.” Nicole walked up to Charly. She sneezed again. “So you want to make some money to get to New York or not?”
Charly shrugged. “Two other questions first. If you give all this stuff away, how can you afford such a nice place and expensive car? And if Lola wired you money for me, why haven't you given it to me?”
“Nice,” Nicole said, nodding. “You're quick. And quick equals merchandise. One, everything I have has been donated to meâmostly anonymouslyâbecause of what I do. I've been doing this since I was seventeen, and I've helped a lot of people. Some grew up, made a lot of money, and donate whenever. Some died, and willed me things or cash. Two, Lola wired money for me to come get you. I told her I couldn't just take off work, and she said she'd compensate me for the whole day. So,” Nicole said, shrugging, “technically, it's not your money. But if it makes you feel better, we used it on gas and dog stuff for Marlow 2.” Nicole sneezed again, and tears streaked down her face. Her eyes were reddening.
Â
The sun shone a brilliant orange, warming Charly and Marlow 2 as they walked down the block. Marlow's tail wagged and her feet pitter-pattered, taking tiny steps as Charly guided her toward the grass to relieve the dog's bladder. Today, they'd taken a different route, but every day Charly had been sure to walk Marlow so the puppy would be properly house-trained. Marlow sniffed, walked in circles, changed her mind, then squatted, and then changed her mind again. She was doing what Charly referred to as the pre-potty dance that Marlow did for what seemed like minutes before finally lightening her bladder. Charly nodded, knowing Marlow was just getting started, and took the time to glance around the low-income neighborhood where they were. It reminded her of home. Not the houses, but the feeling of familiarity. The way the people waved and spoke to one another, it seemed as if everyone knew everyone, and that made her miss her sister and Smax and the crew. Charly smiled, looking at Marlow and thinking how much Stormy would love the puppy. Unlike Mason's dog, Brooklyn, Marlow had no problem being on a leash, except for the occasional unsuccessful dash she tried to make into the street. As small as she was, she seemed to think that passing cars were her toys, and she wanted to play with all of them. People too, Charly noticed, when Marlow ran toward a group of teens sitting on the porch of a dilapidated house.
“Marlow,” Charly called, taking her cell from her pocket and scrolling to Stormy's number. She pressed TALK, then held the phone to her ear while watching Marlow and waiting for Stormy to answer.
“Hey, puppy,” one of the neighborhood girls greeted Marlow.
Charly smiled and tugged lightly on Marlow's leash. She didn't want to seem rude, but she had things to do. Namely, go to the corner store and get a list of people in need of food who'd tried to purchase things on credit. Charly shook her head. She'd grown up around people who'd used old-school paper food stamps to buy things other than food, and had even seen her mom buy someone's EBT card for half of the credit that was on it. Still, she had a hard time believing that corner stores issued credit. She shrugged. If that's what Nicole said, then it must've been true. Maybe things were done differently in Detroit. “Come on, Marlow,” Charly said, and disconnected the call. Stormy hadn't answered, but Charly had left a message.
Marlow stood her ground, then began yapping at the teens. Her tail stiffened and stood straight up. Charly reared back her head. She'd never seen Marlow so aggressive, but knew she couldn't do anyone harm. Marlow was tiny.
A girl stood, cradling a puppy in her arm. “She must smell my dog,” she said, walking down the creaking porch stairs and over to Charly. Her hair blew in the breeze. “Is that a Maltese?”
Charly took a good look at Marlow. She really had no idea what was Marlow's breed. She shrugged, and her phone vibrated. “One sec,” she said to the girl, then took the call. “Stormy,” Charly said, turning her back on the girls. She smiled, breathing a bit easier. She'd missed her sister more than she'd thought, and took only seconds to update her about her life. She was in Detroit. She was safe. She was going to New York as soon as she helped the homeless. She told Stormy all she could think of before hanging up to allow Stormy time to study. “Yes, Stormy. I'm great. I promise. Talk soon.” She hung up, turning back to the girls, who were obviously in her conversation.
“So, is it? A Maltese?” the girl repeated.
Charly looked at Marlow, then shrugged again. “I'm not sure.”
Another girl, a bit older, was standing in the doorway wearing an obviously dirty headscarf. She laughed. “Sounds like you and Petey, Pee-Wee. You don't know what y'all is either.”
The girl holding the dog laughed, completely unfazed by the other girl's rude remark. “I know, right?” She set down her dog on the ground in front of Marlow. With a loose rope tied around his neck, he walked straight to Marlow's butt and began sniffing. “Think your dog and Petey can play? He's too little to play with the other dogs 'round here. All they seem to get 'round here are rotties and pits.”
Charly only nodded. Normallyâweeks agoâshe would've been more friendly, but any automatic friendliness she'd previously had had been replaced by an automatic distrust. People stealing from you could do that. Could make you not trust a soul until they earned it, that's what Nicole had said.
“What? You deaf or something?” the girl standing in the doorway asked, eyeing Charly like she didn't care for her. “Or you just think you too cute to talk to us 'cause you light with long hair?”
Charly's eyes shifted. She wasn't in her territory, and thought it better for her not to say anything. She was in a rough neighborhood, and didn't know if the girl had a weapon or not. Plus, she didn't know how many people were in the house.
“Oh, so you are deaf!” the girl repeated, scratching her head and making her dirty scarf shift. “Probably a punk too.”
Suddenly Petey darted toward the street, his loose rope hanging in his owner's hand. Off his makeshift leash, he was headed straight for a car cruising down the block blasting music. Without hesitation, Charly scooped up Marlow, then darted after Petey. She stood in the middle of the road, holding Marlow in one arm, and extending her open palm to the car like a crossing guard stopping traffic.
“What the . . . ?” the driver yelled out of the window, screeching to a stop. “You crazy or something?” he continued, throwing in a few expletives, mostly curses that began with the letters B and F.
Charly picked up Petey, who'd made his way to her side. “Sorry,” she said to the angry driver.
“Thank you so much,” Pee-Wee said, meeting Charly as she made her way back to the sidewalk, then relieved her of Petey. “I don't know what I would do if something happened to him. I ain't never had a mother or father.” She shrugged. “I don't even know what I'm mixed with. So he's all I got.”
Charly nodded. She understood more than Pee-Wee knew. “No problem.”
“This is a safe house,” Pee-Wee explained. “For girls like me. I don't have a family and the system can't find room for me in foster care. No one wants to foster a fifteen-year-old.” Her eyes dropped to the ground with her admittance.
Charly smiled, her face contradicting her feelings. She wasn't happy about Pee-Wee's situation. She was glad that she may've found someone for her and Nicole to help. That was the business they were inâhelping those in need. “Here. Take this,” she said to Pee-Wee, unclasping Marlow's collar and still attached leash. “They're about the same size, so it should hold him and keep him safe.”
Now Ms. Dirty Headscarf was all the way on the porch, with a hand on her hip and dirt on the bottoms of her bare feet. “Oh. So now you can talk, huh?” She snaked her neck. “What, you think you somebody 'cause you saved that dumb little dog and gave Pee-Wee here some sloppy seconds? You think you can just walk down
my
block and ain't nothing gone happen to you? I'll stomp you and that little runt you walking. Ain't that right, Pee-Wee?”
Charly's eyes shot to Pee-Wee's in question, and the girl looked to the ground, obviously scared. She handed Marlow to Pee-Wee, then pulled her hair back. In three moves, she'd wrapped it in a tight bun. She stepped up and cleared her throat. She'd had enough of Ms. Dirty Headscarf.
“Let's be clear,” Charly said, throwing daggers with her eyes. “You don't know me and, trust to know, you don't want to.” She shook her head, then bit her bottom lip. “And you're not stomping nothing around here but your feet on the ground. You put no fear in my heart. Now if you wanna do this, we can do this.” She held out her arms. “Space and opportunity.”
The girls eyes widened, but they weren't looking at Charly. They were directed at something behind her. “Oh . . .” the girl in the dirty scarf said in defeat.
Charly looked over her shoulder. Nicole was in the middle of the street, the Jaguar idled, and Nicole's hand out the window. In it was a purple bag. “You good, Charly?” Nicole asked, swinging the sack in small circles, something inside jingling.
Charly darted her eyes to Nicole, then back to the girl she'd exchanged words with. “I'm straight. Just trying to help out my new friend, Pee-Wee.”