Page 25 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
the attribute of the
strong.
Mahatma Gandhi
eighteen years old
Aaron is an awful kisser.
That’s what’s on my mind as I exit the musty elevator into the bleak hallway of my apartment building, where Mina and I have been living since my biological parents abandoned me. Sometimes the woman who birthed us is there. Sometimes she isn’t. But what never changes is me and Mina.
It’s us against the world.
At eight years old, she’s ten years younger than me, but she’s still my best friend. And I’m debating whether or not it’s appropriate to tell her that I just had my first kiss when I open the door to the apartment and see a stranger in front of me.
She’s short, about half a foot shorter than me. Yet, standing there in her expensive, heeled shoes and fancy white blouse, she intimidates me to the core. My eyes dart to the number on our door, but when I read the familiar forty-two painted onto the white-washed wood beside a bold letter D, I know I’m in the right place.
I open my mouth to scream for help before I realize that Mina and I don’t live in the type of building where neighbors would come running for help. Instead, they’d probably lock their doors and hide their drug stash in case the cops are called.
I shut my mouth and warily take a step into the apartment. “Where’s my sister?” I ask cautiously, my heart quickening and my eyes scanning every inch of the tiny studio apartment to no avail.
My sister isn’t here, but she should be. Mina’s school bus should have dropped her off an hour ago. She should be here, doing her homework or watching an old Disney VHS tape on the clunky, 22-inch television set my sperm donor managed to leave behind in his haste to get away from the poison that is Mina’s and my mother.
“We’ve taken her somewhere safe,” the woman replies, her tone deceptively gentle.
“Safe,” I repeat slowly. I’m trying to process her words, but it’s like my brain has produced an impenetrable sludge that blocks any logic.
Safe?
What can be safer than here? With me?
And who is this woman?
Where has she taken my sister?
I’m too scared to panic and too shocked to shake.
I have no idea what’s going on, yet I’m too dumbfounded to do anything but stand here dumbly and stare at this elegant woman. At her pretty white blouse, which is nicer than anything I’ll ever own; her fitted dress slacks, professional and sleek; her hair, which is pulled into a severe bun; her brown eyes, which are wide and youthful; and her round face, free of wrinkles, except at the corners of her eyes, where they form miniature crinkles.
We stare at one another for a moment, and I know I should say something, but I can’t.
Mina. Where is my baby sister?
The thoughts and questions are there, pressing up against my skull right beside my fear, but they don’t quite make it past my lips. Instead, there’s a loud whimper that slices cleanly through the thick silence. I think it’s mine, and it would be embarrassing if I wasn’t so preoccupied with worry.
We stand there in silence for a moment, eyeing one another up. Finally, the woman gestures to the wobbly wooden chair in the kitchen. We don’t have a dining room or a table, so I usually just pull the lone chair, a dollar purchase from the Salvation Army, up to the kitchen counter and use the counter as a table, my knees knocking uncomfortably against the cabinet doors.
Mina, on the other hand, has a custom tray that attaches to her wheel chair. I saved up and bought it for her for Christmas last year. She was ecstatic when she got it, which in turn made me ecstatic.
Ever since I can remember, Mina and I have always felt what one another have felt. If she cries, I cry. If she laughs, I laugh. That’s just the way Mina and I are, and there’s a foreboding feeling in my gut that tells me that, whatever this woman says, this is the end of everything great in my life.
So, instead of sitting, I cross my arms. I try to look intimidating, like putting up a physical front between the two of us will protect me from the harsh reality of her words, but I’m too weakened by the thought of a life without Mina to even bring myself to speak.
She sighs. “My name is Erica Slater. I’m Mina’s social worker.”
Forcing myself to calm down and think rational thoughts, I narrow my eyes in suspicion. After a shaky breath, I ask, “D-do you have an ID?”
She gives me a gentle smile and nods her head. After digging in her purse, she hands it to me. “I was assigned to your sister after a formal complaint was filed.”
