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  His words make the load in the trash bag a helluva lot lighter.

  8

  Bitsy

  “You have to wear your tennis shoes,” Leka insists. He holds one up to my feet.

  I shake my head furiously. I’ve never had white tennis shoes before. If I wear them outside, they’ll get all dirty. I want to keep them white and new like I kept my bunny slipper. I miss Bunny.

  “We can’t go to the park unless you wear them,” he warns.

  I peek out the window. It’s real sunny outside. I bet it feels good. “But my shoes.”

  “Don’t they fit?” He picks one up and looks at it. “The person at the store measured your feet and everything.”

  He sounds mad, but not in a frightening, I should go hide under the blankets way mad. Just mad. Still, I don’t want to make Leka mad.

  “I’m afraid I’ll get them dirty,” I mumble.

  The clouds in his blue eyes clear right up. He sets the shoe down by my foot. “We’ll clean them off when we get home, and if we can’t get them clean, we’ll get another pair. How’s that sound?”

  I drop my butt to the floor and scramble to tug the shoes on. “I don’t need another pair. I love these.”

  I don’t want Leka to think I’m ungrateful. I’ve heard that lots before. You ungrateful little shit. Get the fuck out of here.

  Mommy didn’t care about saying shit in front of me, but it must be a bad word because Leka tries to use stuff instead. It doesn’t bother me what words he uses. He could call me brat if he wanted to because I know he’s not going to hurt me. And I don’t want to give him a reason to.

  I jump up. “I’m ready.”

  The corners of his lips turn down. I’ve made him unhappy, which is worse than mad. I squeeze my hands together. How do I make him smile? The shoes! I say nice things about the shoes. I stick out my feet. “These are pretty.”

  “Yeah, they are.” His big hand curves around the back of my head. “You don’t need to be afraid of me.”

  I lean into his touch. All the fear that was stirred up inside of me just disappears. “I’m not.”

  The unhappy look fades some. He nods to the door. “Ready to go?”

  “Yup.” I rock onto my tiptoes.

  I follow him into the hallway and watch as he checks the locks twice. He jiggles the door handle a little before turning toward the stairs. I jog behind him. It’s hard to keep up with Leka’s long legs. He doesn’t know it, but he walks fast. I bet if I had a cape, it’d be a big help. I share this tidbit with him.

  “A cape?” he asks. “Why do you need that?”

  “Blossom, Buttercup, and Bubbles have one.”

  He halts abruptly. “Who are they?”

  I skip the last step. “They’re the Powerpuff Girls!” I lift my arm and knee as if I’m about to launch myself in the air. “They fly. Well, not all the time, but lots.”

  His face grows confused. “The Powerpuff— Oh, you mean the cartoon?”

  “Mmmhm. What park are we going to? Does it have a name?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, but when we reach the sidewalk, he admits, “It’s a park attached to Middleton Elementary School.”

  I wrinkle my nose. He’s tricked me.

  “School?”

  “You have something against school?”

  “Do you go?” I ask.

  “I can’t because I’m working.”

  “I work, too.”

  “Oh, yeah? At what?” There’s a smile in his words.

  I beam at him. “Protecting our stuff. You told me my job was to make sure all our stuff is taken care of.”

  “Is that why you fold everything? I wondered about that.” He scrapes a hand through his hair. It falls right back over his eyes. “I’m going to buy an extra lock for the door and that lock will keep all of our sh—stuff safe.”

  I wonder if I should tell him it’s okay to say shit. He seems to struggle with that.

  “Your job,” he continues, “is to go to school. Don’t those Powder girls go to school?”

  Glumly, I kick my toe against the cement. “They do,” I mumble.

  “Then you should go, too. Maybe they have capes there.”

  That cheers me up a whole bunch. “Really?”

  He hesitates and then shakes his head. “Nah, probably not. But we can make one when you get home.”

  He’s a little ahead of me, so he doesn’t see my mouth fall open at the discovery I’ve just made. Leka isn’t going to lie to me. Not ever. I race forward until I’m even with his legs and slip my fingers into his again for my hand hug. His rough palm closes around me.

  “I’ll be the best at school,” I declare. “You’ll see.”

  “I’ve no doubt that’s true.”

  And then he smiles. Suddenly, I don’t miss that stupid bunny slipper at all. Leka’s better than a thousand bunny slippers.

  9

  Leka

  Two years later

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Moore. Please have a seat.” Bitsy’s principal, Ms. “Call Me Annette” Swanson, gestures toward one of the two plastic chairs facing her desk.

  “What’s the problem?” The question might’ve come out harsh, but I’d rather be back in Marjory’s basement pulling someone’s fingernails out than be sitting in a principal’s office. Under my borrowed suit coat, I’m sweating like a punk who’s just gotten collared by the cops.

  She tries to charm me with a smile. “Please, won’t you sit down?”

  I’m unmoved. “Is Bitsy sick? Is she hurt?” My heart’s racing.

  “No. Not at all. She’s perfectly fine.” The principal puts an odd emphasis on she.

  “I’d like to see her. You said it was urgent.”

  “Did I? Well, she’s in art right now and we don’t want to take her from that, do we?” She flutters her hand again. “I can’t sit until you do. It’s one of the rules of my office.”

  I want to suggest stepping outside then, but this is Bitsy’s school and I don’t want to make waves. Besides, the sooner I hear her out, the sooner I can get out of this place. It smells like day-old milk and cereal in here, which makes me feel mildly queasy. I was busy this morning chasing down a dealer who Beefer says is skimming product. What an idiot. I was washing away the blood when my cellphone rang and some lady, not the one wearing the pearls in front of me but some other one, was telling me I was needed right away.

  I paid for a fucking cab to bring me here. I never do that. It’s public transportation or my feet.

  “Why’d you say it was urgent if Bitsy’s not hurt?”

  Call Me Annette’s smile becomes strained. “Because we had an incident that we needed to discuss and it was important we do it right away. Now, if you sit, we can take care of business.”

  I suppose I can’t threaten this woman like I did the dealer earlier. Blood’s hard to get out of light fabrics, for one, and her sweater is off-white. For another, she probably has family that would notice she was missing. I plop my ass down.

  Surprisingly, she takes the seat next to me instead of the big-ass leather one behind the desk. A wave of sweet perfume assaults my nose. I start breathing through my mouth. Someone oughta tell the woman she’s spraying it on a tad thick. She crosses her legs, her nylons making that swishing noise as her thighs rub together.

  “Mr. Moore,” she begins. The fake last name sounds weird out loud. I wonder if I should’ve chosen something different, but Bitsy liked it. “I take it your parents are gone and that it’s just you and your sister at home?”

  “Sister?”

  “Elizabeth,” she clarifies.

  “Oh, yeah.” When she said sister, I blanked. What did I put on Bitsy’s school admission records? It takes a moment, but the name comes to me: Elizabeth Jean Moore. I try to remember what questions they asked and how I answered. The key to not tripping on your own lies is to make sure you don’t tell any, which is generally why I let everyone else do the talking. When I enrolled Bitsy, a bird-faced lady out
front stuck a few papers in front of me and told me to sign. I did, gave my sad girl’s hand a squeeze, and forced myself to walk out before I picked her up and ran back to the apartment.

  I go for vague. “It’s just me and Bitsy, err, Elizabeth.”

  “I thought so given that you look so young—”

  “I’m twenty-one, ma’am,” I interject with a lie.

  “Still young.” She smiles, but it’s a fake one. “I have to say, you and your sister don’t look much alike. Different fathers?”

  “Something like that.” I glance at the clock above her head. Class will be out in a couple of hours. I wonder why I had to come over right away. “You said it was some kind of emergency?”

  She’s been in school for a couple years now. It’s easier, but she still gives me that accusatory stare when I drop her off in the morning. The one that says, I can’t believe you’re leaving me with these snot-nosed brats. I belong with you. But, like the trouper she is, she marches into the school. I loiter outside until I can’t see her anymore before going over to Marjory's to find out what grim task Beefer wants done before noon.

  She leans closer and lays her hand on my arm. “It’s Leka, right? You don’t mind if I call you that, one adult to another.”

  I look pointedly at her hand. I might not mind that she uses my first name, but I do care she’s touching me. I draw away. “I’m here about Bitsy. I don’t give a—” I self-correct. “I don’t care what you call me.”

  Annette doesn’t like my tone. She purses her lips tight. All signs of her smile have disappeared. I’m too much of an asshole to be charming. “Fine. Your sister, Bitsy, as you call her, struck another child. We are a zero-tolerance school, so she will be suspended for a day. I recommend that you get some counseling for her.”

  Bitsy hit another kid? “That doesn’t sound like her.” She winces whenever one of the Powerpuff girls so much as bump their animated elbows.

  “Unfortunately, it’s true. Brandon—”

  “Brandon? She hit a boy?”

  The teacher’s already thin lips disappear at my interruption. “Yes, a nine-year-old. Now, Leka—”

  “You called me here because a seven-year-old hit a nine-year-old?” I ask incredulously. I start laughing.

  Call Me Annette is not amused. “Mr. Moore,” she snaps, “this is no laughing matter. It’s entirely inappropriate for her to be getting into fights.”

  I struggle to get myself under control. “Bitsy’s no bigger than a peanut. Her fists aren’t going to hurt anyone.” I get up. “Thanks for calling me, but as long as she’s okay, then you don’t need me here and I gotta get to work.”

  “I actually do need you here because after today, Elizabeth will not be allowed back to school tomorrow. And she’ll need to apologize to the boy she hit. We do not advocate violence in the classroom or outside of it, regardless of the provocation. So, if you will wait here, I will have Elizabeth brought to the office so you may escort her out of here.” Call Me Annette rises from her chair and stalks over to the door. She flings it open and addresses the old lady behind the desk. “Ring up Mrs. Donner’s classroom and have her send Elizabeth to the office. Mr. Moore is taking her home for the day.”

  Confused, I step into the front room. This all seems fucking ridiculous. I don’t give a damn that she hit someone. She’s so small that it probably felt like a bug bite, if her tiny fist even made contact. Not a minute later, Bitsy trudges into the office, her usually bright face looking glum. I curl my fists in my pants pocket and remind myself I’m dealing with little kids, not street goons.

  She lets out a happy yelp and throws herself at my legs. “Leka! Are you coming to school, too?”

  “No, Bitsy, I’m taking you home.” I grab her hand and start for the door.

  “We’ll expect her back day after tomorrow, Mr. Moore,” Annette calls after me.

  We’ll see about that. I leave without saying another word. The hallways are empty and my boots clunk heavily against the tile floor. Bitsy’s sneakers make no sound because she doesn’t weigh more than a flat of tomatoes. Besides, if she punched someone, he deserved it.

  She breaks the silence. “Am I in trouble?” Her voice is a mite wobbly.

  “Nope, but I hear you hit someone today. Want to tell me about it?”

  “No.”

  I’m glad I’m taller than her so she can’t see me grin, but that’s a funny-ass response.

  “Let me try again. Tell me why you hit that boy today.” I shove open the door to the school.

  She shrugs as she hops down the stairs. “He was being mean.”

  “How so?”

  “Just saying stupid stuff. He was stupid,” she repeats.

  “So you hit him because he was dumb? Maybe he can’t help being dumb.”

  “He’s not dumb. He’s stupid,” she declares.

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Yeah. Dumb is when a person’s born that way. Stupid is when they’re mean.”

  I stop on the sidewalk. “What’d that ass—dic—boy say to you?”

  She stares at the ground. “Nothing.”

  I crouch down and tilt her chin up, forcing her to look me in the eye. “You tell me what that boy said to you.”

  “I don’t wanna.” Her lower lip quivers. I brace myself for her tears. They’re my kryptonite. I can’t stand seeing her cry, mostly because I know she hates it, too. Her mom or someone must’ve told her she shouldn’t cry, so Bitsy always tries to hold it in. The big silent sobs that shake her body are worse than if she was wailing loud enough to wake the neighbors.

  “Why not?” I wonder how bad of a person I am to want to beat a nine-year-old into a bloody pulp.

  “Because.”

  This is getting us nowhere.

  “All right. You don’t have to tell me. You’re going to stay home tomorrow.” I spin around and point to my back. “Climb on. We’ll get some lunch.”

  She scrambles onto my back. “I can teach myself,” she says. “I don’t need school. I can learn from Dora and the Girls and Sid the Science Kid.” She prattles on about all the TV that she can watch.

  I tap on her shoe to get her to stop talking for a second. “Other than the boy whose nose you punched, you like that school okay?”

  “It’s okay,” she concedes.

  “The other kids are nice?”

  “I guess. They’re not bad.”

  “You sure you don’t want to tell me what the boy said?”

  She rubs her nose across one shoulder blade.

  I keep quiet, thinking she’ll spill eventually. In the two years that we’ve lived together, there’s not one thing she’s ever kept a secret from me. She’s always confessing, even to little shit that doesn’t matter like copping an extra cookie before bedtime.

  I hitch her a little higher and pick up the pace. “I’m hungry for meatballs. Should we eat at Luigi’s tonight?”

  “I guess.” Her hands twist under my chin.

  Man, she must really be feeling blue. The kid loves meatballs. I guess I gotta wrangle the intel out of her. “Look, Bitsy, if you don’t tell me what happened it’s gonna fester like an untreated wound. It’ll build inside of you until you’re sick. Best you spit out what he said and we’ll deal with it together.”

  She heaves a big sigh. “He said you looked like you hurt kids.”

  “What?” I swing her around so I can see her face. “Why’d he say that?”

  Tears pool in her eyes. “I don’t know. I swear I didn’t say anything. I told him you were the best. That you were the only one who ever took care of me. He said you took care of me cuz you wanted to diddle me. What’s that mean?”

  I set her down carefully and wipe her tears away with my thumbs. How bad would it be if I hit a nine-year-old boy? “It’s a stupid thing. Is that when you punched him?”

  She ducks her head and says quietly. “No. Not until the other boys started in, too. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s bad.” H
ow the hell am I explaining this to her? “Then what?”

  “And then he said that you’re stinky and that I’m stinky, too. So I punched him.”

  “Show me how.”

  She lifts her tiny hand and folds her fingers into a fist, the thumb lying on top. I tuck the thumb lower and across her fingers. “Gotta keep your thumb down when you punch. Did you hurt him?”

  “Yeah. He cried like a baby,” she says scornfully. Then she ducks her head, as if remembering she wasn’t supposed to be happy she punched a kid. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For getting in trouble.”

  I start to say I don’t care, but I realize that I have to pretend like I do. I don’t know much about school, but I know enough that watching TV isn’t going to cut it. I don’t want Bitsy having to spread her legs for someone like Beefer, which means I’m either going to have to swallow my pride and beg for Annette to take her back or find some other way to get my girl an education.

  “Remember how I said that school’s your job?” Her head bobs up and down. “Part of your job is not hitting kids.”

  She sighs heavily. “Why?”

  “So you can grow up and be better than the Powerpuff girls and Dora and Sid put together.”

  “Like you?”

  A vision of my fist caving in a dealer’s face over on the south side flashes in my mind. “Better than me.”

  Her hair whips from side to side as she shakes her head. “No one’s better than you.”

  I bend down and flip her onto my back again. This time, though, it’s so she can’t see me struggling with the wave of emotion that her words brought about. There are thousands of folks better than me. Guys that don’t kill, maim, threaten, and mete out violence for money. But if she wants to believe I’m good for her, I’m going to do everything I can to keep that fantasy alive.

  10

  Leka

  “Should’ve been a banker, then I wouldn’t be here,” Beefer says right before he drives the butt of his gun across the client’s nose. Blood sprays Beefer’s black shirt. He’s in a bad mood. “I’d be in bed getting my dick wet instead of teaching some motherfucking cokehead who thinks that his fat wallet gives him the right to mess with our property.”