Spoils (16 page)

It's a below-the-belt blow and even Eddie looks a little sick after he says it. I can barely hold back the words that want to tumble out, to the point that I break out in a light sweat, a combination of anger and mortification. It won't help to stoop to his level, to fling a few choice insults in his direction about all the clever choices he's made in his life.

“Anyway,” I say, rising from his bed, wiping my damp hands on my shorts. “That's why I need to find a bike to borrow. I'll be as broke on Friday as I am today. Actually, more broke because I won't have a trust fund.”

“Don't do it, Leni,” my brother says. His face is puffy and gray. He has dark bags under his eyes and he suddenly looks exhausted. “You're making a huge mistake. You're going to regret it.”

My stomach twists at the cold pronouncement. Am I? Is this a huge mistake?

“I'm sorry you feel that way,” I say. “I think you wasted your money too, not that you ever asked me. I love you, but I'm not asking you for permission. I'm just telling you where the money is going.” The bowl of warm mush I ate an hour ago slowly turns on me, no longer comforting. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone else. Okay?”

He hesitates and for an awful moment I think he's going to say,
No, I'm not keeping this a secret.
But in the end, he nods, looking sick and miserable, and I leave his room feeling as bad as he looks. Turning to shut the door behind me, I catch a glimpse of him as he grabs a mug from his nightstand and hurls it viciously against the wall. The mug isn't empty. It breaks with a loud crack and liquid splatters on the floor.

I close the door behind me with a soft click.

It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter,
I repeat to myself, a litany, a mantra. It doesn't matter what Eddie thinks. He doesn't understand. Who is he to cast stones, sitting in his disgusting room? He doesn't know the full story.

Even though it's all true, I can't ignore the fact that his bad reaction means there's going to be a hell of an explosion when my parents find out. And he wasn't even upset that I wasn't giving them the money—he only flipped when he found out who it was for.
Dear God
—I rub my temple, swallowing back the panic—
please let this be the right thing.

I wait a bit in the dim hall, my ears straining, all my senses reaching out, searching for anything, a hint, a feeling, something that will tell me God is listening, that Michael is with me like he promised, that I'm doing the right thing. My heartbeat and its echoing thrum of blood whooshes through my veins. I isolate the headache to a pulsing pain behind my right eye, a favorite spot for stress headaches. On one of the websites I stumbled across, the archangel Michael, God's right hand, was described as the intercessor, our heavenly advocate, who pleads the case for (stupid, wicked, dense) mankind before our creator.

Maybe that's where he is now, trying to buy me more time before my personal judgment day. Breathing quietly calms me, my heartbeat slows down, my nerves steady a bit. But that's about it. There's no one in this house except me and my messed-up family.

Sometime around midnight, Natasha slides into bed with me. I wake up from a deep sleep with a start to find her lying next to me, reeking of smoke, beer and sweat.

“Natasha.” My heart pounds with the sudden shock of finding her in bed with me. “Are you okay?”

Natasha lies flat on her back, staring at the canopy, only a pale blob in the darkness. I push back my sleep-tousled hair, thinking she's going to speak. But she stays silent, looking and acting like a corpse. I guess that's her answer.

“I was at the shop today,” I say, though I know it'll be useless. “John Parker really shouldn't be your assistant manager. He shouldn't even work at the shop. Something's not right about him.”

“The devil always wins,” Natasha whispers. Her breath is rank and her words have a sibilant hiss. “You think he's not watching. But he is. You think you're smarter. But you're not.”

I shiver, though the night is warm and the AC hasn't kicked in. The ceiling fan turns in slow, creaky circles, barely churning any breeze. My skin is damp and sticky with sweat, my hair clinging to my face. I push the strands away and turn to look at her.

“What does that have to do with John Parker?” I try for a reasonable tone, although she's freaking me out. I resist the urge to open my closet, to look under the bed. That's not where the monster is hiding. “You hired him,” I remind her, stubbornly sticking to this less freaky topic. “So demote him. Or better yet, fire him.”

“It's too late.”

“Are we still talking about John Parker?”

“Leni…” Natasha sits up suddenly and cups my face between her clammy, skeletal hands. I instinctively jerk away, feeling trapped. Tears well in her bloodshot eyes and she curls her hands into fists and hugs them to her chest. “I know I seem awful to you,” she says. “And if you can't forgive me, then no one can.”

“Tell me what happened,” I urge. “You need to talk about it.”

But she mutely shakes her head.

She's living in hell and I have to be patient. I can hear the promise I said out loud in this room, on this bed.
I will fix it.
And before I know it, I say it out loud once more. “I will fix it.”

There's a small choking sound as Natasha starts crying again. Maybe with relief. Then I realize she isn't crying.

Natasha's laughing at me.

“Baby, you can't fix this,” she says, her teeth and eyes glowing white in the dark. “No donation to Greenpeace, not a thousand hours of community service, no recycling program is going to fix this.” Her face is pale with dark sunken eyes, and even in this sad state, she's condescending and superior. “Sometimes we lose. Sometimes we just screw up beyond all measure.”

“Stop, Natasha.” I grab her arm. “Just stop!”

“You were right, Leni,” she says, ignoring my tight grip. “You're right to hate me.”

“I love you, Natasha. You're my sister. I could never hate you.”

“Do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘I can't make anyone do anything, baby girl.' ” Her intonation is different, deeper, and I realize she's mimicking him. “ ‘It's that whole free-will bullshit.' That's the part that gets me, Leni,” she says brokenly. “The devil can't
make
anyone
do
anything. Which means I chose this goddamn awfulness. I chose to win millions. And I chose to…” She shakes her head. “But after, after I did what he told me, I had to stop and vomit. Because who would choose this?” Her voice cracks. “Who
chooses
that?”

She turns until she's curled on her side, her knees pressed to her chest in a fetal position.

“I don't hate you,” I say again.

“You should,” she says simply. “I do.”

The next morning she's gone and no one else in the house even knew she came. I'd doubt my own mind, except for the long dark red hairs curled on the pillow next to mine. Besides, the room smells a little like clove cigarettes. It all renews my determination. I have to get rid of this money and I have to do it right.

The professor's office suite is no less shabby and no more populated than it was two days ago. This time, I head straight to the closed door in the back and knock loudly.

“Who is it?” Isakson asks curtly.

“Leni Kohn.”

He looks up from his computer in exasperation as I open the door.

“Again?”

“I wanted to update you,” I say. “You'll receive the plan on Friday. That's in two days,” I add unnecessarily. In my darker moments, I pictured him turning down the money and Gavin's help out of sheer obstinacy. “You'll give Gavin a chance to show you what he's been working on, right?” My anxiety has been growing as my birthday looms. Isakson has to recognize the value of the proposal immediately; there's no time for a gradual understanding of its implications. His annoyed expression doesn't reassure me.

“We have a deal,” I remind him tersely. “You said it wasn't giving him a second chance, remember? You said you were keeping an open mind.”

“I remember what I said.”

“He has been haunted by what happened to him at Tech,” I blurt out, desperate to break through that indifferent, annoyed expression. “Someone framed him and he never knew why. He didn't fight the charges, which if you knew him, you'd know that's not normal, he fights for everything. When we were in high school, he never accepted what people told him, he always pushed back. Did you know he was in juvie?” I demand. “He got through it because he never backed off from a fight. No one respects you if you back off from a fight.” Gavin said that life is like juvie, only less brutal. And I suddenly realize he's exactly right. Isakson doesn't respect him, doesn't believe in him, because Gavin never “put his boots on.” “Maybe he was tired of fighting,” I say, heatedly, “or maybe he didn't think he would win, but I can promise you, it wasn't because he was guilty.”

The professor studies me, his face impenetrable. I'd give half my million to know what he's thinking. He tugs at his beard and seems about to speak. I don't give him a chance.

“He doesn't know my money has anything to do with you looking at his business model, if that's what you're thinking. That's not why he's doing it. And I don't want him to ever know. Okay? None of this matters if he thinks you were paid off.”

A look of outrage crosses Isakson's face.

“Just so we're clear,” I bluster, kicking myself. I'm only making the situation worse.

“Crystal,” Isakson bites out. “You have a lot of faith in your friend. How long have you known him?”

“We met a few years ago, at the Citrus Park High science magnet program.”

“I presume this was before he was arrested, tried and convicted for thwarting federal immigration policy by hacking into the DMV, selling hundreds of Social Security numbers, and establishing a professional-grade scheme that had hackers around the country sitting up and taking notice?”

Oh. So he knew about that.

“Yes,” I say faintly. “That's when we lost touch for a bit.”

“Young lady, I don't care how much money you have, a million dollars is a ridiculous amount of money. This might be against my best interests but someone needs to tell you to think this over very carefully. Think twice before throwing it away on someone like that.”

“I'm not ‘throwing it away.' I'm investing it in a great company,” I say, feeling my chin rise in challenge and my face heat up in embarrassment. “Besides, money isn't everything.”

“Only someone with a lot of money says that.”

I don't bother answering him.

We're clearly at a stalemate. He thinks I'm a naïve fool, blowing my money. I think he's a close-minded elitist, quick to pass judgment.

Finally, the professor nods. “If he brings in the plan, I promise to be fair. I'm always fair,” he says with a flinty look. “For your sake, I hope you're putting your faith in the right person.”

“We agree on that,” I say. “See you on Friday.”

Gavin doesn't show up for class that afternoon. Hopefully, he's in South Florida touring properties and hammering out a deal with a landowner, who may or may not end up having a lease for Isakson to sign at the end of the week.

I'm counting down to my birthday in hours now, not days. I find myself praying at regular intervals. While waiting for the light to change. Washing my hands. Losing track of the SHCC professor's lecture.

Am I doing the right thing? Please. Is this right?

But there's nothing. Not a word. Or a sign. Not even a hunch. There's no gut feeling to follow. I'm going to devastate my parents. Eddie says it's a horrible idea. Natasha says it's a lost cause. Professor Isakson says my trust is misplaced. And Gavin doesn't even know what I'm planning to do.

Please, tell me if this is what you meant?

But he doesn't. They don't.

I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't for you,
I accuse Michael.
Why can't you tell me if this is what you meant?

With all my ferocious prayers and furrowed brows, all I manage to do is get odd looks from the other students in class.

I text Gavin to see what's going on. But he only sends a quick reply that there's nothing to report yet.

I need to believe in redemption. I need to believe that people who make mistakes get second chances. That people who suffer great wrongs also reap unexplained benefits. That there is balance in the world and that I help bring it.

I don't hear from Michael or anyone else but that doesn't stop me from praying.
Please let this be right.

In the end, even though no one responds from above, there is something.

Despite the deafening silence from the powers that be, even without the confirmation that would set my soul at ease, I'm determined to continue moving forward in the direction I have chosen. Because my decision is right. Right in the fullest sense of the word: selfless, kind, far-reaching and well thought out.

I need courage to give away my trust fund.

I need conviction.

To my surprise, I find that I have what I need after all.

It's a beautiful Florida evening. The heat of the day has dissipated and the cool, salty breeze coming off the bay clears the air. The clouds are wearing their ridiculous sunset colors: citrus orange, coral pink, the sky a neon blue behind them, more fitting to the inside of the Salvador Dali Museum down the street than anything else. The epitome of a passing trend, the colors only last a few minutes before fading. The clouds take off their makeup, ask for a refund and return to being normal, rather drab particles of moisture in the lower atmosphere. They're not even white as the sunlight fades, but a dirty, muddled sort of grayish-brown, mousy women under those flashy showgirl clothes. I stand by the giant banyan tree across the street from Steeped and watch the colors dim, a little reminder from above that nothing lasts.

My birthday is tomorrow.

“It was a good show,” I tell them. “Lovely while it lasted.” A woman wearing a bathing suit and a neon-yellow terry-cloth cover-up gives me a strange look and a wide berth as she passes me. I've become a typical Florida weirdo, talking to myself.

Steeped is empty, though my sister is inside, tallying up the day's receipts.

There is an old Jewish teaching that a person should keep two scraps of paper in his pockets. On one scrap, he should write
God created the whole world for me.
In the other pocket, he should keep a scrap that says
I am nothing but dust.
Because both of these statements are true and one shouldn't forget either.

I take a deep breath and cross the street. The silver bell tinkles merrily as I enter the shop. Natasha looks up from the back of the store. She's wearing baggy jeans and an old, loose shirt. Her hair is pulled in a severe bun and her complexion is alarmingly sallow. Her eyes are sunken and feverish.

“I'm doing it,” I say softly. “I'm giving it all away.”

She takes a sharp breath at the news and her chin quivers as she fights to keep her composure. “You are?”

“I'm giving someone the chance to save themselves. And he will. They both will.” If I say it with enough conviction, maybe it'll actually come true.

“Oh,” she chokes out. There's gratitude, relief and jealousy in that one smothered cry. “Who?”

“You remember Gavin Armand?” She nods. “A former professor of his is starting a new company for alternative fuel. It's kind of a long story. But it's the right thing to do. I'm sure of it.”

I am struck by how different we must look to an outsider. Natasha, with slumped shoulders and a haggard face, and me, standing tall and pleased with myself.

“I'm sorry, Natasha.” I reach for her hand because she looks so sad and I don't know what will ever take that haunted look away. “What are you going to do?”

She shrugs and looks around her shop.

“I'm losing the store, you know,” she says matter-of-factly.

“What!” I exclaim. “Why?”

“It's bleeding money. There's no way I can keep it.”

“But it's doing great. There're always customers and it won Best of the Bay.” I shake my head in confused surprise. “I don't get it. How long has this been going on?” I can't imagine Natasha without her tea shop.

“It doesn't matter,” she says. “It's not like I could have kept it after everything.” She looks away. “Anyway, I'm glad you found the courage to do it. I was worried you'd feel like you had to give the money to Mom and Dad.” Her fingers are bony and cold in mine. “I'm proud of you for doing the right thing.”

“Thanks, Natasha.” My heart wrenches as I squeeze her hand. “I never would have given it away if you hadn't first told me I should. You're the one that started me thinking about it.”

She nods, accepting the thanks, her part of the good deed.

“Go on,” she says, letting go of my hand and giving me a little push in the direction of the shop's front door. “Go home. I'm sure Mom and Dad are waiting for you. I'm going to close for the night anyway.”

It's growing darker by the minute and my parents always want me back by dark on a school night. I hug Natasha fiercely.

“I love you,” I tell her. She kisses my forehead.

On my way out, I grab a weekly paper to read at home. I'm not quite halfway home when I hear my name.

Leni
.

“What?” I turn around.

Leni
.

In a sudden rush of prickles, I realize I didn't hear my name called. I felt it.

My heart hammers wildly in my chest and my eyes must look crazy.

Go back, Leni.
The voice is urgent now.
Hurry.

I pivot on my heel and throw the paper down as I sprint back to the store. The fluttering sheets of newsprint scatter like pigeons behind me.

Once I reach the store, the initial panic that had me running escalates into full-blown dread. The front door is still unlocked, and I push in, the bell tinkling weakly. In that first moment, everything seems fine, just like I left it.

Then I smell smoke.

“Natasha!” I shout. “Natasha, where are you?”

The smell is stronger and sharper the farther I go into the shop. I cough as I call out her name. “Natasha!”

The bathroom door flies open and my sister comes tumbling out.

“We have to get out of here!” I yell. She looks disoriented. I left the store not ten minutes ago.

Smoke slips between the beaded strips of the curtain. For a moment, my sister freezes, horror and shock on her face. I run to her and grab her roughly by the arm, tugging her out.

“No!” she says, fighting me. “I have a fire extinguisher in the back, I can put out the fire!”

“It's too late,” I cry. “We have to get out of here.”

There's a sudden roar and flames explode forward, as if gunning for us. There's a horrifying beauty to the licks of fire that glide like snakes across the ceiling and walls. Flames race enveloping the shop and shelving as merchandise bursts into flames. The heat is unbearable. In a dim part of my mind, I wonder why my skin isn't burning, it's that hot.

Natasha screams and I pull hard on her arm. We race toward the front of the shop, stumbling in panic over chairs and tables. The fire is all around us, spreading faster and faster, consuming everything in its path. Heavy black smoke gathers at the ceiling, growing thicker and lower with each second. Has it even been two minutes since I entered the store? We are inside a hurricane of fire. Every time we fall, inhuman strength has me standing up again, pulling my nearly limp sister along with me. Red, gold and blue-green flames dance all around us, but by some miracle, none of them touch us directly. In the middle of an intense adrenaline rush, maybe some weird mental coping mechanism, all I feel is a cool breeze at my back, pushing me forward.

We reach the front of the shop and I throw us both through the door. We tumble outside, landing heavily on the ground.

There are already sirens wailing, and a small crowd of bystanders gasp as we fall out of the store.

“Are you all right?” someone asks me, crouching down. I gulp for air, unable to speak. I don't understand how Natasha and I made it out of the store. “Where's the other person?” the woman asks, her face scrunched in concern as she scans the street around us.

“What?” I'm fighting to catch my breath, gulping the blessedly cool, clean air. I barely register what she's babbling about.

“It's okay. There wasn't anyone else inside,” Natasha rasps. “Just us.”

There's a small explosion inside the store and people scream in surprise. The crowd takes a prudent step back. The lady crouching next to us helps Natasha and me stand. We scramble back from the burning shop. The heat is horrible, even standing outside.

I bend over, racked with a deep hacking cough that hurts my lungs.

“The ambulance is on its way, dear,” she says, hovering over me, wanting to help but unsure how. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you through the glass window with the fire all around you. Then the three of you came bursting out that door. I don't know how you made it out alive.”

I don't want to think about how close we came to dying, so I focus on the one part of the question that I can easily correct.

“My sister and I were the only ones inside,” I say, once I catch my breath.

“It's the darndest thing.” She shakes her head in confusion, looking between my sister and me. “I really could have sworn there were three people as you burst out the door.”

Natasha sinks to her hands and knees as she vomits in the gutter. The woman turns to her in concern, our conversation forgotten.

I suddenly understand. I don't say anything, but in my heart, I realize she's right.

“Oh, Michael,” I whisper, my body shaking in delayed reaction. The fire roars in fury behind me—a burning fiery furnace. Standing a hundred feet away, I feel the heat baking my back. And lo, we have no hurt.

Thank you,
I mouth silently. Protector indeed.
Thank you—thank you—thank you.

The first of the firefighters pull up and quickly connect a hose to the long fire truck and begin spraying the fire. A second truck pulls up behind the first and connects a line between the fire hydrant and the first engine to refill its tank. Other firefighters lead people away from the sidewalk.

The woman glances at the store again, shakes her head again, and lets herself be led away.

Soon there's an ambulance and a couple of police cars parked in the street.

The EMTs check us over, but it's clear that we're fine, not a scratch on us. The police are next—they want to get a statement. Everything takes so long. The fire's mostly out by the time they finish taking my statement. Meanwhile, the fire marshal and the police have been busy conferring.

By the look on their faces when they start talking to Natasha, it isn't going to go well.

“You're the owner, huh? How's business been lately?”

The questions take on a hostile tone. It seems the fire spread unusually fast. Unnaturally fast. The fire investigator suspects an accelerant. The sprinklers never engaged, which is highly suspicious. Natasha was the only one in the store.

I didn't even stop to think about how the fire started or why it spread so fast.

“They think I did it,” Natasha says to me when the officer steps away. “They think I torched my own shop for the insurance money.”

“Did you?” I ask, unable to stop myself.

“No! I would never do that. I was almost killed! If you hadn't come back, I don't think I would have made it out of there alive.”

She's right. She was in the bathroom, oblivious to the danger. Plus, she wanted to put out the flames. Those aren't the actions of an arsonist.

“Who would burn your shop down?”

She presses her lips together, unable or unwilling to say.

John Parker's malicious face comes to mind. There was more wrong with him than simple greediness.

“Do you think…,” I say hesitantly, looking over my shoulder. “Do you think someone was, um”—it's awkward to say this—“paying back a favor that they owed?”

She knows what I mean exactly.

“I don't know, Leni,” she says tiredly. “But they did a crack job if that's what it was. I was the only one in the store, the only one with something to gain—the owner of a failing store. It doesn't look good. It's called insurance fraud, and people go to jail for it.”

She doesn't sound scared. She sounds resigned.

“You're innocent,” I protest. “You didn't set your store on fire.”

“Leni,” she says, “I haven't been innocent since I was seventeen.”