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1
SIENNA
“Good afternoon!” I call out, waving to a man standing on the corner, a smile on my face. “May I have a moment of your time?”
“Fuck off,” he drawls, taking a deep hit of his vape before ambling off.
I puff my cheeks, letting out a slow breath. I guess I should have expected that.
Walking down the street, I spot another potential participant. A lanky man is standing outside of the local Quik-Mart and I stop, smoothing my hands down my skirt. “Hello! Do you think I could have just a moment of your time?” I ask.
“What the hell you want?” the man asks. He’s got a buzz cut and a scorpion tattoo around his neck, and his eyes narrow as I step closer. “You some kind of religious freak?”
He scans me up and down and my smile falls under the scrutiny. I can see how he might think that. My outfit probably doesn’t help his impression—I’ve got on a white turtleneck under a plaid jumper and tights, and I’m holding a clipboard.
“Actually, I’m here to do some research for a study that’s being conducted on this community!” I say, my mouth curvingback up into a smile. “Would you mind if I interviewed you? It would only take five minutes.”
He rolls his eyes before shaking his head. “Sorry. I ain’t got time to help you with your school project, kid.”
“It’s not a school project,” I protest, my voice carrying a hint of frustration. “It’s important research into urban health.”
The man ignores me before taking off, getting into a low-rider that pulls up to the curb in front of us.
I stare down at my clipboard, biting my lip. Why won’t anyone talk to me? If I could just get one person to agree to an interview, I know I can get the ball rolling from there.
Stepping into the fluorescent-lit corner store, I approach the worn-out cash register where a woman with greasy black hair and dark circles is manning the counter with a dead look in her eyes.
“Hello,” I say, mustering up the courage to speak to her. “My name is Sienna Bennett. I’m a researcher working on a project about urban resilience. Do you have a few minutes for a short interview?”
The woman stares at me, almost as though staring right through me. “I’m from Beaumont Falls,” I say, referring to a small town a few hours' drive away. “I know what it’s like to grow up in a neighborhood like this. I just want to help make things better. If I could just get five minutes of your time …”
“I ain’t interested,” the woman says, finally looking at me. Her cheeks are sunken and she looks as though she hasn’t had a hot shower in days. “Besides, you don’t got permission from the Blades.”
I blink, trying to understand her. “I’m sorry. Who?”
“The Blades, girly. Crimson Blades? They run this place. Nothing happens without their say-so. You want anyone round here to help you, you gotta get their go-ahead first.”
My brain tries to catch up. “Are they like … a gang or something?”
“You deaf or some shit? The Crimson Blades aren’t a gang. Told you, they’re the leaders of this town.”
“Well, who are they? Can you point them out? If I could just talk to them, maybe they can help me get my research going,” I plead.
She shakes her head, glancing out the window from the corner of her eye. “Sorry, can’t help you.”
I knew going into this project that I was going to face some resistance. Growing up in a town similar to Caspian Springs, I realize that community members can be a little fearful of, or hostile to outsiders, but I didn’t realize that it would take so much work to get even one person to agree.
“I’m just going to grab a soda then,” I tell her. She shrugs and I head to the cooler in the back, spotting a curly-haired little boy playing in the chip aisle. I smile at him before grabbing a Coke and heading back to the front to pay.
As I’m walking outside with my soda, a little boy follows me. “Hey!” he calls out. “Hey, Miss!”
I turn, the boy giving me a gap-toothed grin. “Can you buy me a bag of Takis?” he asks.
That gets a laugh out of me. “How about this? You give me a little bit of your time, answer a couple of questions for my research project, and I’ll buy you the chips,” I offer.
“Deal,” he holds his hand out and I take it, shaking it firmly. Turning around, I head back inside as he trails behind me and picks out the bag of chips.
We head outside once again, into the afternoon sun and he walks me down the street to a small lot with a couple of picnic tables and a rusty jungle gym. It would be generous to call this place a park.
