mile, no problem,” Emily said.
“You can take it out of your room rent, which I’m increasing fifty cents an hour,” Twist said.
“Like I said, I’m happy to provide the truck at no cost, ’cause you’re a pal,” Emily said.
Twist looked at Shay. “You can take off. This’ll be done in ten minutes.”
“That’s okay,” Shay said. “I’ll stay until it’s done.”
Twist pitched an empty pen over his shoulder and said, “In case you didn’t understand, I’m paying you to go get the equipment.”
“Oh.” She sat back on her heels.
Twist stood up and fished some bills out of his hip pocket. “Here’s five hundred. I want to see some change.”
As he handed it to her, Shay said, “Money, money, money,” mimicking his comment to Cade. Cade snorted and Twist himself laughed.
“C’mon, roomie,” Emily said, motioning Shay to her feet. “Time’s money.”
“Money, money, money,” Cade said.
9
They walked out to the staircase, and as they pushed through the fire door, Emily’s eyes cut toward Shay. She sniffed, and Shay caught it.
“I know,” Shay said. “I need a shower.”
“We’ve got time for a shower. I’ll dig you up some clothes, and we can get rid of those.”
Shay looked down at herself. “Get rid of them? What’s wrong with them? I know I need to find a Laundromat.…”
Emily said, “You look like a lumberjack, sweetie. You see a forest outside?”
“It’s the way I dress,” Shay said.
“That can be fixed,” Emily said. “You just have to concentrate.”
Down the hall on the fifth floor. Unlike most of the rooms, 510 still had its original silver-plated numbers.
“Home, sweet home,” Emily said with a grin.
She pushed the door open and Shay’s heart sank. The room looked like the back end of a loaded U-Haul, stuffed almost floor to ceiling with … everything.
“It’s the only suite on the floor, with this sitting area,” Emily said with pride, despite the fact that there was no place to sit. “Wangled it out of Twist a few months ago ’cause, well, I needed the space for my business.”
“Cool,” said Shay in the most neutral voice she could muster. “What’s your business?”
“I’m a picker. I go around to estate sales and flea markets and find stuff that’s more valuable than it looks. I sell it to people who can sell it for even more. Antique shops and so on,” Emily said. “The sucky economy means there are tons of great scores out there.”
“That
is
cool,” Shay said. “You’re in business on your own?”
“Yup. Here, I’ll show you my system for moving around.”
Emily wheeled aside a Radio Flyer wagon plopped inside the door—she used it to haul her “scores” up and down the elevator, she said—and angled between two old dressers. With Shay wading in behind her, Emily reached up and spun a mirrored disco ball hung from a nail in the ceiling.
“I do it every time I come home—I say for good luck, but both my shrinks in junior high would probably blame the OCD. Or maybe it’s the ADHD.”
Shay smiled, and gave the ball another spin. “Same shrinks we had. Every foster kid had something wrong: obsessive-compulsive, attention deficit, serial killer, flesh-eating zombie narcissist klepto cutter disorder.”
Emily laughed. “Whatta you got?”
“Something to do with authority figures.”
Emily raised a palm. “Gimme five.”
They swatted hands and hopscotched their way through the sitting area, past the purple velour couch—“There’s a rumor that it belonged to this old singer, Prince, a long time ago,” Emily said. “Not entirely, you know, confirmed.” And past the beanbag chairs, a dozen boxes filled with old pots, clothes, and paintings. Emily dropped her purse on a table that held two stacked microwaves, a TV, and a box of hair-straightening irons.
“You wanna borrow anything, just ask,” she said. “Don’t get too attached ’cause everything’s got a price. Oh, and not to be a bitch,
“You can take it out of your room rent, which I’m increasing fifty cents an hour,” Twist said.
“Like I said, I’m happy to provide the truck at no cost, ’cause you’re a pal,” Emily said.
Twist looked at Shay. “You can take off. This’ll be done in ten minutes.”
“That’s okay,” Shay said. “I’ll stay until it’s done.”
Twist pitched an empty pen over his shoulder and said, “In case you didn’t understand, I’m paying you to go get the equipment.”
“Oh.” She sat back on her heels.
Twist stood up and fished some bills out of his hip pocket. “Here’s five hundred. I want to see some change.”
As he handed it to her, Shay said, “Money, money, money,” mimicking his comment to Cade. Cade snorted and Twist himself laughed.
“C’mon, roomie,” Emily said, motioning Shay to her feet. “Time’s money.”
“Money, money, money,” Cade said.
9
They walked out to the staircase, and as they pushed through the fire door, Emily’s eyes cut toward Shay. She sniffed, and Shay caught it.
“I know,” Shay said. “I need a shower.”
“We’ve got time for a shower. I’ll dig you up some clothes, and we can get rid of those.”
Shay looked down at herself. “Get rid of them? What’s wrong with them? I know I need to find a Laundromat.…”
Emily said, “You look like a lumberjack, sweetie. You see a forest outside?”
“It’s the way I dress,” Shay said.
“That can be fixed,” Emily said. “You just have to concentrate.”
Down the hall on the fifth floor. Unlike most of the rooms, 510 still had its original silver-plated numbers.
“Home, sweet home,” Emily said with a grin.
She pushed the door open and Shay’s heart sank. The room looked like the back end of a loaded U-Haul, stuffed almost floor to ceiling with … everything.
“It’s the only suite on the floor, with this sitting area,” Emily said with pride, despite the fact that there was no place to sit. “Wangled it out of Twist a few months ago ’cause, well, I needed the space for my business.”
“Cool,” said Shay in the most neutral voice she could muster. “What’s your business?”
“I’m a picker. I go around to estate sales and flea markets and find stuff that’s more valuable than it looks. I sell it to people who can sell it for even more. Antique shops and so on,” Emily said. “The sucky economy means there are tons of great scores out there.”
“That
is
cool,” Shay said. “You’re in business on your own?”
“Yup. Here, I’ll show you my system for moving around.”
Emily wheeled aside a Radio Flyer wagon plopped inside the door—she used it to haul her “scores” up and down the elevator, she said—and angled between two old dressers. With Shay wading in behind her, Emily reached up and spun a mirrored disco ball hung from a nail in the ceiling.
“I do it every time I come home—I say for good luck, but both my shrinks in junior high would probably blame the OCD. Or maybe it’s the ADHD.”
Shay smiled, and gave the ball another spin. “Same shrinks we had. Every foster kid had something wrong: obsessive-compulsive, attention deficit, serial killer, flesh-eating zombie narcissist klepto cutter disorder.”
Emily laughed. “Whatta you got?”
“Something to do with authority figures.”
Emily raised a palm. “Gimme five.”
They swatted hands and hopscotched their way through the sitting area, past the purple velour couch—“There’s a rumor that it belonged to this old singer, Prince, a long time ago,” Emily said. “Not entirely, you know, confirmed.” And past the beanbag chairs, a dozen boxes filled with old pots, clothes, and paintings. Emily dropped her purse on a table that held two stacked microwaves, a TV, and a box of hair-straightening irons.
“You wanna borrow anything, just ask,” she said. “Don’t get too attached ’cause everything’s got a price. Oh, and not to be a bitch,
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