A Crushing Profit

        Watching Farrah’s glossy burgundy talons curl around the handle of the china cup holding her low-fat latte, Bridgette felt as if making a deal with the devil. Around them, patrons clad in designer duds lounged at chandelier-sized marble-topped tables, chatting and sipping, oblivious. In other circumstances, Bridgette would’ve enjoyed the chance to immerse herself in a world not at all like her own (“Of course I’ll be footing the bill,” Farrah had said on the phone. “I know you can’t afford to drop $5.75 on a drink.”). But the mess she’d gotten herself—and, more importantly, her daughter—into wouldn’t allow it.

           A smile lined in pink matte lipstick and showcasing fluorescent-white veneers contorted Farrah’s features. She’d gotten what she wanted, and at a price that, to her, didn’t matter a lick. Not only did she work as a lawyer; she also descended from a long line of millionaires, starting with her great-great-grandfather, a steel tycoon. She loved regaling anyone who’d listen with the story of how he’d built his company from the ground up after immigrating, broke, from Ireland. Bridgette had to give Farrah some credit of her own as well; she’d achieved career success and was a single mother—never an easy feat. But it certainly did not escape her that she’d had her path cleared and paved with gold since the moment she’d left the womb.

           To Bridgette, on the other hand, it was life-changing money. With it, she could replace Maya’s ancient, cracked phone and threadbare wardrobe; get her a checkup for the first time in three years; buy her a proper birthday present, perhaps the tablet she hadn’t dared asked for but had looked at with such longing that it pained Bridgette; and pay the bills piled high on her plywood desk so that she wouldn’t have to worry that, at any moment, their water or electricity would shut off. Yes, the girl would benefit from the funds.

           But she would also suffer.

           She’d spent weeks preparing. Looking up tips online. Watching politicians make speeches on TV. Making notes. Practicing in front of Bridgette. In front of her friends. In front of the one teacher willing to help (the one who’d suggested that she enter the competition in the first place). Thus far, it had paid off; she’d made it to the finals. Thanks to the deal Bridgette had just made, however, her hopes would die there.

           “You don’t understand,” Farrah had lamented, “the pressure my daughter’s under. You wouldn’t know this, I suppose, but people of our station are expected to adhere to a certain standard; if we don’t, there’ll be consequences.”

           Oh, poor you—you must be shaking in your Giuseppe Zanottis. The words had tingled on her tongue, but she’d bitten it, in case keeping her mouth shut would reveal something in it for her.

           “Which is why,” Farrah had continued, “I’m asking you and your daughter to be understanding.”

           Meaning, take a dive. Farrah hadn’t had to explain it. She hadn’t had to argue, either; the sum she’d offered, Bridgette could not possibly pass up.

           Farrah reached into her Gucci purse and withdrew an artisan leather checkbook and a gold pen. She set the checkbook on the table, opened it, and started filling it out. Each scratch of the pen stabbed Bridgette’s gut. Each flourish of Farrah’s hand, confirmation that she’d made a mistake. Poor Maya had, at the tender age of fifteen, already gone through so much. Bridgette thought, again, of the way her eyes had trembled when Bridgette had told her that she couldn’t afford to send her on her second-grade class trip to the aquarium. Her expression as she looked at her Christmas gifts—a smile made heartbreaking by the disappointment showing, despite valiant efforts on the child’s part, through it. The days she’d come home from school crying because someone had made fun of the backpack Bridgette had bought used on eBay.

           The dance she’d chaperoned. Of course, Elle Tillery had made an appearance. As she watched the tween step out of her mother’s Porsche and stride into the auditorium like a princess gracing peons with her presence, her heart sank. At first, her fears hadn’t manifested; Elle stuck with her minions, radiating sunshine as they fawned over her pink Marchesa gown and Louis Vuitton flats. Later, however, when she and her posse and Maya and one of her friends had gathered at the refreshments table, Maya had chomped into a cupcake and gotten some chocolate frosting on her upper lip. Maya’s friend had giggled and told her that she looked silly. Elle had leaned over, eyes flashing like chips of Amazonite, and quipped, “Oh, I’m sure she’s used to it by now,” and she and her cohorts cackled, and Maya withered, face as red as a persimmon. Maya’s friend hadn’t the courage to stand up to her. Bridgette, however, couldn’t stop herself from swearing at Elle and probably would have slapped her, had another chaperone not swooped in and talked her down. Maya, meanwhile, had made a beeline for the door.

After a chilly twenty-four hours, the teen had forgiven Bridgette and even apologized, acknowledging that Bridgette had just wanted to look out for her, to protect her. But Bridgette had yet to forgive herself for imposing the conditions that had convinced Elle to target her in the first place.

No, she hadn’t had an easy time of it. After a childhood in which cold and hunger had clung to her as consistently as had her torn, faded hand-me-downs, she’d met Vince. He’d promised her that his business would take off, providing the three of them with comfort and security. And then that truck driver, plowing through a red light, had deprived them all of that chance. Entirely unfair. Even so, however, she couldn’t absolve herself of what had followed; any mother worth their salt would have, despite their misfortune, stepped up and made it happen herself. In that, she’d failed miserably, clearly not smart enough, clever enough, creative enough, hardworking enough. And an innocent child had suffered for it.

           Farrah tore the check out of the checkbook and handed it to Bridgette. Bridgette took it, holding it by its very edges as one would something hot enough to singe one’s fingers. The champagne-colored paper’s thickness more closely resembled that of poster board than of any other check Bridgette had ever held. Gold leaf framed lines topped with script she pegged as the product of years of calligraphy lessons. As promised, the amount line and box displayed half the sum they’d agreed upon; the other half, she’d get after she and Maya fulfilled their end of the deal.

Far later than she would’ve expected, the obvious occurred to her: take this check, cash it, and then default on her bargain. She could pay for some of what they needed…But not enough. Not nearly enough. While she hated herself for taking yet another privilege from Maya, she’d hate herself more for denying her all that the promised money would buy.

           “Don’t look so happy at my generosity,” Farrah said sarcastically, a corner of her lips sinking.

           “I was just thinking how disappointed Maya’ll be,” she blurted.

           Farrah waved as one would at a child who’d complained about being forced to spend an extra two seconds tying his shoes for the nominal reward of not tripping and hurting himself. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure she’s grown accustomed to how things are by now.”

           Bridgette hit the back of her chair. Two heats at odds with each other billowed: one in her cheeks, and one in her chest. A bead of sweat, coaxed by not only this heat, but also the fluorescent lights employed on a long-gone evening, tickled the crease between her brows.

           “Why’re you looking at me like that?” Farrah demanded. “If she doesn’t know it by now, it’s high time she should.”

           Bridgette didn’t speak but, rather, glared at her, hoping that she could feel the burn, too, as she snatched the check, held it up, and tore it in half.