Tag: organized crime

Lucy

There’s no way this is legal. It’s my first thought as I pull up to where I’m supposed to pick up a refurbished stroller and car seat system. By all accounts, the shop is empty. Dark windows stained with dust face the street, and I’m the only car parallel parked out front. I knew it seemed odd that a children’s thrift shop would be in Woodbury, of all places—a town where there are more antique and health food stores than people. People have money around here and just buy their travel systems new on Prime. Plus I’m pretty sure car seat regulations don’t even allow for “refurbishing,” or whatever it is this shop does. But I’m desperate.

I did it to myself. I could be one of those suburban moms with the latest, most expensive baby gadgets if I hadn’t broken up with my baby daddy when he proposed. I’m certifiably insane for even thinking of leaving a man who throws money at every problem with barely a thought. The thing is, I think he saw me as a problem, or he would eventually if I married him. I didn’t want to be his trailer park teacher turned housewife, even it came with a perfect white SUV to drive around our perfect five kids. I didn’t want to be a mom. I became a teacher to give kids like me a safe space from their monsters, to keep kids like my cousin Cliff out of prison. When Benjamin proposed, I knew if I said yes, next he’d ask me to have a baby, and soon after that, quit my job. He’d tell me what to wear, which PTA moms to befriend, and how to spend my “allowance.” Worst of all, I’d be bored.

So of course, when I said no, a few weeks later, a pregnancy test said yes.

I didn’t want my baby to grow up in a family like mine, full of abusers and enablers. I barely made it out of childhood, and poverty was the least of my traumas. I didn’t want her to grow up under Benjamin’s thumb, either.

I needed that travel system because it converted from a car seat to a stroller and was lightweight and foolproof enough that I could do it all myself. That overpriced brand was actually a beacon of freedom, a way to raise a baby I hadn’t planned in the environment of my choice: mine.

The place is probably closed, anyway. All I have to do is try the door, admit defeat, and get back in my car. Easy. Then I can go back to doomscrolling through more fake secondhand baby paraphernalia in the comfort of AC. Pregnancy’s got me sweating in places I never knew I could sweat, and doesn’t play well with the late summer heatwave we’re in. But when I turn the knob and push the door, it opens with a long, dusty creak.

The shop is even emptier than it looked from the street. A single brand new travel system sits in the middle of the small store, still unopened. Part of me is relieved. It fell off a truck, much like most of the things from my childhood: chicken cutlets, satellite cable, my adopted sister Olivia. At least I know it’ll be safe for my baby.

“Hello?” I run a finger over the box and leave a trail in the dust. The factory seal is unbroken, the box isn’t even dented. I came with exactly enough cash, so this should be quick. I won’t even have to tell my sister or cousin how I got something so expensive. I’ll wrap it and pretend someone from work bought it for my shower—a Sip and See my sister started organizing late because I waited until the eleventh hour to tell them I’m pregnant. We had enough going on without me adding any more of my problems.

I know my fears are unfounded. Olivia and Cliff are my people, the only people I need, really. Besides, they were busy keeping their own secret: banging each other. They think I don’t know, like I didn’t figure it out the night they left me at a dive bar for over an hour to “get cigarettes.” Olivia came back with that look in her eye, the addict floating from her fix. Cliff just looked guilty.

Cliff and I are cousins, but Olivia isn’t biologically related to us at all, so it’s fine. It’ll burn out just like every other boy toy Olivia has brought home, leaving my cousin—who’s a big ol’ softie hidden that tall, dark, and scary disguise—lovesick. I’m not looking forward to the fallout. Cliff’s touch her and die vibes have always gotten him into trouble. The last time he tried saving someone hopeless, he went to prison.

I thought it was the end of it this summer. I was even a little bummed when they split. They make a cute couple and when they’re ignoring that they both want very different things, they’re good together. When they’re on the outs, everything in their vicinity is at risk. But I can’t get distracted making sure Olivia doesn’t kill Cliff, not when the baby inside me is growing faster than I imagined.

“Hello!” I call again, this time louder, more insistent. Everyone has always referred to me as “fiery,” and it’s not just because of my curly red hair. Growing up the way I did, I learned quick that monsters tend to leave crazy be. It’s vulnerable and meek that they target.

Maybe if I’d learned a little sooner, Cliff wouldn’t have gone to prison.

“Yeah, yeah.” A man covered in tattoos strolls out of the back, a cigarette clamped between his teeth. He rakes dirty blond hair streaked with silver and red back from his face.

I look pointedly at the box, down at the small and heavy watermelon I’m hauling around, and back to him.

He drops the butt onto the floor and grinds it out with a steel-toed boot, staring at me with pale blues. He rubs his beard, those eyes searing into me.

My pulse quickens and a fluttering flickers low inside me, and it’s not fear. It’s hormones. I’ve officially reached the horny stage of pregnancy, and it’s insatiable. Doesn’t matter which toy I use or which hand. The second I come, my body demands more, now, again. I’m worse than a teenage boy.

The man taps the box, drawing my attention. “Need help getting this loaded?”

I venture closer, telling myself it’s so I can pass him the money. There’s no cash register, so I guess we’re doing this like a drug deal. But closer is immediately too close, my pupils dilating and my heart racing as I inhale him. He smells like smoke and leather and ash, but there’s something sweet in there, too, sweet enough that I lean in and take a big whiff.

He steps back. “Are… are you smelling me?”

“No,” I sputter. “Just checking to make sure the box doesn’t smell like weed.”

“You won’t draw any attention,” he says, lifting the box and striding toward the door. “False bottom, the package is inside. You’re just gonna drive to the drop. I’ll tail you a few cars behind. Ready to roll?”

He frowns at the door and at me, and I realize I’m supposed to open it for him.

“Drop? Tail?” I repeat, hurrying after him.

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