“I don’t know. My dad opened the account for me five years ago.”
Not a promising start. I peeked out from behind the pillar. Britney frowned at Petty and pecked at her keyboard. I remembered that look. She’d been the type of girl who smiled to your face and talked shit behind your back. She wore pearls around her neck, paid for, no doubt, by the bank’s owner—-her father.
Petty probably had never been inside a bank before. She was navigating all these new things on her own, and I tried to imagine how terrifying and confusing it must be.
Britney put Petty’s card on her keyboard and typed. “Okay,” she said. “Your account number is 06315. I’ll need you to fill this form out, sign and date it, and I’ll get your cash.”
I watched Petty bend forward, pen in hand, and I briefly wondered if she could actually write or if she was going to scrawl a big X on the paper. But then I felt like a dick for thinking that.
She slid the form back to Britney, who peered at it, then turned and walked away.
As if by magnetic force, Petty turned and looked right at where my head stuck out from behind the pillar.
Her eyebrows rose.
Busted. I stepped out of my hiding place and walked toward her.
“Hey, Petty.” I tried to sound casual, not like I’d just been spying on her or anything.
She stared at me.
“How’s it going?” I said.
“How’s what going?”
“Just everything, I guess.”
She shrugged.
Britney returned and opened her drawer with a key attached to her wrist. Then she counted out cash and slid it toward Petty. “There you are.”
Petty stared at the pile. “I need all my money,” she said. “Do I have to come back for it or . . . ?”
Britney looked at Petty like she had three heads. “That is all your money.”
It was two tens, a five, a one, three quarters, a nickel, and a penny.
“You took my money,” Petty said. “Didn’t you? You’re not going to get away with this.”
I had to stop myself from laughing out loud at this. She sounded just like someone from a bad TV cop drama.
“Of course I didn’t take your money,” Britney said, in a puffy, insulted voice.
I needed to redeem myself for wanting to laugh, so I decided to step in. I walked toward the cage. “How much money do you have in there?” I asked Petty.
“I had almost thirty thousand dollars.”
Britney and I gasped in unison, the shock deflating Britney’s indignation. “What made you think you had that kind of money in here?” she asked.
“Give me my money or I’m calling the cops,” Petty said.
“She didn’t steal your money,” I said, and stepped up next to Petty, putting my hands on the counter. “There’s been some mistake.”
Britney shot me an annoyed glare, obviously done here and ready to move on with her day. I could just imagine the story she was rehearsing in her mind about the spooky girl who had accused her of embezzlement. The bitch.
“She lost her dad a few days ago,” I told her. “She’s trying to get her affairs in order, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .”
Petty’s suspicious gaze made my face burn, but I didn’t care. She needed someone in her corner. That’s what I told myself anyway, trying not to imagine her falling helplessly in love with me or anything.
Britney wrinkled her nose like she smelled something bad, but she turned back to her computer. “Just a second,” she said primly.
Petty bent over and put her hands on her knees, breathing hard. If it had been anyone else, I would have put my hand on her back. But she wasn’t anyone else, so I didn’t dare touch her.
“There’s only been one deposit on this account,” Britney said. “The original deposit of twenty--five dollars.”
“That’s impossible,” Petty said, her words escaping between gulps of air. “My dad . . . deposited . . . all my paychecks . . . for the last five years . . .”
Britney leaned out of her window and called out, “Next.”
Now, that was just unnecessary. I blocked her view and got in her face. “Let her see the monitor.”
We had a staring match for a minute, and I remembered all the times back in school that Britney had overwhelmed meeker girls with her nastiness, and I’d just stood by and watched. Not this time. I wasn’t going to let her do the same to Petty.
“Yes,” Petty said. “Let me see the monitor.”
I was surprised by the granite in her voice.
“Fine,” Britney said in a hiss. She turned back to her keyboard and typed with a vengeance, fuming. She shoved her computer monitor toward Petty. I stepped away to give Petty some privacy. Britney pointed with her red pen. “See? This account was opened sixty--two months ago with a deposit of twenty--five dollars. Your account earns interest of one percent compounded daily, which means you’ve earned one dollar and eighty--one cents on your original deposit.”
Petty’s hands fluttered in front of her mouth, her eyes glistening.