Supporting the Girls Read online

  Supporting the Girls

  Table of Contents

  The Home Office:

  The Detroit Center:

  Phase One:

  Phase Two:

  Phase Three:

  Phase Four:

  Copyright Information

  LILT ebooks • Tacoma WA

  The Home Office:

  The taxi jerked to a stop, throwing Melissa forward against her seat belt. She fumbled with cash for the driver as she stared up at the shiny modern building on the corner. Climbing out carefully, she adjusted her skirt, closed her purse, and then took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

  “I can do this,” she muttered to herself. “I do not need an appointment.”

  “You tell ’em, sister,” said the taxi driver, cheerfully.

  “Oh . . . Thanks,” she said, trying not to show her embarrassment at having her inner monologue become outer. Crossing the street, Melissa headed for the Carrie Mae building. “I have a master’s degree in social work. I have employees to think about. I need more corporate support than a paycheck if they expect this program to work.” She’d rehearsed her talking points on the plane and in the hotel and in the taxi, but she still felt her pulse accelerate as she approached the imposing glass doors.

  It had only been six months ago that she’d walked out of them exhilarated at having absolutely fricking nailed the job interview. True, when she’d told her then-boyfriend about the interview later, she hadn’t been able to exactly describe what the job entailed.

  “Well, I don’t know specifically what I’ll be doing, but I’ll be building a program from the ground up! I’ll be working with inner-city youth! If it goes well in Detroit, they’ll be expanding the program nationwide. It’s an unbelievable opportunity—especially coming right out of grad school! And best of all, it’s a company that really believes in a mission of helping people!”

  Melissa snorted at the memory. Six months had been long enough to convince her that the Carrie Mae Foundation, the charitable branch of the Carrie Mae Cosmetics Company, did not give a crap whether her innovative program for helping young women in low-income neighborhoods succeeded or not. Six months had also been enough time for her boyfriend to decide that she was more passionate about her program than she was about him and that a long distance relationship just wasn’t going to work. She’d attempted to point out that if he weren’t being such a dickhead and demanding that she find a social-work job back in New York—aka closer to the kitchen where she could cook him dinner at night—it might work out just fine, but that hadn’t gone well. Six months . . . she’d put so much of herself into this program, given up so much. She’d moved to Detroit, for Christ’s sake! And for reasons she couldn’t quite fathom, it was going to fail. She was going to fail.

  “I need help,” she said to her reflection in the door. “They have to help me.”

  An hour and twenty minutes later, Melissa was angrily pushing the elevator button and trying not to cry. The elevator doors finally slid open and revealed an older white woman already inside. She was impeccably dressed and coiffed and made Melissa feel even more of a giant, blobby mess than she already did.

  Melissa glanced down the hall, thinking about waiting for the next car, but Mavis Simply, the program supervisor aka Melissa’s horrible boss, exited into the hall; Melissa dashed into the elevator as quickly as possible. She fumbled for the lobby button, unable to repress a watery sniff.

  “You seem to be having a hard day,” said the woman inside the elevator kindly.

  Melissa opened her mouth to say it was just allergies but instead burst into tears and dropped her purse. “I need help,” she sobbed, as she tried to collect her belongings. “Why won’t anyone help me?”

  “Oh, dear,” said the woman, pulling a tissue magically out of her purse, shoving an errant lipstick back into Melissa’s bag, and helping her stand up. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”

  “I spent three months on the business plan and coordinating with Planned Parenthood and the other services and meeting the stupid Carrie Mae goals. And I’ve got the space rented. That was the easy part—no one wants to rent in that neighborhood. And I’ve got employees for the day-care center and everything.” Melissa blew her nose into the tissue.

  “Ah. You must be Melissa Kane,” said the woman, supplying another tissue and pressing one of the buttons on the panel. The elevator slid gently to a stop.

  “Yes,” Melissa said, and sniffed uncertainly. “How did you know?”

  “I’m Miranda Merrivel; I was on the steering committee for the Homeland Initiative.”

  “The Homeland . . .” Melissa blew her nose again, thoroughly confused.

  “Yes, that’s what we called your project before you came on board. Very unfortunate that they gave it to Mavis Simply to take into beta testing.”

  “What is wrong with that woman?” demanded Melissa, feeling a surge of rage. “I worked so many twelve-hour days to get the new Carrie Mae Center off the ground, and now . . .” Melissa heaved a wracking sob, feeling her breasts strain the buttons of her blazer, and blew her nose into the tissue. “It was my dream, you know? To be able to design a program that would really change people’s lives. I thought this was the opportunity I’d been waiting for . . .” She blotted her face, trying to calm her breathing. She didn’t want this jacket button to go the way of so many jacket buttons before it. “It’s like Mavis Simply doesn’t want the program to succeed.”

  “Actually, I’m fairly convinced she doesn’t want it to,” said Mrs. Merrivel, her head cocking to the side, her expression sad but pragmatic.

  “But why?” wailed Melissa. “I have a really good program!”

  “Never mind that, dear,” said the woman. “You don’t want to hear about all the politics. Why don’t tell you tell me about your problems?” She put an arm around Melissa’s shoulders and squeezed comfortingly. “What’s stopping you from succeeding?”

  “Well, the drug dealers with the freaking arsenal aren’t helping. They won’t let anyone into the building. And I’ve called the cops, but it doesn’t do any good. And now, Mrs. Simply is threatening to close down the program because we don’t have any enrollees. Of course we don’t have any enrollees! Who’s going to risk walking by that gang? I have an idea about relocating to a new building, but she’s been ducking my calls, so I flew in to town and came in today without an appointment. But she kicked me out and said the program has until the end of the month. I worked so hard and I didn’t help anyone. And I look like a wreck,” said Melissa, eyeing herself in the metal trim on the elevator door. Her hair, which she proudly wore natural, looked more bed-head than charmingly bohemian.

  “Yes, you do, dear. But not to worry; we’ll fix you up before we get to the lobby.”

  “Can you fix up my program, too?” asked Melissa in the same, sad tone.

  “I’ve seen your reports—the program doesn’t seem to have anything wrong with it,” said the older woman. She pushed the same button on the elevator panel and opened her purse, pulling out a compact and a packet of Wet-Naps. Melissa felt the elevator begin to move, and it occurred to her to wonder how Mrs. Merrivel had stopped it.

  “You really ought to invest in a quality waterproof mascara, dear. It’s such a help on days like this,” Mrs. Merrivel said, dabbing at Melissa’s face. “If anything, I’d say your program is missing is a security component.”

  “I won’t have armed guards walking around,” said Melissa, shaking her head. “That will ruin any chance we have of gaining the trust of the neighborhood.”

  “I quite understand. But I think there’s a middle ground. Now, why don’t you go back to your hotel, and in the meantime, I’ll pop
in and have a word with Mavis Simply. Maybe I can do something about your situation.”

  Melissa felt her heart leap but still said, “She won’t authorize any more money.”

  “I think I can kick in some monies out of one of my project budgets,” said Mrs. Merrivel, whisking out a tube of mascara. “Look up.”

  “You can do that?” asked Melissa, staring at the ceiling and attempting not to move her face into the mascara wand.

  “Carrie Mae women can do almost anything,” said the woman, holding up a compact for Melissa to observe her face. Melissa had to admit Mrs. Merrivel had worked some kind of magic; the only tragic thing about her face was her expression.

  “Sometimes all we need is the right kind of help,” Mrs. Merrivel said, clicking the compact shut and dropping it back in her purse as the elevator bell dinged and the doors slid open on the lobby. “I’ll call you at your hotel and let you know how it goes.”

  “Thank you,” said Melissa fervently, stepping out of the elevator. “I really appreciate any help I can get.” She turned and realized Mrs. Merrivel wasn’t following her into the lobby. “But, wait! You don’t know what hotel I’m staying at . . .” The elevator doors began to close again.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” said Mrs. Merrivel, looking amused. “I can find you.”

  The Detroit Center:

  “You weren’t what I was picturing when she said she’d send someone to help me with security,” said Melissa, eyeing the petite redhead in oversized sunglasses. The girl’s forehead was peeling slightly, as if she’d been out in the sun recently, and she wore jeans, a t-shirt, and tall black boots. She wasn’t exactly the model-perfect Carrie Mae lady, and she certainly didn’t seem big enough to handle Melissa’s problems.

  “You thought I’d be taller,” the redhead said, nodding. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

  “I thought you’d be a dude,” said Melissa, bluntly.

  “You do work for Carrie Mae, don’t you?” asked the redhead, looking around the front office.

  “Yeah,” said Melissa, uncertain of what else to say.

  The redhead turned and stared at her; Melissa shifted uncomfortably and tried to avoid her own reflection in the sunglasses.

  “Haven’t been with the company very long, have you?”

  “Six months,” said Melissa. “I was hired to run this program. I’m not really, you know . . . with Carrie Mae.” Melissa still felt embarrassed to tell people she worked for the makeup company.

  “Ah,” said the redhead, nodding as if Melissa had explained everything. “I’m Nikki Lanier. Mrs. Merrivel sent me to help with your security problem.”

  “We don’t have a security problem,” said Melissa. “What we have is a gang dealing drugs.” Melissa marched to the front door and pointed to the knot of young men across the street.

  “Yeah, I saw them when I came in,” said Nikki, wandering farther back into office and looking around. “You’ve really got a whole setup here, don’t you?”

  “The police don’t seem to do anything but drive by and stare,” said Melissa, crossing her arms over her chest and refusing to change topics. “What are you going to be able to do by yourself?”

  “I’m thinking about a program of disincentives. And don’t you know that no Carrie Mae woman is ever alone?”

  “Don’t quote propaganda at me,” snapped Melissa. “I need actual results.”

  “And you’ll get them,” said Nikki. “In the meantime, I’m still on Zimbabwe time; I’m going to crash back here for a while. Call me if anyone does anything exciting.”

  Phase One:

  Melissa stared angrily at the back of Nikki’s head. From her position in the break-room doorway, she could see that Nikki was checking her Facebook page. The girl had been here three days, and all she had done was answer phone calls and surf the web. Melissa was getting fed up.

  “So,” said Melissa, thumping her coffee cup down on the desk Nikki had commandeered. Nikki paused mid-Funyun and looked up. “How’s it going? You know, with my ‘little’ security problem that you’re handling?”

  “Good,” said Nikki, taking a sip from her soda.

  “Really? Because I have to say that I’m not seeing a lot of progress from here.” Melissa waved her hand at the group of men and boys across the street. Nikki’s cell phone chirped the arrival of a text. Nikki checked it, then stood up and walked to the door. Melissa reluctantly followed her.

  As per usual, the convenience-store parking lot across the street was filled with cars pumping out bass and what Melissa considered to be the most anti-woman kind of rap.

  “I could really go without hearing myself described as a bitch or a ho for about twenty-four hours,” muttered Melissa, staring angrily at the cluster of young men. “See that kid?” she said, pointing at a young teenager in a green hoody. “I personally saw him knock an old lady over and steal her purse. That one over there”—she pointed to small kid in a giant puffy jacket—“they call him Li’l Dice. One of the policemen told me that he’s already got a rap sheet as long as your arm and is suspected in a shooting up on MLK Boulevard. These are the kind of people you’re dealing with. Or not dealing with, as the case may be.”

  “Hm,” grunted Nikki. “Am I the only one who finds it sort of insulting to Martin Luther King to name only the most crime-ridden streets after him?” she asked, then paused and glanced nervously at Melissa in the way that white people did after saying something that might be racist.

  “It’s easier to rename a problem than fix it,” said Melissa. Nikki seemed to sigh slightly in relief. “Of course, if you want to talk about how race and culture apply to crime and crime statistics, we can.”

  “Can we just assume I agree with everything you’re going to say and skip it?” asked Nikki with a sigh. Melissa snorted with laughter. “What? I have this argument enough with my boyfriend. I get it—I’m white, and that is a totally different experience from being biracial. I couldn’t possibly understand or even sympathize.” She rolled her eyes. “Plus, I have a BA in linguistics that I haven’t used in four years; I’m pretty sure I’m not going to win against masters in social work.”

  “Hey, at least you recognize that my experience is different from yours,” said Melissa, feeling slightly more charitable toward Nikki than she had a few minutes previous. “That’s better than a lot of people.” She hesitated. “So your boyfriend’s biracial? What kind?”

  “Did you just ask me what kind my boyfriend is?” asked Nikki, skewering Melissa with a disbelieving stare.

  “Maybe,” said Melissa with a sheepish grin, and Nikki shook her head in amusement.

  “We all say it shouldn’t matter, but we all want to know. Human curiosity is a bitch.” She peered through window intently. “Afro-Cuban and Jewish.” Back at the desk, Nikki’s phone alarm began to chirp. “Phase one in the disincentive program,” said Nikki, reflexively checking her watch, “is about to begin.”

  “Really?” asked Melissa. “What’s going to happen?”

  “Well, after examining an interesting study on the war on drugs in Mexico and the crime statistics locally, as well as our own reconnaissance on gang activity, we’ve come to the conclusion that stopping them from dealing drugs would actually be a destabilizing force in the neighborhood—something that would invite a gang war. Clearly, not what the Center needs while you’re trying to get on your feet. So we think it would be better if they just moved down the block to that other convenience store.”

  “Well, I think it would be better to have them drop off the face of the planet. I don’t see how either of us is going to get what we want,” said Melissa, wondering who constituted the “we” Nikki referred to.

  One of the young men—who had been lounging on the hood of a bright purple Cadillac—looked at them, and Melissa felt a chill run down her spine. He slid off the hood and made a hand gesture that she didn�
��t understand and wasn’t sure she wanted to. What she did feel was a deep desire to turn tail and run.

  Across the street, several people came running out of the convenience store, shouting. The man by the purple Cadillac turned away from them as the convenience store began to empty. After the fleeing people came something that Melissa couldn’t quite see.

  “What are they running from?” The store owner came out next, yelling and waving a broom. The crowd began to drift apart as people got in cars and began to leave. “Oh my God, are those rats?”

  “Certainly looks that way,” said Nikki calmly.

  “So many rats,” said Melissa, watching the swarm of the vermin traverse the parking lot. The man in the purple Cadillac was the last to leave.

  “That is Marquis D’Shawn. He’s currently the head of the crew,” said Nikki. “He’s the one who beat your friend Li’l Dice into the gang. He did a two-year stretch up at Chippewa for assault. They say he started in the gang at ten.”

  “And we seem to have attracted his attention,” said Melissa, gulping as the purple Cadillac, its windows tinted to a midnight shade, cruised by the Center at a crawl.

  “Good,” said Nikki, with small, satisfied smile, and Melissa eyed her nervously.

  Phase Two:

  Melissa got off the bus and entered the Center through the back. Then she went to unlock the front doors. She slowed as she approached the doors: the light filtering through them seemed strangely dimmed. It wasn’t until she was at the doors that she realized why. They had been spray-painted. She stepped outside to see how bad the damage was.

  Bitchs die bleeding.

  The letters were three feet tall and covered the entire front wall.

  A beater beige sedan rounded the corner and pulled up in front. “Well, that’s a bit embarrassing,” said Nikki, rolling down the window. “Taggers really should run things through a copy editor before committing them to brick.”