“No, what you have is a soft heart and a heck of a lot of leftover southern charm. That whole ‘love thy neighbor’ bullshit really doesn’t apply to New York,” Fae explained. “Here, it’s more like ‘tolerate thy neighbor until they play their music too loud, then call the cops on their asses.’”
I rolled my eyes, turned my feet forward, and followed after Roza in silence.
***
Roza walked for five blocks, cutting across the Garment District and eventually leading us down onto a subway platform on 34thStreet without speaking so much as another word. Fae and I looked at each other warily for a moment, indecision warring with concern for Vera’s wellbeing. I wasn’t about to force Fae to come with me, but it was too late for me to turn back at this point — I’d promised Roza that I’d help her.
“I can’t let her go alone,” I whispered, tilting my head down at Roza. “She’s only like seven. It’s not safe.”
Fae shrugged her shoulders in agreement and followed me onto the platform with a resigned sigh.
Within minutes, the F line arrived and we were being whisked away southbound toward the lower east side. When the trainscreeched to a stop at East Broadway — the last stop in Manhattan before the tracks crossed over the East River into Brooklyn — Roza hopped off her seat and entwined her sticky fingers with mine once more.
“Come,” she said, looking from me to Fae before tugging us toward the car exit.
“If I die on this asinine adventure of yours before ever seeing John Mayer in concert, I swear to god I will haunt you until your dying day,” Fae told me, a simpering smile crossing her face.
“No one’s dying,” I assured her.
Roza led us out onto the street and walked with small yet determined strides down another three blocks, deeper into a neighborhood that was visibly poorer than the sections of Midtown I was accustomed to. Most of the restaurants and businesses we passed by were marked with colorful signs bearing intricate Asian characters, and while many different languages were spoken by the people on the streets, Fae and I were the only ones I heard speaking English. Before I’d made the move to New York, I’d spent months studying maps of the different neighborhoods and enclaves that made up the massive metropolis, but even without my cartographical obsessions I’d have known where we were — the sprawling bridges overhead were a dead giveaway.
Roza and Vera lived in Two Bridges, a neighborhood comprised mostly oflow-income public housing tenements and best known for its location, sandwiched between the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridge overpasses on the southern tip of Manhattan. It was a well-known immigrant borough and the poverty here was apparent, from the cracked sidewalks and the lack of greenery to the graffiti-sprayed buildings and the heavily-lined faces of the residents. Taking it all in, I felt guilty for ever complaining about my own tiny apartment here in the city, or my money woes as a child.
Though my family had been poor, there was a difference between growing up below the poverty line in a city like New York versus somewhere like Jackson. In Georgia, I’d always had neighbors to lend a helping hand, appearing unexpectedly at our door with “extra” casseroles they couldn’t possibly finish, or pies they’d “accidentally” baked by following a double recipe. There’d been no lack of nature or room to breathe as a child, and Jamie and I had both relished the freedom of the outdoors. Here, though, I couldn’t imagine Roza ever finding a space to call her own, or a minute to breathe. She probably shared a room at the very least with Vera — but I’d heard stories of entire families sharing a singlespace in buildings like this.
Fae and I traded apprehensive glances as Roza came to a stop in front of an ancient brick walkup.
“Home,” Roza told us, pointing up at the third story window.
“Rozafa!” The woman’s voice cut through the air like a whip, and Roza turned instantly toward the sound. A string of rapid Albanian followed, and we watched as Roza’s cheeks flushed in response to whatever was said. A small round woman stood on the street corner, her hands planted on her hipsas she glared at the seven-year-old. She was flanked on either side by a small group of women, all of whom were staring at Fae and me with varying looks of unwelcome.
I’d bet my last bag of Cool Ranch Doritos that this was Roza and Vera’s mother.
Roza walked over to the woman, who immediately grabbed hold of her shoulders and shook her hard enough to set her teeth rattling. “Mama!” Roza squealed unhappily.
I opened my mouth to protest and started forward, but Fae’s hand clamped down like a vise on my arm and held me in place.
“Don’t,” Fae advised quietly. “Their turf, their rules.” My mouth snapped closed and I cast a glance at her. Apparently, Fae was taking our street confrontation very seriously; that, or she was living out someOutsiders-themed fantasy leftover from her grade-school days.
“Whatever you say, Ponyboy,” I whispered, barely containing my laughter.
Fae’s lips twisted up into an amused smirk. “Chill out, Sodapop.”
The five women, who ranged in age from a teenager around Vera’s age to a stooped elderly woman who was likely a centenarian, stared at us impassively.
“I’m Lux,” I called in what I hoped was a nonthreatening tone. “A friend of Roza’s.”
None of them responded — either they didn’t speak English, or they really didn’t care what I had to say.
“I just want to know if Vera is okay,” I told them. “I was worried.”
At the sound of Vera’s name, their faces changed. The woman at the front of the pack who I assumed was her mother instantly crumpled, her face shuttering of all expression and her shoulders stooping in defeat. The other women had similar reactions — some looked fearful, casting their gazes around the street at the passerby, while others just looked saddened by the mention of her name.
I felt my stomach clench at their reactions, and Fae squeezed my arm lightly in support. We both knew it wasn’t a good sign — it meant that Vera was in some kind of serious trouble.
“Can we help?” I asked, locking eyes with the girls’ mother. Her own turned from sorrowful to steely as they held my gaze.
“Go,” she spat at me. “Go away.”