Page 3 of Her Crew

No matter how many homes I’m invited into, I never seem to get over the grandiosity of it all. The trailer I grew up in would probably fit in this fucking hallway. Hell, it would probably fit in the broom closet here.

The woman tells me to wait in the hall before she disappears to get a drink for me. I eye the fancy candlesticks sitting on the table beside the door. They look like real silver pieces, and my fingers itch to swipe them, but just as I reach out to touch them, she appears with a glass of water.

I take it from her and down the contents in two gulps. I’m not actually as thirsty as I appear, considering I’ve been outside for all of twenty minutes. But it’s part of the act. I’m a salesman, but I’m not selling magazines. I’m selling myself.

“So, tell me about these magazines,” she says.

Now it’s time for the next part of the act. With a casual glance around, I search for something I can use to pull more heartstrings. My eyes catch on a pink rhinestone dog bed sitting just inside the next room. I flip through my magazines and pull out a dog-centered publication.

“I see you have a dog. I have a dachshund named Little Tippy, and sometimes she’ll even look at the pictures in this one with me. Something about the colorful photography really pulls her in.” I flip a few pages to showcase the photography, which is not actually anything special.

But it works, and she steps a little closer.

“Even if you only buy one yearly subscription, you can help us save the legs of future kids. The football field also gives so many young men the opportunity to go to college.” I slam the knife of emotional manipulation into her gut and twist. “I probably lost my scholarship because we can’t play right now, but there’s hope for the kids who come after me.”

“How much is a subscription?”

“It’s a onetime fee of sixty-five dollars. It doesn’t automatically renew, either, so you’re under no obligation to keep going unless you like it. But no matter what, you’ll be helping our school.”

The woman sighs and goes for her purse. A credit card appears in her hand as I pull out the order book. That won’t do. A card payment can be traced—and canceled.

“I don’t have a way to process credit card payments. I can only take cash.” I pull out an envelope with SCHOOL written in black ink across the front. There’s already cash buried inside for believability.

It’s all about the illusion. The story.

She wrestles a wad of bills from her purse and hands it to me. I hand over the order form. It’s fake. It goes nowhere. No one ever gets these magazines. But the order form looks legit, and that’s all that matters. Once I leave the house with my cash, I won’t give this woman and her McMansion a second thought. Sixty-five dollars is a drop in the bucket for her, but it’s a filled bucket for me.

Once the transaction is complete, I offer a heartfelt thanks and head to the next door. I rinse and repeat for the next few hours, then head toward the pickup point as the sun begins to set. Of the twenty or so houses I stopped at, a total of ten bought a magazine subscription, and a few bought multiple. Overall, it was a great day, and Stacks—our crew boss—will be happy.

I remove the envelope from my backpack and begin counting the money as I walk. Satisfied with the total, I grab my order book, rip and crumple a few from the top, and let them fall to the ground. The extra money I skim comes at the risk of losing the title as the weekly best seller, but I’m not in it for titles.

I climb into the van and take a seat on my friend’s lap. I’m the last of the crew to return, and crowding is a bit of an issue. With the money in my pocket, I can’t help but hope that I’ll be a crew boss one day instead of hitting the sidewalks.

One day.

Chapter 3

Tegan

My stomach aches. I’ve overstuffed myself to the maximum this time, and I worry my stomach might explode. I feel the urge to vomit, but I fight it back. My reasons for overeating make vomiting counterproductive. I don’t want to lose a single calorie or a single centimeter off my growing waistline.

I need air, and I need to get the hell out of this restaurant. I’ve been sneaking food like it’s my job. It’s not as if I can get one of those.

I throw back one more forkful of food from an abandoned plate and head toward the door.

“Hey!” calls a woman behind a big oak stand. “You have to pay!”

“I’m just running to my car!” I say.

“You can’t leave until you pay.”

I turn on my heel and face her. “I’m pregnant, and I need my medication. You wouldn’t want a pregnant woman to keel over on your floor, now, would you?”

The woman’s lips tighten, and she looks down at my belly, where I’ve wrapped my arms around my food baby. “No, I guess not,” she finally says, and I book it out the door before I vomit all over the scuffed tile.

Manipulation is easy for me. It’s a generational gift, passed down from my grandma to my mom to me. My grandmother tricked a man into marrying her. My mom tricks herself—and her daughter—to make ends meet. And me? I manipulate my way around town.

We are not the same people, my mother and I, and I’d like to keep it that way. I don’t need to trick or manipulate a man, nor do I have any urge to. I don’t flash my eyes to get my way. I keep my gaze downcast to wrench every ounce of sympathy from the schmucks.