Page 26 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
I scan her ID with my eyes. It looks legit, though this woman looks too fancy to be a social worker. Her outfit and posture reek of wealth. Not wealth because everything compared to my mangy place looks like The Ritz, but real wealth.
The kind of wealth that speaks of summers in the Hamptons and winters in Athens, of personal drivers and tailored clothing, of menus with items so expensive there’s no price on the menu.
The type of wealth I doubt I’ll ever see again once she walks out this door.
“A complaint,” I say, my voice full of challenge, but in my head, everything in me is deflating.
I knew this was a possibility after Mina’s third grade teacher approached me and asked where our parents were. I told her that our mother was working and our Dads were gone. The last part was true, but I doubt the first part was.
With her gone so often, I never really know for sure what Dearest Mother is doing or where she is, for that matter.
Either way, I did my telltale wince when the word “Mom” forcibly slipped past my lips, and Ms. Snow’s eyes narrowed. She paid more attention to me and Mina after that. It was just a matter of time. The thing about time, though, is it sneaks up on you no matter how much you prepare yourself for it.
And here I am, staring at something I’ve been waiting a while for but still so unready.
Because how can I ever be ready for having my baby sister ripped away from me?
The woman sighs, drawing my attention to her. She’s scanning the place, and I try to see what she’s seeing through her eyes.
Mold on the ceiling.
The faint scent of urine in the air.
A ratty twin-sized air mattress, the hole at the foot of it covered in duct tape.
My sheets on the floor beside it, fashioned into a makeshift bed.
The apartment is ugly and revolting, but it’s also the place where I taught Mina to read; where she comforted me when I cried after my first crush broke my heart freshman year, her four-year-old brain too innocent and young to comprehend the source of my tears; and where Mina and I developed our sisterhood, our us against the world motto.
“This place isn’t a place an eight year old with spina bifida should be raised in.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I can’t.
She’s right.
Deep down, I know Mina deserves more than this. And it’s my fault, too. At 18, I’m almost out of high school. I should be working more than a part time job that barely pays the rent for section 8 housing. Sometimes, Mina and I have to go to the food kitchen, where we wait in line for hours for a decent meal.
But she’s never complained.
Doesn’t that count for something?
When Erica speaks again, her voice is full of sympathy. “If your circumstances change, you might be able to reunite with your sister. Until then, you’re welcome to visit her at her group home in China Town.”
She gives me a pitiful smile, unaware of what she just did. She gave me hope. She told me there’s a possibility of having Mina again. Of getting my baby sister back.
And in that moment, I promise myself—I promise Mina—that I will do anything to get her back.
Anything.
Chapter Eleven
Forgive your enemies,
but never forget their
names.
John F. Kennedy
