“Shit.” Sandy stopped and leaned against the wrought-iron railing, feeling her throat squeeze tight. She just couldn’t keep it all in anymore. Couldn’t take one more goddamn thing. “Shit!”
She yelled it so loud that her throat vibrated as she slid down the wall. She curled up on the ground, arms wrapped tight around her knees, mouth pressed against them. And then she started to bawl. Once she’d started, it was like she was never going to stop. Her body shook and she couldn’t catch her breath. Her face was a snotty mess. She jammed her lips harder against her knees until she felt like her mouth might tear. She wanted it to.
Sandy was still crying when she heard Mrs. Wilson’s door open. A second later, she heard the old lady come out, felt her staring down. Fuck.
“Good Lord,” her neighbor said. “What in heaven are you doing?”
Perfect. Exactly what Sandy needed: to have Mrs. Wilson rip in to her. Sandy shouldn’t have yelled. Not right outside Mrs. Wilson’s door. She knew better. Sandy tried wiping her eyes, hoping it would help her stop crying. But that only made it worse. She felt like she was melting beneath her fingertips, like her tears were washing away her skin.
“Such a goddamn mess, all of this, all the time,” Mrs. Wilson muttered, coming closer. Sandy could see the old woman’s wiry bare feet, her toes painted a bright orange. She wondered for a second what it would feel like when Mrs. Wilson kicked her. She braced herself for it.
When the pain didn’t come, Sandy looked up. Mrs. Wilson was standing there in a teenager’s pink sweatsuit, her eyes shiny brown marbles in her bony old-lady face. She had a hand on her hip and a look of disgust on her face. “You hurt or something?” she shouted, like the problem was Sandy’s hearing. “One of these bastards do something to you?”
Sandy shook her head, but Mrs. Wilson looked up and down the walkway as if trying to find someone to blame. Then her eyes set on Sandy’s front door. She turned her orange-polished toes in the direction of the door, then padded down for closer inspection. She lifted her pointy chin to squint at the ugly yellow sticker, then poked her nose in close to the padlock that was bolting shut the door.
Mrs. Wilson marched back toward her own apartment, muttering more angrily as she disappeared inside. Sandy waited for her to slam the door. Instead, Mrs. Wilson reappeared, a crowbar gripped in her hand.
Hoisting it against her hip, Ms. Wilson headed to the apartment on the far side of hers. Every step looked like it might topple her skinny body. She rested the crowbar on the ground before pounding on her far neighbor’s door.
Two young guys lived there. Shady for sure, but not dealers, as far as Sandy knew. Otherwise, Jenna would have found her way over there a long time ago. Stolen electronics, maybe, or counterfeit something or other. From the constant stream of people in and out of their door, they were definitely selling something.
“Hey, I know you’re in there!” Mrs. Wilson shouted when they didn’t answer right away. She banged harder, this time with her whole forearm. “I just heard your TV through my wall! Open up the damn door!”
A second later, the one with the scruff of hair on his chin filled the entryway. He was wearing a 76ers jersey and a baseball cap backward over a tangled brown ponytail. There was a gold chain on his right wrist. The guy didn’t say anything, just stared at Mrs. Wilson like a startled elephant, not angry, only confused.
“Here.” She shoved the crowbar at him. He blinked down at it but didn’t take it. “Go on,” she scolded. “What are you waiting for?”
Finally, he reached forward. In his big fingers, the crowbar became a weightless matchstick. He stared down at it, surprised and even more confused.
“Now,” Mrs. Wilson said, “you take that and go open that door.”
“What?” His voice was nicer, more polite, than Sandy would have expected.
“You heard me. Go open that door for this girl.” Mrs. Wilson hooked a thumb toward Sandy’s apartment. “It’s locked.”
“What?” Now he sounded like a whiny teenager. “Why?”
“Because I said so,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “You boys are lucky someone hasn’t called the police on you. And someone still could.”
The guy heaved a loud sigh and lugged himself out of his apartment. As he headed for Sandy’s door, he tossed the crowbar higher in his huge hand. He paused at Sandy’s door to read the notice, turning back to look at Mrs. Wilson.
“Oh, please, don’t act like you care about the law.” She flapped a hand at him. “Just do it.”
He looked over his shoulder once more to see if anyone was watching—something he’d definitely done a hundred times before when breaking in elsewhere—then snapped the lock off in one easy movement. It fell to the ground with a thud. He walked back toward them, eyes on the ground. He rested the crowbar against the wall next to Mrs. Wilson and disappeared inside his apartment without saying another word.
Sandy pushed herself to her feet, heart pounding. She had to get in and out of that apartment now. Who knew what would happen when you broke open a lock like that? They arrested you, probably, and Sandy seriously did not fucking need that.
“Thank you,” she said to Mrs. Wilson, her voice still hoarse from crying.
Mrs. Wilson shook her head and stepped closer to Sandy, looking her hard in the eye. “You get in there and take what you need,” she said. “But then you go. Because you are the only person in this world who’s going to take care of you. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”