Chapter one
Rosanna
Hello Anna, My name is Shay. I built a bridge out of popsicle sticks and it didn’t break. My teacher says I am too grown-up for my age. (Age 8)
Hello Shay, I'm Anna. I like to draw pictures. I drew you a horse even though I've never seen one. But I don't know how to put it in the computer, so you’ll just have to pretend. (Age 7)
“You know he’s not going to care what we say, right?”
I can practically feel the tension buzzing in the community center before the meeting even starts.
The place is buzzing with restless energy. There are folding chairs scraping against old linoleum, people shifting in their seats, anxious chatter rippling like a tide about to break.
My best friend, Luna, sits beside me with one leg crossed over the other, scrolling on her phone like she’s not surrounded by half of the neighborhood. Her eyes flick up long enough to catch my skeptical frown.
“Billionaires don’t change their minds because of passionate speeches.”
She’s not wrong, but it doesn’t stop the knot in my stomach from tightening as I stare at the front of the room.
A flimsy, fold-out table, two empty chairs. The developer isn’t even here yet, and already it feels like the entire building is holding its breath.
I’m three rows back with my trusty sketchbook open on my lap.
I’m not planning to draw tonight (no one’s in the mood for art) but having it comforts me somehow.
It’s as much a part of me as the chipped paint on the walls and the water-stained ceiling tiles are part of this place.
My gaze sweeps over the crowd, picking out neighbors I’ve known for years. Mrs. Chen, who ran the tea shop down the block until her rent tripled, sits in the front.
She whispers something to the person beside her, face tight with worry.
I don’t need to be a mind reader to know what she’s thinking: Heritage Street is one of the last corners of the city that still has any soul left. Pave it over for the next glass-and-steel monstrosity, and it’s all gone.
The side door opens, and in walk two men in suits. One has a tablet and a leather folder, the other is every inch the big-shot billionaire.
The tension in the room skyrockets. No one’s applauding his arrival, that’s for sure.
Seamus O’Malley looks precisely like the pictures I’ve seen. Tall. Dark hair cut so precisely it could have been measured with a micrometer. Shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway.
Not a single hint of apology in his expression.
Around me, a hush settles. It’s the simmering, angry kind of quiet that comes right before people start shouting.
He sets himself behind the table with the same composed confidence he wears like a second suit. His assistant (at least, I’m guessing that’s who the guy with the glasses is) sits beside him, opening up some official folder.
Seamus steeples his fingers, looking like he’s counting down the minutes until he can do something else.
Davidson, the city planner, stands at the podium in an ill-fitting jacket. He clears his throat, shuffling papers nervously.
“Thank you all for coming. Tonight we’ll be hearing from O’MalleyMart representatives regarding the proposed Heritage Street development project. We’ll have time for community questions later.”
What he really means is:We’re here to endure your yelling and attempt to keep it somewhat civil.
I spot Luna giving me a side-eye. “Steady, soldier,” she murmurs under her breath. “You’ll sprain your jaw if you clench it any harder.”
She’s right. I’m grinding my teeth so hard my dentist would have a field day. I force myself to breathe, ignoring the prickle of heat in my cheeks.
The assistant stands, flicks to the first slide of a presentation. It’s full of shiny real-estate renderings, spiffy charts, and promises of progress. They’re painting a picture of some glistening, sanitized future that has no room for quirks, no room for actual history, and definitely no room for small businesses like the one Mrs. Chen used to run.
