Warcross Read Free Page A

when I was still living at the foster group home, I could see the Empire State Building if I climbed up onto the roof. I’d sit there and stare for hours as Warcross images rotated on its side, my skinny legs swinging, until dawn came and the sunlight would bathe me in gold. If I stared long enough, I could picture myself displayed up there. Even now, I feel that old twinge of excitement at the sight of the building.
    My electric skateboard beeps once, snapping me out of myreverie. I look down. The battery’s been drained to its final bar. I sigh, slow to a stop, and swing my board over my shoulder. Then I dig for some change in my pocket and head into the first subway station I can find.
    Twilight has faded to a blue-gray evening by the time I arrive in front of the crumbling Hunts Point¸ Bronx, apartment complex I call home. This is the other side of the glittering city. Graffiti covers one side of the building. Rusted iron bars cage the first floor windows. Trash is heaped near the main entrance steps—plastic cups, fast-food wrappers, broken beer bottles—all partially hidden underneath a thin dusting of snow. There are no lit-up screens here, no fancy auto-cars driving through the cracked streets. My shoulders droop, and my feet feel like lead. I haven’t even eaten dinner yet, but at this point, I can’t decide if I want food or sleep more.
    Farther down the street, a group of homeless people are settling in, spreading their blankets and pitching their tents in the entryway of a shuttered store. Plastic bags line the insides of their threadbare clothes. I look away, heartsick. Once upon a time they too were kids, maybe had families who loved them. What had brought them to this point? What would I look like, in their place?
    Finally, I will myself up the steps through the main entrance and down the hall to my front door. The hall reeks, as always, of cat pee and moldy carpets, and through the thin walls, I can hear neighbors shouting at each other, a TV’s volume cranked high, a wailing baby. I relax a little. If I’m lucky enough, I won’t bump into my landlord, with his tank and sweats and red face. Maybe I can at least get an uneventful night’s sleep before I have to deal with him in the morning.
    A new eviction notice has gone up on my door, right where I’d torn the old one off. I stare at it for a second, exhausted, rereading.
    NEW YORK EVICTION NOTICE
TENANT NAME: EMIKA CHEN
72 HOURS TO PAY, OR VACATE
    Was it really necessary for him to come back and put up a new sign, as if he wants to make sure everyone else in the building knows? To humiliate me further? I tear the notice off the door, crumple it in my fist, and stand still for a moment, staring at the blank space where the paper once hung. There is a familiar desperation in me, a rising panic that beats loudly in my chest, pounding out each thing I owe. The numbers in my head start over again. Rent, food, bills, debt.
    Where am I going to get the money in three days?
    “Hey!”
    I jump at the voice. Mr. Alsole, my landlord, has emerged from his apartment and is stalking toward me, his frown resembling a fish’s, his thin orange hair sticking out in every direction. One look at his bloodshot eyes tells me that he’s high on something. Great. Another argument.
I can’t deal with another fight today.
I fumble around for my keys, but it’s too late—so instead, I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin.
    “Hey, Mr. Alsole.” I have a way of pronouncing the name like it’s
Mr. Asshole
.
    He scowls at me. “You been avoidin’ me all week.”
    “Not on purpose,” I insist. “I got a gig as a waitress in the mornings now, down at the diner, and—”
    “Nobody needs waitresses anymore.” He squints at me suspiciously.
    “Well, this place does. And it’s the only job around. There’s nothing else.”
    “You said you’d pay
today
.”
    “I know what I said.” I take a deep breath. “I can come by later to talk—”
    “Did I say