Page 16 of Roundabout

“Not what. Who. They’re for Brit and Kya.” She hands one over to Letty, and for a moment, I see the sweet little girl Rebel used to be.

Then I remember she’s technically stealing.

“One’s enough,” I tell them, collecting the two smaller ones and tossing both back over the counter. We’re already pushing our luck here.

Her gaze on the trampled-over grass between us, Letty murmurs, “If they’re staring at the pretzel cart, they could be thirsty, too.”

I study Letty, comparing the confident girl I walked up on to this timid one now. She lives further down the canyon from us, in a trailer with her dad. I don’t know all the details of her situation, just that Marc doesn’t make her pay for anything at Ride It, not even the dirt bike he lets her use after her old one broke down. Actually, now that I think about it, I’m almost positive he bought it for her and just lets her store it there.

I need to talk to Rebel after this and see what else her friend’s in need of.

After switching out the bill for my credit card, I give it to Rebel with instructions to get full meals. I don’t specify how many in case Brittni and Makya aren’t the only ones going hungry.

We head to the pretzel cart, then I leave them in line to search the area. It doesn’t take long for me to catch sight of the two girls who lived under my roof for the past year. I follow the sisters, keeping a safe distance while searching near them for anyone that might appear responsible, but come up empty. Of course. Nora’s not responsible. She wasn’t when the girls were taken out of her custody and she’s not now. I don’t know what she did to convince the court system otherwise but it’s obvious it was just a smoke show. With hustlers, it always is.

Nora doesn’t even want her daughters, only the added benefits they earn her, like welfare. She shouldn’t just get her kids taken away, she should be in jail. In my eyes, she’s a criminal. She uses her own flesh and blood as objects, as payouts. Same with the foster parents who do it, too. There are far too many people whose main interest in fostering is the money the state pays them.

Yes, it takes money, at least a little, to raise healthy, stable, happy children, but it also takes fucking willpower, a lot of it; and the only motivation Brittni and Makya’s bio mom has is to cash in on as many opportunities as possible while doing next to nothing to earn them. Much like my own mother, she refuses to get an actual job. It’d decrease her benefits after all. She’d rather her daughters eat off the floor than go to work and be able to afford a table.

Seven-year-old Makya turns around and our eyes almost connect but don’t before her older sister tugs on her hand, both of them running over to stand in front of a fan, the tangled messes of black hair on their heads barely moving from the wind.

When the sisters came to our house, not only did they have lice on their scalps but also their eyelashes. Their. Eyelashes. And now, today, their hair hasn’t been brushed for who knows how long, probably from their mother’s house still being fucking infested, and just like before, Nora’s refusing to get them treatment.

Shit. It’s worse than I thought. They’re not just going without a meal, they’re going without basic care.

What do I do?

What can I do? Call child services? Nora has them fooled. She wouldn’t have gotten Brittni and Makya back if she didn’t.

The hardest part is I’m not allowed to play judge and jury—that’s what the state’s supposed to be doing—I’m expected to only offer a temporary solace to those assigned to me.

Temporary.

There’s nothing temporary about how I feel standing here, seeing these girls suffering.

I use my thumb fingernail to scrape across every other nail, pushing each cuticle back until they’re all red and angry.

And just like that, I’m right back to being a child again, under my own mother’s cruel thumb—helpless, hopeless, and just trying to make it to another day.

But I’m not helpless. Not anymore. Now I have the one thing hustlers crave most.

I have it…it just isn’t a good time to give it up. Not with a wedding literally days away. A wedding with hand-folded and pressed napkins.

Shit!

That’s the difference between a real parent and just someone with kids—the grit, the tenacity, the all-out recklessness that takes over when one of your children is in danger. I would do anything to save the girls.

Anything? Really, truly anything?

My feet carry me forward, my mind racing headfirst into a half-cooked plan.

“Hi, girls,” I croak out when I’m standing next to them, trying to keep my tears from falling as I stare into eyes that are helpless, hopeless, and just trying to make it to another day.

Those same eyes staring back at me don’t even have eyelashes, most likely from the girls plucking them clean out as their own form of treatment.

Would I do anything to save these girls?

Yes. Really, truly anything.