Shimmy Bang Sparkle(37)

“Don’t tell me . . .”

Mr. Bozeman scratched his thinning white hair and stayed glued on the screen. I envisioned his debt to the Texan growing like one of those godforsaken Magic Grow capsules that I played with when I was little, that started out looking like a brightly colored vitamin but ended up being a gigantic slippery brachiosaurus that took over half the bathtub. The Texan was like that—like a creature that became too big to ignore. On the bottom of the screen, it said ELVIS’S GIRL—SCRATCH.

I forced myself to turn over the betting slip. And there I saw an amount that made me gasp. Ten grand. Twice what I’d put in Mr. Bozeman’s Pyrex pans. “You don’t have this money.”

Mr. Bozeman hung his head. “No. He takes my social security checks as collateral.”

A wave of nausea tore through me. He hadn’t said will take, and he hadn’t said took. Instead, he’d said . . . “Takes? As in, ongoing?”

Mr. Bozeman nodded at the afghan in his lap as Priscilla pawed at his leg. “But I was sure I’d picked a winner this time. The Texan told me so himself.”



The magenta mist was swirling around me like a Category 5 highlighter-pink hurricane. As I stomped across the empty lot to my apartment, the possibility of stealing the North Star on my own began to take shape. We needed the money, now more than ever. There would be hospital bills, and God only knew what Mr. Bozeman owed the Texan in total. Roxie’s son was getting older, Ruth had already designed the freaking logo for Ohm Sweet Ohm, and every day that passed was one day closer to someone buying the Big Wide Open out from under me.

We were so close to such wonderful things. We couldn’t back down now. So I revved myself up, imagining myself dressed as Rosie the Riveter—Yes I can! Of course I could! It would be me, on my own, in California. Next week. Can do! It’d be bing, it’d be bang . . .

Was I out of my flipping mind?

“Obviously,” I growled as I trudged across the dusty ground. There was nothing on earth that I hated more than feeling helpless, cornered, and stuck. And I felt all three right then. I hated that feeling. So. Freaking. Much.

With the three of us, it would’ve been a risk. But going from a three-woman job to a solo heist would require an epic overhaul of every last detail. I focused on the cracks in the sidewalk as I rubbed my forehead and tried to decide where to begin.

Something on my front porch distracted me. At first, I couldn’t quite make it out, but as I got closer I saw it was a large, thin box, like a doughnut box, but bigger. Crouching down, I gently lifted the lid, and what I saw made my heart soar. Inside were a dozen beautiful, enormous, perfect chocolate-dipped strawberries. In the warmth of the afternoon, a thin layer of cool dew had gathered on the chocolate, making them look almost too perfect to be real.

Taped to the top of the box was a note. The writing was curly and feminine, belonging to the lady who had taken the order, but I knew exactly who it was from.

I already miss your beautiful face.

It hit me what he must have thought—it had been hours since he left that voice mail, hours since he’d laid himself bare . . . and he still hadn’t heard from me. So now, on top of feeling like I was hemmed in, cornered, and perilously close to giving up on all our dreams, he probably thought I was some kind of coldhearted, holier-than-thou betch who’d taken one look at his rap sheet and gone radio silent.

Nice work, Stella. Superfine. Ten out of ten.

There were a lot of things I couldn’t fix right then, but straightening things out with Nick would be a start. In one hand, I held my phone. In the other, I took one of the strawberries from the box, pinching the leaves and stem between three of my fingers. It was huge and luxurious, with white chocolate zigzags all over it. I sank my teeth into it and let the stress of the day fall out of my shoulders. I leaned against my front door, placing my forehead to the jamb as I chewed. And I gave him a call.

He answered after one ring. “Jesus Christ, I thought I’d never hear from you again.”

“Hi,” I said around my strawberry. “I’m sorry I went silent. Bad reception and then . . .” I envisioned the cheese curl in Mr. Bozeman’s garbage and the Texan’s stupid fingerprints on that stupid betting slip. “I didn’t mean to leave you hanging.”

“I’ve just been here pacing a hole in my carpet. No big deal.”

Cringe.

“Just give it to me straight.” He cleared his throat. “Is this hello . . . or goodbye?”

I let my forehead rest on my front door. It was such a relief to hear his voice—and a double relief knowing that if I didn’t want to, I didn’t have to pretend. I didn’t have to be upstanding or ordinary or act like I didn’t have a secret life. If I wanted to, I could tell him the God’s honest truth—I could say, I had a job all lined up and now it’s turned into a steaming pile of dog shit. Or, What are you up to tonight? How do you feel about some light vandalism? We can deflate all the Texan’s tires and then grab some dinner. Yay or nay? But then again, that might be coming at it a little bit hot. For the moment. So I went for something simpler. The simplest. “It’s hello.”

“Thank God,” he said, inhaling hard. “I’m sorry I dropped that on you in a fucking voice mail. I just didn’t want to lie to you. I like you way too much for that.”

The words made my heart sink. He had been brave and honest. He had laid it all out there. And right then, with that crazy day behind me and that crazy plan in front of me, I wanted—desperately—to just be me. As I was. Without lying or pretending or making up some nonsense. I was tired; my friends had been hurt. My future was a jumble. And I needed someone to lean on.