STREETWISE

Prologue

The food smelled gross. The over-roasted meat covered in thick gluey gravy. The potatoes that were supposed to be mashed, but looked pureed. Mushy canned peas that were more gray than green. 

But then the people came in and some of them smelled worse. Way worse.

And then some of them seemed normal. Too normal, like single moms wearing business outfits, kids in tow—not the kind of people you’d expect to see at a soup kitchen. And maybe that was even worse than the dirty people who you would expect to show up for a free hot meal.

I turned to Kylie. “I think we should have picked a different assignment.”

“I know. This is fucking heinous.” She looked down at herself. “And tell me what is with these plastic aprons?”

“It’s better than getting the food on you. Think about it.”

She nodded. “Good point. Hey, look. There are TV people here.”

I craned my neck to see where she was looking. Sure enough, there was a cameraman and a woman in a business suit with a mic in the corner, looking like they were setting up to film. 

“Maybe we’ll get on TV,” I said. 

Kylie clucked her tongue. “It’s not going to get you famous if you do.”

“I don’t want to be famous; I want to be an actress.” But yeah, I wanted to be famous.

Someone cleared their throat in front of me. I looked. It was a guy with his plate out, waiting for me to scoop him some potatoes. Even though he was young, he was probably the grossest and dirtiest person yet, looking like he hadn’t bathed in…well, ever. 

God, it is disgusting and embarrassing to be serving these people, I thought. 

And he smelled worse than anything; after one whiff, I held my breath. 

I dished out a big spoonful of the white mush and dumped it on his plate while still keeping my eyes on the tray of food in front of me.

The guy shuffled down the line. “You’re welcome,” I said, rolling my eyes. How appalling that the guy couldn’t even grunt a thank you.

His head snapped back and he glared at me, looking right into my eyes, scaring me a little. I hadn’t really meant for him to hear me. Apparently his ears were clean enough.

“Fuck you, princess,” he said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear it above the din in the hall.

“Ungrateful asshole,” Kylie said to me, but really softly, just in case.

I quickly turned back to the huge tray of potatoes in front of me, burying the spoon in the mountain of slop. “No kidding. What a douche.”

Chapter 1

“Hey, Kid,” I hear and think I’m dreaming. But then I feel a weight on my arm and know I’m beginning the drift back into consciousness. I open my eyes, but they need a moment to adjust. It’s still dark in my room, but I can see the silhouette of my father, sitting on the edge of my bed. I must have been really out if I didn’t hear him knock, open the door or even feel him sit down beside me.

“What are you doing waking me up at godawful o’clock?” I ask, sounding a whole lot whinier than I mean to.

“I’m waking you up to say goodbye.”

I groan and roll over, away from him. It is way too early for this.

“Aw come on, Tash. Say goodbye to your old man.”

“Goodbye old man,” I grumble.

 “You can do better than that. Aren’t you going to miss me?”

I groan again, roll back towards him and push myself up against my headboard. “How can I miss you if you won’t go away?” I say, but I’m smiling, because I will miss him. He goes to these conferences all the time, but I still never get used to him being away. Even though I’m old enough to drive, I still feel like Daddy’s little girl and look forward to his return when he leaves my mom and me for days at a time to fend for ourselves.

He laughs. “I’m going away in five minutes and then you can go back to sleep. My flight leaves in two hours, so I need to get a move on.”

“’Till when?”

“I’m back Sunday.”

“And what lame conference is this?” I ask.

“It’s a seminar for fund managers. Just boring stuff my teenage daughter really doesn’t care about,” he says with a wink.

 “What will you bring me back?” I ask. This is a little game we play. A game we’ve been playing since I was old enough to notice him packing his bags to go away to his conferences.

“Probably nothing,” he says, predictably.

I roll my eyes. Last time he went away and said he wasn’t going to bring me anything, I got the Coach bag I’d not-so-subtly been pining for. “Yeah right.”

 “Maybe not this time, Tash.”

I snort. 

The smile dissolves from his face. “I’m serious.”

I look at his eyes. The crinkles that are normally at the corners when he laughs are gone. He’s not joking.

“Huh?”

“You’re a big girl; you don’t need presents every time I go away for a few days.”

I’m speechless. It’s like he’s saying I’m no longer his little girl. Which is stupid, but it makes my heart ache a little.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

He squeezes my arm. “Come on, don’t be upset. I mean more to you than just what I can buy you, don’t I? Isn’t enough that your beloved father who you look up to and love with all your heart will be returning home?”

“Of course,” I squeak out. “Does this mean you won’t be buying Mom anything, either?” I wonder how well that will go over. Not well at all, I’m thinking.

“She’s a big girl, too.”

I cringe. “Good luck with that.”

“Tash, it’s a tough economy. People are losing their shirts, companies are tanking. It’s irresponsible to go around spending indiscriminately when I manage people’s portfolios and they’re losing their life savings, their homes, everything they own.”

I get what he’s saying, but really, other people’s portfolios aren’t really high on my priority list. As long as my trip to France is still a go (and the wad of cash in my bank account says it is) I couldn’t care less what the economy is doing. Time to shut him down. “Dad, it is way too early to be having this heavy of a conversation. This is more of an after-dinner kind of subject.”

He takes a deep breath. “You’re right. Phil Levinson proverb number five hundred and four: no heavy financial conversations before sunup.”

“I like that one,” I say, sliding back down so I’m horizontal again. “Add it to the list. Have a good trip, Dad.”

“Phil Levinson proverb number one?”

I close my eyes. This one I know by rote. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after Mom while you’re gone.”

“Good girl,” he says, his voice getting close, but softer. He kisses my cheek. “You’re a good kid.”

His weight lifts from the bed. He is almost gone when I say, “Dad?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“I love you. Even though you’re acting like a cheapskate.”

He exhales through his nose loudly. “I love you too, kid. Even though I’ve spoiled you rotten.”

I smile and roll over away from him, sure he’s going to bring me back something really nice.