Page 52 of Puck Daddies
Practice is early. I want to be sharp. I want to earn the top shift back. I want to skate clean and then meet with a banker and a lawyer and a handful of vendors and run emails and do a site visit with Habitat and come home to make dinner for people who will be at a table I chose.
My real family.
17
MEG
I pickup the marker and writeRaise the Hiveat the top of the whiteboard again, even though it’s already there. It steadies me. Today I have to work.
Tom walks in with a clipboard and a roll of blue tape. “Barricades are on their way. City sent two sawhorses and cones. We’ll spill into the parking lane, not the travel lane. I’ve got volunteers to man each end.”
“Good. Sound?”
“Speaker test at three. Aqua’s mic is charged. Extra battery pack in the drawer.”
Anthony sets a honeycomb panel on the front wall where we cleared space last night. It’s the size of our chalkboard menu. The hex tiles are stacked in boxes by color—natural, amber, and gold. He runs a level across the top, and the bubble sits in the middle. He nods, satisfied. “The adhesive cures in two minutes. I set up three stations. People choose a tile, write their inscription at the signing table, we print a tiny label and stick it to the back, then we press it in here. Tom’s grid map keeps the pattern even.”
Bex slides a tray of blondies onto the back counter and points at the sheet pan cooling behind her. “Honey bars. We’ll cut when they set. I’ve got a full tray of allergy-safe chocolate ones too.”
“Thank you. Drinks?”
“We’ll run a short menu. Honey lattes, cold brew, black coffee, tea. Keeps the line moving.”
Aqua steps out of the bathroom in full drag and full command. Blue dress, bee brooch, hair high. She looks around the room like she owns it. “Program,” she says, hand out.
I hand her the list. “Kickoff at four. Short remarks. Introduce the honeycomb wall. Announce tile tiers. Point to the shelter table. Thank vendors. Keep it moving.”
She scans, nods, and taps a line. “You’re not talking long.”
“I’m not good at long today.”
“You’re good at true. Do that. I’ll handle the ham.”
Tom wheels in a dolly stacked with cases of water. He parks it by the back door and checks the lock that Rocco fixed. It works on the first try. He gives it a satisfied look and heads to the front to mount theRaise the Hivebanner Anthony printed.
I check my phone. Dana:Eviction response filed. Hearing request submitted. I’ll call at five with status.The clock in my head ticks louder. Thirty days feels like a wall I can’t see around.
The doors open at noon. We pour and smile and move. People ask whatRaise the Hiveis. I keep it simple. “Donor tiles for a honeycomb wall inside Bea’s. Your tile helps with legal fees and moving costs if we have to move. If we win and stay, the wall stays here. If we have to move, the wall comes with us.”
“How much?” a woman asks.
“Three tiers,” I say, pointing to the sign Anthony lettered. “Worker bee—twenty-five dollars, name only. Queen bee—a hundred dollars, name and a line. Hive sponsor—five hundred, name, line, and a small gold hex. We also have a clipboard for people who want information on a possible community purchase if legal options fail. That’s information only, not an offer.”
“Put me down for a queen,” she says, pulling out her wallet.
By three, the honeycomb panel has six tiles set and forty forms in the basket at the signing table. People take photos. People bring their parents in wheelchairs. People point at the bee painting behind the counter and tell the person next to them a story about Aunt Bea, even if they don’t know each other. I keep moving.
Tom steps out to the sidewalk and starts placing cones. John carries the sawhorses out. The traffic lane moves slow, and drivers lean out to ask what’s happening. “Community wall,” Tom says. “Fundraiser.” He points them to the QR code on the sandwich board. Some of them park and come back.
By three thirty, Aqua has a small crowd in front of her just from testing the mic. She doesn’t perform yet. She warms the room. “Who remembers their first honey latte?” she asks, and half the hands go up. She turns to me. “Your people are here, girl.”
They are. The line goes to the door and turns. The room hums. I pour drinks next to Bex and set pastries on plates and trade nods with the volunteer at the tile table. The tile labels print and print. Anthony presses them in careful rows. Tom keeps the clipboard updated so the pattern stays clean.
The first live stream starts before four. A college kid holds up her phone and narrates to her followers. “We’re at Bea’s on Raisethe Hive day. Get over here. Look, it’s the honey wall.” Her comments fly up the screen.I’m coming.Tell Meg she saved my grade sophomore year.Order me a honey bar.
I walk past her to the front door and step outside for air. The block is crowded. It looks like a street fair. Vendors put out extra samples to handle the spill. The shelter set up a small table with a donation jar again and a board listing their needs. People are already dropping cash. Someone brought a case of canned dog food without being asked. I breathe and go back in.
At four, Aqua taps the mic. “All right, my bees. Gather in. We are raising the hive today. Tiles on the wall, dollars in the jar, and arms around our girl. I am your emcee, Aqua Tofana. If you weren’t at Ladies’ Night, you missed my one-woman show, which is fine, you can pay me later.”
