Page 15 of Wild Hit
It’s a girl somewhere in her tweens, she’s tall enough to confuse me. She clutches at the straps of a black sparkly backpack and I immediately know she’s a connoisseur of taste.
Straightening out, I lower the drill and respond with, “Dismantling my mailbox, and you?”
“Watching you dismantle a mailbox.” Her eyebrows rise a little. “What does dismantling mean?”
My lips twitch. I raise my drill and press the trigger once for added drama. “It means bringing down something that no longer serves a good purpose, and it can apply to many things. In this case, a mailbox that refuses to open.”
Okay, I didn’t think that was a masterful joke that could win awards, but I also wasn’t expecting it to cast a shadow over the girl’s face. She kicks at the sidewalk concrete with black Converse that are also sparkly and have hot pink laces. I was nowhere near this stylish when I was her age.
“Can school also be dismantled?” she asks in a calm and serious way.
I lose my previous train of thought and look at her more closely. I’ve only seen her once before, when she walked out next door to retrieve her dad, who I had just accidentally beaten up. So I can’t say for sure but… her eyes look red and puffy, like maybe she’s been crying. Slowly, I set down my tool to focus on the girl.
“I’m Audrey Winters,” I say rather than answering her very pointed question. “I live next door with two other girls. We all work at the Orlando Wild with your dad, actually.”
“Okay?” It’s clear as day that none of this information means anything to her.
“And you are?” I prod gently.
Smart cookie that she clearly is, she says, “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“That’s good.” I bob my head and shrug. “But you’re also the one who started the conversation. It’s only polite to let the other person know your name so they can address you properly.”
She grunts and releases her backpack straps to fold her arms. “I’m Martina but I’ll kill you if you call me that. I go by Marty.”
That’s a test if I know one, so I say, “It’s nice to meet you, Marty. And to answer your question, generally the people who want to dismantle schools are not the good guys.”
“Shucks.” Her mouth turns into a little upturned u.
“Are people in your school being mean to you?” I ask with as much tact as one can possibly have with a child, while also having zero experience with children.
“No…” She drifts off, swaying a little in that way that only someone with a lot bottled up inside can. “People are okay, it’s just…”
“School work is hard?” I raise my hand in defense. “I’m not judging. I hated like half of my classes because I just didn’t get them. Biology was the worst. I assure you I’ve never once had to bust out the definition of mitochondria.”
Marty blinks several times, like trying to make out what kind of adult breed I am. Are all adults supposed to spew pro-mitochondria propaganda?
“Well…” I lean forward just a little, all my attention on what’s tumbling out of her mouth next. “It’s just…”
“This is worse than a bases loaded, bottom of the ninth game. You’re killing me, Smalls.”
That makes her expel what is clearly a disappointed sigh, and I almost fear she’s going to leave me hanging and turn into her home.
“There’s going to be a mother-daughter tea party at school, but I don’t have a mom so I’m the only one in my class who can’t go.” And now that it’s finally off her chest, her big brown eyes start watering for what I’m sure is the nth time today.
Oh, shit. What do I do now?
I check my surroundings, trying to find ideas for how to calm down a sad kid. All I can think of is the freaking mailbox. “Hey, what if I distract you for a bit while you help me with this thing?”
One sniff. A swipe at her cheek. “Let me tell my nanny first.”
“Yes, good idea.”
As she takes herself up to the duplex home next door, I grab at my cellphone on the other pocket of my shorts and text the group chat with my roommates.
Me
SOS Miguel Machado’s daughter came back from school all sad and somehow I’ve volunteered myself to distract her. What do I do?
