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Chapter One
LAUREN
Not gonna lie. If I were writing a book about my life, it’d be titledA Series of Dumbshit Choices. The evil villain would be yours truly because I’m always making bad decisions that end up with worse results.
The problem is that I’m too short-sighted. Not actually short-sighted in that I have to wear glasses, but that I don’t think far enough ahead. I should’ve told my mother that putting her life savings into a food truck was too risky. When my brother announced he wasn’t going to college, I should’ve forced him back, even though he outweighs me by about thirty pounds. That said, could I have predicted the events that led to this specific outcome, even if I had a crystal ball?
“Do we have a deal?” asks Mrs. Franklin-Ware. Her light blond hair is wrapped into a tight French knot, but I think it’s a bad plastic surgery job that has her skin stretched too tightly across her forehead.
“Do I have a choice?” If it was just her hair, maybe I could’ve convinced her to let me restyle it instead of the “deal” she’s offering, which requires me to pilfer test papers from a posh private school. When I’m not working the occasional shift for Amuse Bouche, a new eatery in Midtown, I cut and color in oneof the poshest hair salons on Madison Avenue. I’ve made a lot of women happy with the right haircut. It’s honestly a real skill, and I’m proud of it. One day I’d like to own my own salon or hell, let’s be more realistic, my own chair in one of those co-ops. One day I’d also like to win the lottery. Neither of those things are going to happen. I need to lower my dreams to just having one job instead of two.
“Everyone has choices. For instance, your brother could have chosen not to steal my purse.”
“It was a brand new Louis Vuitton with the tags on it sitting on the pavement in front of our apartment.” Like some kind of worm for a poor unsuspecting fish.
“He chose to take it to the pawn shop instead of turning it in to the police.”
“He’s nineteen and has zero cash.” Yes, my brother was wrong for taking the purse, but I don’t entirely blame him. My family is in a bad spot right now, and the money would’ve paid our rent for the next couple of months.
He’s a good kid, and he was trying to help out as best as he can. Taking the purse was wrong, but his heart was in the right place.
“And now he has zero cash and is in jail. I wonder how much it will cost to get him out.” Mrs. Franklin-Ware holds up her fingers to stare at her perfect blush pink polish because to her, the prospect of my brother in prison is merely one of many vouchers in her purse, whereas to me, it’s our whole life.
My own nails are chipped, and I need to repaint them before my shift starts. The longer I sit here dickering with Mrs. Franklin-Ware, the more likely I’ll be late, which my manager, Misty, hates. Still, it’s worth it if I can get out of doing this woman’s dirty work.
“How about I cut and color your hair for a month for free. I’m a stylist at?—”
“Blue Salon,” she cuts in. “You started there five years after graduating from American Beauty School, and you’re still paying off your school loans, which is why you work a few nights a week at that hideous restaurant over on Forty-third Street.”
Two weeks ago, I’d never seen this woman before, and now she’s reciting my work history and bank account balance to me? This is messed up.
“Why don’t you just hire a tutor? I don’t know jack about breaking and entering. I’ve never picked a lock in my life, not even on my own place.”
She looks at me as if I was dropped on my head as a baby. “If it were that easy, would I be here?”
I guess her kid is an idiot, but I’m not giving up. “I’ll come and clean your house for a month.”
“I’ve already told you the terms of the deal. Obtain the results from this school”—she taps my phone, her fingernail poking just above the crack at the top of the screen—“and your juvenile delinquent goes free. I’m doing you a very kind favor as he already has a criminal record and should be jailed like all other pieces of trash.”
I jump up. Mick can be a dumb shit at times, but he’s family, and no one gets to badmouth him but Mom and me. “He lifted some beer at the mart and paid them back when my mom found out.”
The woman rises to her feet, dusting her hands across her navy pencil skirt. “A serial shoplifter. As I said, given his previous criminal charges, he’s likely to serve some time. Although,” she drawls and looks around, “prison can’t be that much of a step down from his current residence.” She sniffs. “This place should be condemned. It’s a blight on our city.”
“You’re a blight on the city,” I mutter under my breath as I speed walk to the door and whip it open. “I’ll deliver the paperswhen Mick’s out.” Even if I manage to get my hands on those tests, I don’t trust this woman.
“No. You’ll deliver the tests, and then your brother will be released.” Roberta Franklin-Ware adjusts the braided chain of her Chanel bag over her shoulder and glides toward me.
I grind the back of my teeth in frustration. I have zero bargaining power. All I can do is agree to this awful woman’s demands in exchange for my brother’s freedom. This whole thing reeks of a setup. Why is some rich Park Avenue broad slumming it in Hamilton Heights? This is the one neighborhood in Manhattan that isn’t super gentrified, which is how my family can still afford the rent—barely. It’s not a hot spot in town. There aren’t any new clubs or restaurants. It’s a family neighborhood. And how did this woman not notice she dropped a brand new LV purse on the sidewalk? Does she have that many bags? Okay, dumb question. She reeks of money. She probably wipes her ass with hundred dollar bills.
“Why us?” I ask when she reaches me. That’s the question that has no answers for me.
“Do you know the difference between people like you and people like me?” She waves her thin hand in the air.
“No, but I’ll bet you’re going to tell me.” And it’ll be snotty.
“People like me make the rules. And people like you”—she stares at me over her nose—“poor people like you follow them.”
The brutal statement takes me by surprise, so I have no comeback until she’s halfway down the hall. A wave of shame floods my body and turns my face red. Angry, I lean out and yell, “At least I’m not a bitch,” but she doesn’t acknowledge even hearing me, which makes me even more pissed off.
