Quincy, Part Two by Belacqua

Fire!

Flames are scorching my body. I panic. Where am I? What's going on? I struggle to stand. Pain pulses through me, but somehow I know I can't stay still. Surveying the scene around me only adds to my confusion. Skid marks. Twisted metal. A body.

And a baby.

Startled from my sleep by the dream, I pace around the unfamiliar house, collecting my thoughts and calming my mind. I survey the living room. It's bare, except for an ugly couch, a low table, and the stand where a TV would go if we had one. We left our TV (along with most of our other earthly possessions) behind back in Mica, Arizona.

I begin to imagine where the missing belongings would go; the leather armchair next to the couch, maybe. The toy chest along the wall, and-

The letter.

It is in my suitcase, isn't it? I wouldn't have left it.

Alarmed, I rush back into my bedroom, almost tripping over the small suitcase.

Please let it be here, I plead to the black plastic as I dig inside the nooks and crannies.

I find it. The letter.

Her letter.

My letter.

-----------------------------

"I don't wanna go to school."

"But you have to."

"Says who?"

I pause, "The law. It's a legal requirement that kids your age attend school."

Quincy sputters, "Seriously? Who wrote the law?"

"No idea. But whoever wrote the law probably went to school, since she wouldn't have been able to write it otherwise. School is useful for stuff like that, y'know."

She tosses her head, "I already know how to write."

"Then spell 'supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," I challenge. Her eyes widen as she searches for an excuse. A second passes.

"That's not writing; that's spelling."

"But you can't write it if you can't spell it."

"But I was talking about writing, not spelling," she insists.

"It's the same thing! That's what I…" I sigh, "Look, I'm going to have to sign you up for school. And you're going to have to sit for hours at a tiny desk that's so cramped it'll make your butt fall off."

She's pouting now and I don't blame her.

I shake the last of the (slightly stale) cereal into two bowls and set them on the table.

"Looks like we're due for a shopping spree," I groan.

She perks up, "For shoes?"

I frown at her, "Food."

She rests her arms on the table and flops her head down on them dramatically, "Ugh."

All of a sudden, there's a pounding at the front door. Quincy almost falls out of her chair, while I choke on a Cheerio.

"Our first knocker!" she yells, jumping to her feet and making a beeline for the door.

I stare after her, "That was a quick recovery."

Back in Mica, we rarely had visitors.

"Hey," I speak up as I enter the living room, "Don't just open-"

"Good morning, Mr. Park," says Phoebe, standing in the doorway with those accursed Converse on her feet. "Don't worry. Quincy checked to make sure it was me before she opened up."

"Good to hear," I grumble, hoping the sight of Phoebe's footwear wouldn't awaken Quincy's shoe-lust.

Quincy catches my eye, gives a sheepish smile, turns to Phoebe, and asks, "So where did you get those?"

She's pointing at the shoes. Of course.

"These?" Phoebe raises her left foot to give us a better view.

Quincy 'oohs' and 'ahhs' appreciatively. I try sending Phoebe a mental message: Tell her you bought the last pair, and that you did it at a store far away from here.

Needless to say, we aren't psychically-connected.

"I bought these bad boys at the mall downtown."

"'Bad boys'," Quincy giggles.

To my dismay, Phoebe presses on, "They were on sale last month for sixty bucks, but they've probably got some left in stock if you want to pick up a pair."

'Pick up a pair'. She says it so casually, like dropping sixty dollars on a piece of cloth glued to rubber is no big deal. I bet her Grandmother paid.

Before the girls go any further, I clear my throat and play my hand, "Did you two want to check out the park today? Now's as good a time as any!"

Quincy warms to the idea, but points out that we haven't had breakfast yet.

"We'll just eat an even bigger lunch?" I suggest. She gives me a dirty look and goes to finish her bowl of cereal.

Five minutes later, Phoebe leads us down the quiet streets of our new neighborhood. The houses are all similarly built, painted, and forgettable. Good.

"So," Quincy pipes up, her voice sounding loud in the early morning stillness. "This is the way to the park?"

"Yup," Phoebe replies. "Well, kind of. I figured we could stop by and see if Nat wants to join us."

"Oh!" Quincy exclaims, her step faltering.

I come alongside and give her shoulder a supportive squeeze. "Nat sounds like a nice kid. Right, Phoebe?"

"Oh yeah," she nods vigorously. "We've been best friends for years." I notice her starting to blush, and decide to have some fun.

"Just friends, huh?" I ask innocently. Phoebe glares at me, but it's a good-natured glare. (I hope!) She doesn't answer the question.

"How old is he?" asks Quincy, sounding more confident now that we've assured her of Nat's niceness.

"Thirteen!"

Phoebe's tone makes it obvious that she considers this quite impressive.

"Ah," I stroke my chin knowingly. "An older man. I've heard that some women prefer-"

My teasing is cut-off by a swift kick to my shin, courtesy of Quincy.

"I have to do that sometimes," she apologizes to Phoebe.

Phoebe smirks at me, "I can understand why. Is your dad always this annoying?"

"Hey," I protest, "I'm not annoying. I'm charmingly lovable!"

"Not usually," Quincy answers her new friend, shooting me a look that tells me to act my age.

I'm tempted to press my point, but we arrive at Nat's house before a solid comeback materializes. Though the house itself is nothing special, I admire the vibrant flower bed blooming below the porch. Phoebe steps up and rings the doorbell. She smiles encouragingly at Quincy.

"Um," I say. "Was that a good idea? Ringing the doorbell at this time of day?"

Phoebe flaps a hand in my direction, "I do it all the time."

"If you say so," I grumble as the door swings smoothly open, revealing a tall woman clad in a fluffy bathrobe.

She rubs the sleeve over her eyes sleepily, then looks alarmed at the sight of us: two girls and an unknown thirty-something-year-old man.

"Morning, Mrs. Prenderghast," Phoebe chirps brightly.

The woman recovers slightly, "Phoebe? What--"

"Just stopping by to see if Nat's awake," Phoebe presses on. "This is Quincy and her dad, our new neighbors. I'm taking them to the park."

Mrs. Prenderghast raises her eyebrows, "Is that so?"

"Yep," I say with all the friendliness I can muster. "Sorry to be a bother. We figured the park might be less crowded at this hour."

She looks me up and down, then harrumphs, "The park is never crowded, except for--"

"So is Nat awake?" Phoebe interjects, trying to peer past Mrs. Prenderghast.

Mrs. P. folds her hands together as if praying for patience. "Hold on," she tells us, closing the door. "Let me check."

Moments after the door closes, we hear her shouting from the other side, "Nathaniel! Are you awake up there?!"

Quincy and I exchange looks.

After a brief period of awkward silence, the door opens and a thin boy with wavy blond hair bounces out to greet us. Clad in jeans, a t-shirt, and a light jacket, he looks like a child model for Aeropostale or something. I look down at my own outfit, a pair of joggers and a sweatshirt. Ugh. At least Quincy looks presentable in jeans and a coat.

"Hello!" he says, showing off sparkly white teeth. "I'm Nat. You two must be the ones who bought Merle's place."

"Does everyone know about that?" I groan, my eye twitching.

"Word gets around," Nat shrugs. "Phoebe's Gram has been gossiping about it for days."

Phoebe slugs him gently on the shoulder.

"Sorry," he grins, "but it's true!"

"I never said it wasn't." She gets down to business, "Are you coming?"

"Where?"

"The park. They haven't seen it yet."

His face tightens, "The park? Now?"

"Yes, now," she rolls her eyes. "Got a problem with that?"

She starts walking back down the drive. Quincy and I follow a few paces behind. Nat hurries to catch up.

"It's just…" His eyes flick towards me, as if he doesn't want me to hear what he's about to say.

"Spit it out," Phoebe commands, hastening her speed.

Nat groans, "They might be there."

Quincy's curiosity overcomes her shyness, "'They' who?"

Phoebe frowns, "Nothing."

"I thought you said it was never crowded," I question, remembering her comment from last night's dinner.

"It is rarely crowded," Phoebe corrects herself. "But-"

"But sometimes Rodney and his thugs hang out there," Nat informs us.

"Thugs?" I sputter, beginning to think I'd picked the wrong neighborhood.

"Relax," Phoebe instructs me, giving Nathaniel a glare. "They aren't, like, 'thug' thugs. They're just the local troublemakers."

"More like bullies," Nat says bitterly.

Phoebe sighs and her tone becomes gentler, "Okay, fine. They're bullies. And they pick on Nat the most because he's a wimp. Let's just hope they won't be there today," she says firmly.

I use my famed wit in an attempt to ease our minds, "Bullies probably like to sleep-in, right?"

Phoebe snorts dismissively, but Nat looks less pale.

"Wait," he says, pointing at me. "You're an adult! They won't bother us with you around."

Phoebe shakes her head condescendingly, "Him? An adult?"

"Watch it," I say. "I'm Quincy's dad."

"So?"

"So technically," I wave a finger in the air, "I have the power to put the kibosh on that sleepover you two were discussing yesterday."

Phoebe jolts into a deep formal bow, "You have my most humble apologies, Mr. Park."

I clear my throat, "It's, uh, Richardson-Park, actually."

"But you said it was 'Park' last night," Phoebe says to Quincy, confused.

"Um," Quincy looks to me for guidance. I make complicated hand gestures. "I was wrong?"

"Wrong about your own last name?" Nat laughs.

"Hey-everybody-stop-talking-look-we're-here!" I dive in to save Quincy.

I'm subjected to peculiar looks from Nat and Phoebe, but Quincy's grateful smile makes my effort worth it.

Her smile widens as the park comes into full view.

To be frank, this park doesn't look particularly special to me: yellowing grass, rusty playground equipment, and a rocky path that snakes off behind a clump of trees.

But to Quincy? I bet this looks amazing. We've never lived near a park before, something I've always wanted to fix. Parks, even crummy parks like this one, have a magical aura - something about the blending of nature and humans in a single place.

"Nobody here but us," I say with satisfaction.

"And squirrels," points out Quincy, watching one scamper up a tree.

"Thank you, Quincy."

I suggest that we play on the playground, which, it turns out, consists of Nat and Quincy swinging while Phoebe looks on with envy -- too cool to swing herself, but still young enough to want to.

I go down the slide once, get stuck halfway through, and then plop down on a bench, depressed.

Phoebe sidles over and stands next to me, arms folded.

"I don't like this place," I say with righteous indignation. "The slides are too tiny."

She can't help but crack a smile, "You're a weird adult."

"Is that a good thing?" I ask. "Remember, I still hold the sleepover-granting powers."

She chuckles and cocks her head, watching Nat and Quincy swing. Their cries of joy echo across the sawdust floor of the playground.

Phoebe and I speak simultaneously.

"Nat really likes swings," she says.

"Quincy really likes playgrounds," I say.

We smile.

"But she's never had one so close to home before," I go on, turning to face her. "Thanks for taking the time to show her around. I hope you two will be good friends."

Did that sound too cheesy?

"Well," she says, eyeing me, "a sleepover would be a fantastic way to make sure our friendship stays good."

"Alright," I hold up a hand in surrender. "You have my permission. Now go over there, kick Nat off the swing, and claim your turn."

She takes my advice.

Nat, finding himself swing-less, begins pushing Phoebe higher. She cries out in happy surprise.

"Hey!" Quincy yells at me. "Come push me!"

"Woof," I grumble. "Whoever raised you must have forgotten to teach you the word 'please'."

The four of us soon start a competition to determine the highest swinger. I win easily, swinging so energetically that I scare myself.

"You almost swung back over the top," Phoebe says with admiration.

"I can't top that," Nat admits.

"You're the champion!" Quincy declares, snatching my arm and raising it to the sky.

"The champion is nauseous," I say, pulling my arm down to my stomach.

"Oh no," Nat gulps, freezing in his tracks. At first, I'm touched by his genuine concern. Then I see that he's pointing toward a group of approaching figures.

"Is that them?" I ask, shifting my weight in the wood shavings. "The 'thugs'?"

"Yep, but they're not 'thugs'," Phoebe reminds me.

"Are those the things you wear?"

"No, Quincy, those are 'Uggs'," I tell her. "Big difference."

They sidle up to us, taking their time. There's only four or five of them, but they're all tall and muscular. Especially the girls.

Nat has retreated to the back of our formation. His voice is higher than usual, "It's not too late to make a break for it, guys."

"Coward," Phoebe huffs. "They wouldn't bother you so much if you stood up to them."

I frown, "I'm not entirely sure about--"

"See that guy?" Phoebe interrupts me in a hushed voice. She indicates the dark-haired thug at the front of the group. "That's Rodney. He's their leader."

"How old is he?" I ask. He looks like he could be in college.

"Seventeen," Phoebe answers. "But he's been in high school for a while."

I'm starting to get worried. Between my jobs and taking care of Quincy, it's not like I've had spare time to hit the gym.

They stop about ten feet from the edge of the playground and stare at us. Nobody speaks. From this distance, I can barely make out the faint moustache above Rodney's upper lip.

Phoebe and Nat look down at their feet. I look around for a way out in case things get ugly. But Quincy returns Rodney's stare with a curious gaze of her own.

Three words come out of Rodney's mouth. They're gross and deep, matching his voice perfectly: "You're kinda cute."

A surprised flush reddens Quincy's face.

This guy's got some nerve.

I clear my throat, "Why, thank you. I pride myself on my nightly skincare routine."

Rodney and his goons gape.

He recovers quickly, shifting his attention to me. I'm just glad to distract him from poor Quincy. He folds his arms and stretches to his full height, which, I'm depressed to see, is a little taller than mine. "I've never seen you before. Are you a pedaphile?"

"Wha-? No."

"Then what are you doing at a park with three little kiddies?"

I notice Phoebe's fist clench out of the corner of my eye, and shoot her a look that says 'I got this'.

"As a bonafide adult, I'm here to look after them and make sure they don't get into trouble," I reply.

"Funny," Rodney laughs. "Looked to me like you were swinging with them."

His attempt at laughter comes out more like an amused grunt, but I have to admit… he has a point.

"That's because he's the champion of the swingset!" Quincy pipes up proudly.

"Oh yeah?" Rodney waggles his scraggly eyebrows at her. "Well, I'm the champion of the bedroom."

His posse breaks out into ugly guffaws.

I step forward, "Are you a pedaphile, Rodney?"

This shuts them up.

"How old are you? Nineteen? Twenty? A bit old to be saying things like that to an eleven-year-old."

Rodney glances uneasily at his accomplices.

Nat looks at me in awe. Phoebe looks at me with approval.

Quincy yells at me, "I'm almost twelve!"

"If I were you," I take another step toward Rodney. "I'd scram before someone reports you to the police." I seriously doubt the police would take action in this case, but Rodney seems to believe it.

"We were leaving anyway," he spits into the wood shavings and starts sauntering back the way they came. "See ya around," he calls over his shoulder. I can't tell if he's talking to me, or Quincy.

-----------------------------

Once the 'thugs' vanish from view, we try swinging again, but it's not the same.

"Let's head back," I say. Phoebe and Nat concur.

Quincy folds her arms and scowls, "You guys are no fun."

"There's a time for fun and there's a time for work," I tell her. "Speaking of which, I happen to have an interview to prepare for."

"Interview?" Phoebe asks as we begin walking away from the park. "Like for a job?"

"No, for People magazine," I say. Her mouth drops open. I laugh, "Yes, for a job."

Quincy tugs my sleeve eagerly, "What kind of job?"

"Nothing fancy. Just a cashier position at the hardware store downtown."

"Hardware?" Quincy says dubiously.

"Y'know, like hammers and nails and other such useful tools."

"Why would you wanna work there?" Nat questions me, sounding genuinely amazed.

"Why does anyone work anywhere?" I respond. "It pays the bills. Merle's house was a steal, but it still put a dent in our finances."

Quincy heaves a sigh, "No new shoes."

I ruffle her hair, "Not yet."

We deposit Nat back at his house.

"It's nice to have another person our age in the neighborhood," he says to Quincy. "See you guys later!"

"Bye," Quincy waves shyly.

"So, about that sleepover," Phoebe says as we arrive at her doorstep.

"Like I said, it's a go."

Quincy jumps up and down, squealing.

"Woah there," I say, "don't send yourself into cardiac arrest. Don't think they allow sleepovers at the hospital."

"What time should I come over?" Phoebe wonders.

"Anytime works for us," I reply, "though if it were me, I'd eat Alice's dinner before heading to our place. When it comes to edible things, we can't compete."

"No!" Quincy's face lights up, "You should come over right now!"

"Hold it," I shake my head. "I've got that job interview, remember?"

"We could stay at the house--" Quincy starts to say.

"Not happening," I tell her, thinking about everything that could go wrong -- and the strange noises I heard last night.

"Wait, does this mean I have to go with you to the interview?" Quincy whines.

"Afraid so, kid."

"Hey, why doesn't she stay here?" Phoebe pipes up.

"Huh?"

"That way, she can't mess up your interview by being a pest!"

"Hey!" Quincy glares at her. Phoebe winks back.

"Ohhh," Quincy says slowly. "Oh yeah. You'd better let me stay here, Jake, or else I'll probably embarrass you at the interview. Like I'd have to go to the bathroom in the middle of it or something."

"I was going to leave you in the car," I chuckle. "But this offer is intriguing." Both girls stare up at me hopefully. "Is Alice home to watch you two?"

"Of course," Phoebe says, pure as a saint. "But even if she weren't, we would never even consider getting into trouble."

"I don't believe that for a second. But okay." I catch Quincy's eye, "Be good. I'll be back to pick you up in a little bit."

After a quick snack and shower, I jump into the car and head for the hardware store downtown. Google Maps guides me flawlessly, though the area is so small I probably don't even need to use GPS. I don't even need change for the parking meter, because there aren't any. This, I could get used to.

"Howdy," says a grizzled old lady, coming up to meet me from behind the register. "You must be Jacob."

"Jake's fine," I tell her. "Thanks for agreeing to an interview on such short notice."

"Don't thank me yet," she chuckles, hobbling towards the back of the store. "I'm Dorothy, by the way."

I keep pace with her, walking slowly. "Nice to meet you. So, are you the owner of this fine establishment?"

"It's just a hardware store," Dorothy grins. "No need for formalities around here."

Hearing this, I relax. This might be an interview for a position that brings in money I desperately need, but Dorothy's demeanor makes the examination less stressful. I almost start enjoying myself by the time we're done talking. Less than an hour has passed, but Dorothy already feels like an old friend. I even feel sorry for the lies I had to tell her about my past.

"Thanks again," I say as I head out past the shelves riddled with tiny screwdrivers and jars of nails.

She waves like it's no big deal, "Be expectin' a call by the end of the week. I've only got a few more interviews scheduled."

As I cross the store's threshold, I cross my fingers. The car is still where I left it. No tickets or tire locks to be seen. Parking might not be the only thing that's easier in a small town, I tell myself as I get in. Maybe landing a job is, too.

I pull up to the house to find Quincy sitting on the front porch, chin in her hands.

"What's going on? Why the long face?"

"My face isn't long," she groans. "And Phoebe isn't spending the night."

"Why not? You guys didn't have a fight, did you?"

"No," Quincy pouts. "Her mom is coming back from jail tonight."

She explains more on the short drive back home. Apparently, this is why Phoebe lives with her grandmother. Her mom has been in jail for most of Phoebe's life. She hasn't seen her in months, which is why this sudden visit takes precedence over a new friend's sleepover invitation. Quincy understands this. But it doesn't make the news any easier.

"Hey, I know what'll put some pep back in your step," I grin.

She perks up, "What?"

"We can go fooood shopping together," I sing. She gives a little sigh. "Tell you what," I say, "After we pick up some groceries, we can pick up something for you. How's that sound?"

"Like new clothes?"

I scratch my head, "Uh, sure. If that's what you want."

She replies with a resolute nod. We hop out of the car, load our reusable grocery bags into the trunk, and hop back in. I put the key in the ignition. Quincy looks over at me from the passenger seat and asks, "Jake, what's a 'pedaphile'?"

I grit my teeth and pull out of the driveway. Thanks a lot, Rodney.

I had seen a quaint little country store on my drive to the interview, but figure their prices will probably be higher than Walmart's, so we pass on by.

Quincy is a lot more upbeat with the prospect of clothes shopping in the near future. She even helps out by retrieving some of the items on my shopping list herself.

"You're being such a good little helper today," I grin down at her as she tries to hitch a ride on the front of our shopping cart.

"Today?" She narrows her eyes at me, "I'm always good at helping."

"Wow, you've got jokes, too."

She screws up her mouth and stomps off in exasperation. A few minutes later, she catches up with me to drop a disgustingly-sweet looking box of junk food into the cart. "You have to buy that," she says, arms folded. "Because you were mean to me."

We end up buying the junk food and a lot more. I wave my wallet in the air as we walk out of the store. "Boy, this is so much lighter now. Much easier to carry."

Quincy is confused, "Was it heavy before?"

I shake my head sadly, "Only in my dreams."

After loading the trunk with groceries, we load ourselves back into the car.

"So," I ask, "where are we headed? Louis Vuitton? Gucchi Maine? Home is back that way," I point, "so we should probably try to find a store on the way--"

"To the mall!" Quincy declares, pointing decisively in the opposite direction.

"The mall?" I repeat, frowning suspiciously. "Isn't that where Phoebe got her impressive and incredibly-expensive shoes?"

"Yeah," Quincy says with a smile, "but I'm not getting shoes."

I stare at her until she continues.

"I'm getting underwear."

My mouth falls open, "Huh?"

"I'm pretty sure you know what underwear is," Quincy giggles. "At least, I hope you do."

"I wasn't aware that you were in need of, er, new underwear."

"You promised."

Luckily, it isn't too far a trek. We pull into the parking lot and head for the entrance. The building looks like it was white at one time, but it's faded to a dull off-gray color. To me, it's rather small for a mall. But Quincy appreciates it.

"Woah," she says as we cross over the threshold.

"Pretty neat, huh? It's like a big hallway, and each room in the hallway is a different store."

"A 'Mallway'," Quincy murmurs.

I crack up.

"How come we've never gone to malls before?" she demands to know.

"Because they're filled with expensive, yet useless products, and rude, sweaty people. And I did bring you to a mall before," I add. "Quite frankly, I'm offended you don't remember."

The inside of the mall turns out to be as uninspiring as the outside as we walk: unswept floors, flickering lights, and walls peeling with chipped paint.

"Remind me why you couldn't just shop at Walmart?" I sigh.

"Because," Quincy tells me. "Their selection of underwear does not compare to Victoria Secret's."

I barely stifle my laughter.

"What?" She folds her arms across her chest. "That's what Phoebe told me. She said Walmart underwear is boring."

"What's wrong with that? Isn't underwear supposed to be boring?"

"No," she informs me, "it's supposed to be cute."

"Whatever you say," I shake my head. "After all, you're the expert. It's not like I've been buying your clothes for the past seven years."

"Exactly. But I'm eleven, so you've been buying me clothes for eleven years."

"Right," I say, too quickly. "Silly me."

Once the store is in sight, she makes a beeline for the entrance, almost bowling over a poor old lady in the process. I follow at a slightly-slower pace, giving an apologetic look to the woman.

She glances at Quincy, disappearing into the store, then back to me. "Isn't this a job for her mother?"

Usually I'm pretty quick on my feet with snappy comebacks (i.e. Rodney). Usually I'd feed her the 'dead mother' line (not exactly a lie). But something stops me. I stand there awkwardly. She shakes her head, turns, and walks toward a nearby bench.

I hurry to catch up with Quincy.

She runs to meet me, a pile of colorful fabrics already cradled in her arms.

"Careful," I say, shoo-ing her back into the store's space. "We don't want the alarms to go off. They might think we're stealing them." (Although I am seriously considering it, depending on the price of children's underclothing these days.)

"How many can I get?" she asks breathlessly, eyes wide with excitement.

"Uh," I rub the back of my neck, thinking. "Wasn't our deal for one thing? How many do you need?"

"Just these," she says, tossing the contents of her arms at me and spinning on her heels. "For now!" she calls over her shoulder, hurrying back into the forest of racks and aisles.

"Now wait one minute," I growl. "Quincy!"

A passing employee dressed in pink gives me an understanding look, "Reminds me of my daughter. You two need any help?"

"Not yet," I say, still glaring after Quincy. "But thanks."

"Okay," she chuckles. "I'll be around if you have any questions."

I track Quincy's trail until I find her hunched over a display table, pawing through the panties.

"Aha!" I say, coming over to stand beside her. "Found you."

She shrugs, not bothering to look up, "I wasn't hiding."

"So…" I take in the colorful array of choices before us. "Found anything 'cute' yet?"

She pauses her search and holds up a pink pair decorated with tiny yellow bows. "Whaddya think?"

"Hmm. How much?"

She examines them, looking for a price tag. The display's sign catches my eye, and I let out a sigh of relief. They aren't as expensive as I feared.

"They're ten bucks," I tell Quincy, motioning to the sign.

"Or," she says, reading the rest of the sign, "I could get two pairs for fifteen bucks." When I don't react, she leans closer and hisses, "That means we save money."

I sigh, "Technically, I guess that is correct."

She looks up, awaiting further response. I answer before she can progress to puppy dog eyes: "Oh, alright. Pick out two pairs."

"Yes!" she exclaims happily.

"But you've already got more than two pairs here," I remind her, holding out the pile she'd deposited with me.

"Oh, yeah," she turns to examine them with a sheepish smile. "I forgot."

I roll my eyes, "Let's take a step back then. You say you want cute new underwear. I say you can have two. Out of all these, which two are your favorites?"

She purses her lips, "I don't know." I groan. She shakes her head, "It's hard to choose, okay?"

I think for a moment, "Okay, what's your favorite color?"

She gives me annoyed look, "You already know -- light blue." Her brow furrows, "But I've already got light blue ones. I'm wearing them right now," she says in an undertone.

I laugh, "Then what's your second favorite color?"

"Just let me look for a minute," she exhales, returning to the display.

"Can we at least take this one out of the running?" I ask, holding up a gaudy-looking red pair from the pile that has shiny gold sequins all over it. "It's a little much, don't ya think?" She looks back reluctantly.

"...Fine. You can put that one back."

"Where's it go?"

"Over there," she says, motioning vaguely over her shoulder.

"I'll leave you to it, then," I grumble as I walk away. "B.R.B."

I make my way in the general direction she indicated, gaping in awe at the sheer variety of choices available. Victoria must be rolling in the dough. Designing underwear… now there's a fun job. Probably beats working at a hardware store.

I spy a pile of red sequined fabric close to where we entered the store. Seems like Quincy started at the very front and is shopping her way to the deepest bowels of the back. Wonderful.

I toss the rejects back where they belong and stand for a moment, gazing out at the freedom of the mallway. A mother and her two kids walk by, licking ice cream cones. Take me with you, I mouth at them. They don't even look my way.

A youthful couple goes past in the opposite direction, walking so close together it's practically indecent. They don't look very old, maybe a year or two more advanced than Quincy. I shudder, wondering how far away Quincy is from begging to go out on dates with boys. What if I don't like him? What if he mistreats her? What if she actually likes girls instead!?

Before I return to the my young ward, someone else catches my attention. It's the older woman from earlier. She's seated on her bench -- but she isn't alone. She's talking to a mall cop. And she's motioning towards the storefront. I freeze, then come to my senses and duck down behind some shelving.

It's no big deal, I tell myself. She's complaining about rude, rushing children, or the revealing lingerie, or maybe something else entirely, like the weather. She doesn't know anything about us. The mall police don't know anything about us. Unless…

I head back to Quincy, my mind racing. She's not too far from where I left her, rifling through a display a few aisles away.

"Jake, I think this one got shrunk." She holds out a tiny, lacy black thong.

"Yeeaahhh," I take it and put it back on the shelf. Quincy gives me a quizzical glance. I take her by the shoulders and lead her back to the safety of the children's section.

"I've already looked here."

"Perfect! That means you must have your pairs picked out and be ready to check out."

"Wait!" She twists away and grabs a pile of colorful cloth stacked on a shelf. "I have to try these on first!"

"We don't have--" I stop, "Wait, what?" She's already rushing towards the back of the store. "Try them on?"

I follow her, controlling my urge to speed. We can't do anything to attract attention. Especially with a suspicious mall officer hanging around. I catch her arm as we reach the back wall, which is lined with a row of dressing rooms.

"Quincy," I say under my breath, "I don't think these are for--"

"Rhonda said I could," she fires back, pulling away.

"But--"

"Oh, it's alright," says a familiar voice, "as long as she tries them on over her own." The employee from earlier is sitting behind behind the changing room check-in counter. She examines the items piled in Quincy's arms.

I make a quick scan of the store, looking for any sign trouble.

All clear so far.

I scowl at Quincy's back as the employee, whose name tag reads 'Rhonda', motions her toward an empty changing stall.

Quincy turns to me before disappearing behind the curtain, "Don't worry, I'll be quick. And I'll only pick two."

My scowl fades as I remember my promise to let her pick out something she wants. Another look over my shoulder reveals nothing out of the ordinary. I take a few steps over to an uncomfortable plastic chair and sit down to wait. Even if I had insisted on leaving immediately, she probably would've caused a scene. I begin to relax a bit. A single mall cop and a nosy old lady? We've survived worse.

"Everything okay?" asks Rhonda.

I look up, "Oh, yeah. We're just running a bit late for her, uh, dentist appointment."

"I'm not going to the dentist!" comes a muffled exclamation from Quincy's stall.

"She's in denial," I say to Rhonda, more quietly this time. "Kids, am I right?"

"I don't blame her," Rhonda replies. "Never was a fan of dentists myself." She gives a little shudder, "All those sharp, pointy tools scratching and scraping around in your mouth."

The curtain cracks open and Quincy's head pokes out, "Jake?"

I start to rise, "Yeah?"

"Remember that sparkly red pair?"

"The ones that we decided not to buy?"

"Go get them!"

I glance around the store.

"I won't come out until you bring them," Quincy tells me, her voice smug.

I swallow my frustration and make a beeline for the previously-rejected item. She can be a real brat sometimes. Even so, I've never regretted what happened those seven years ago.

I survey the interior of the mall as I snatch up the pair of panties. No sign of either the woman or the officer. My irritation lessens. I think I'm even starting to appreciate these gold sequins more.

Quincy's face is still peeking out when I return. "Thanks," she sticks her hand out, grabs them, and retreats from view.

"Sorry," I say casually to Rhonda as I return to my seat.

She shrugs, "Happens all the time. " I try to make it obvious that I'm not in the mood for conversation, but she doesn't pick up on the signals. "So, I'm guessing you two aren't from around these parts."

My eyes slowly rise to meet hers, "Oh?"

She nods, "We don't get many fresh faces around here. Are you new to the area or just visiting?" So much for not attracting attention.

Quincy, bless her soul, picks this moment to emerge from her changing booth.

"Ready?" I ask, bolting to my feet.

She frowns and holds up two pairs, "Lace or no lace?"

"Whichever you like best," I say, pushing her towards the checkout. "Let's get moving."

She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it and looks around. When she speaks again, it's in the slightest of whispers: "Are we in trouble?"

"Maybe." I see a startled look cross her face. "But probably not. Either way, it's time to go."

"Okay," she bites her lower lip and makes her final decision. "I'm… I'm ready."

We bid a hasty farewell to Rhonda and head for the checkout.

The clerk greets us enthusiastically, "Hi there! Find everything today?"

"Mhmm," Quincy says, setting her two finalists on the counter: a pink pair with black lace-y trim and a red pair with white polka dots.

I hand over the cash and we make our exit, with Quincy proudly holding the bag emblazoned with the Victoria's Secret logo.

"Well, that was fun," I remark dryly.

"Yeah!" Quincy agrees, chipper as usual now that she's got what she wants.

"I guess I went and got that sparkly pair for nothing," I joke. "Why did--" I stop mid-sentence, seeing something in the reflection of a storefront window.

"What?"

Based on her reaction inside the store, I decide to lie to her now. "Nothing," I say. "Wanna have a speed-walking race?"

My seemingly-random challenge catches her off-guard, but she recovers quickly, "Why not an actual running race?"

"Because I'm too old; I'd probably break a bone or something."

She snorts, "Right."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him getting closer.

I pull Quincy around the nearest corner, then break into a fast-walk. "Readysetgo!"

She starts behind, but catches up in no time, laughing, her bag swinging haphazardly.

"Careful with that," I warn. "You might hit me."

"Good plan," she says, lashing out and catching me smack in the stomach with the brown paper satchel.

I keep going, unfazed. "It's a good thing you were shopping for underwear, and not, say, a new bowling ball." I miss her reply because I look over my shoulder and see him rounding the corner, moving briskly towards us. He's saying something into his walkie-talkie, and I doubt if it's just small talk.

We're only a few yards away from the mall's exit by now, though. I think we're going to make it!

I hear a commotion behind us, but can't make it out thanks to Quincy's victory cry.

"I win, sucker!"

"Not until you're outside," I say, my breathing heavy with adrenaline. Three more steps and we're outside, our feet pounding against the weathered gray sidewalk.

"Now I won," Quincy declares, halting a few feet away from the exit. "So you have to do whatever I say."

"One, I never agreed to that, and two, let's get to the car first. We made it out, but--"

A second later and he's standing beside us, a hand planted firmly on my arm. Did I really think the mall cop couldn't leave the mall?

"Hold up one minute," he says, his voice gruff.

More thoughts are whizzing around in my head than items that Quincy collected to try-on.

"Who are you?" Quincy asks, looking up at him curiously.

"My name's Officer Paul," he tells her. His grip on my arm lightens, just a bit.

"What's this about, Officer?" I gulp, not knowing what I'll do next.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me."

How did he find us? Did the bench lady tip him off? Is it too late to make a run for it?

"It seems like you're in possession of items you haven't purchased," he goes on.

My head feels fuzzy. Am I hearing him right? A nervous, choking laugh comes out, "What do you mean?" I probably sound like a complete dunce.

He clears his throat, "This is no laughing matter, sir. Shoplifting is a serious offense." Is that what he thinks? That we stole something?

I shake my head, "I think there's been a mistake, we haven't--"

He isn't taking no for an answer, guiding me back towards the entrance whether I like it or not. "Just come with me and we can sort this out."

"We didn't--"

"Just come--"

"Oops."

Both of us turn to look at Quincy. She's staring down at her feat. After a beat, she motions for me to lean in closer. I do. She whispers into my ear: "I forgot to take the sparkly ones off."

"You forgot?"My pulse must be beating a mile a minute.

"I was trying to hurry!"

I slowly straighten up and give Officer Paul my best puppy-dog face. He's looking at us like we have hair growing out of our ears, and what I'm about to tell him isn't going to improve his opinion of us.

"I'm sorry, Officer. We were in Victoria's Secret and she was trying on underwear and I guess she forgot to--"

"Okay," he holds up a hand and stops me. "Why don't we head back to the store and see what they have to say?" Satisfied that we'll comply, he leads us back into what is becoming my least-favorite mall in the entire world.

I briefly consider sprinting for the car. We'd have a short advantage on him and might be able to getaway without further trouble. But this has already been a close call. Honestly, this outcome is so much better than it could've been. I decide not to press our luck.

None of us speak for the remainder of our trek through the decrepit building. It makes for a very awkward few minutes.

"Am I in trouble?" Quincy asks me as we approach the store.

Thankfully, she isn't.

Turns out, Rhonda is the manager of the store. She greets us like old acquaintances, thanks Officer Paul for his time, and lets Quincy off with a friendly warning to be more careful next time. "And good luck at the dentist," she tells her.

Quincy glares over at me, "I don't have a dentist appointment, do I?"

I return her glare with a mischievous wrinkle of my eyebrow, "I guess you'll find out in a little while."

After that, she's too pouty to say a proper goodbye to Rhonda, so I do the honors.

"Thanks a lot, Rhonda. And again, we're very sorry. I should've eased up on the hurrying. And--"

"And I should've just bought all of them," Quincy comments. "That way I wouldn't have had to try any on."

Rhonda laughs and waves as we walk gratefully away from Victoria's Secret.

Officer Paul tries making a speedy getaway himself, but Quincy, confident that she's no longer under suspicion, grills him with questions.

"Do you get to ride the scooter-thingies? Like in the movies?"

He shakes his head and looks a bit sad, "No, not at this mall. Our methods are more, well, old-school."

Quincy nods understandingly, "I wish I was too old for school. It's gonna suck."

He chuckles, "You remind me of me when I was young."

She looks doubtful, "You almost got arrested for accidentally leaving on underwear from the Victoria's Secret dressing room?"

"Er, no." He clears his throat, "I meant about school. Listen, even if the going gets tough, just keep on chugging. That's what I did, and look at me now -- I've got my dream job. Maybe one day you will, too."

Her eyes light up, "Cool."

A warm aura surrounds us as we stroll back to the car. Quincy is still recovering from the grandeur of talking with a real life mall cop, while I'm just relieved we made it out alive.

"Well," I exhale as we slide into our respective seats. "I hope you enjoy your undies, because this has been quite a shopping trip." I glance over at my petite passenger.

She's staring back at the building, "Did you hear Officer Paul? I'm gonna be a mall cop one day."

We pull out of the parking lot, turn onto the highway, and head for home. I find my hand shaking almost imperceptibly as I grip the wheel, and make an effort to slow my breathing. I really was scared back there. Scared they might separate us. And that's not what her mother would've wanted.

My eyes wander off the road and land on Quincy.

I remember the first day I met her, and can't help but smile. She was a lot smaller back then, but her personality? It was just as large. At first, I didn't think she resembled her mother at all. In time, though, I've discovered there are lots of little things about her that remind me of Rowan. Like the way her eyes light up when she's happy, or how she folds her hands together when she's deep in concentration.

We've come so far now. She can't lose me. And I won't lose her.

My silent reverie is broken with a suspicious question.

"Are we going to the dentist?"

-----------------------------

The neighborhood is peacefully still as we pull onto our street. That's one of the reasons I chose it -- most of the residents are older folk who like to keep to themselves. I hadn't counted on Alice having a granddaughter like Phoebe, but maybe it'll be nice for Quincy to have an actual friend her own age for once.

"So," I say, "we have Phoebe to thank for our mayhem at the mall?"

Quincy scrunches up her face, thinking, "Kind of? We were in her room, and she was showing me her new clothes, and then she started talking, and--"

"And somehow the subject came around to why you needed to buy cuter underwear?"

She gives a half-nod, and I can't help being curious about the girls' activities while I was at my interview. Up until now, Quincy has rarely gone on playdates. I hope it wasn't too awkward for her.

"Did you have fun?"

"Yeah. Until her mom called and she couldn't spend the night anymore… then I got sad."

"Hey now, the whole point of me taking you shopping was to forget about that. Just think about your new purchases instead. So many new outfit combinations to try-out," I joke.

"You're right," she says. "It's too bad no one else will know when I'm wearing them."

I try not to laugh, "What a shame."

"But I'm gonna show Phoebe," she continues.

"We do have her to thank for giving you the idea," I agree. "Maybe I'll gift her with the bill."

As we arrive, I can practically feel the impatience emanating from her.

I drum my fingers on the wheel, "First, help me unload the groceries." She looks deflated. "I promise it'll be quick. How 'bout we just set them in front of the door, and I'll take care of them from there?"

"Deal!"

We hoist the heavy bags from the trunk and drop them on the porch. Our escapades at the mall kept us longer than anticipated, so I hope nothing's gone bad. Maybe we should buy a cooler on our next shopping trip.

As soon as I unlock the door, Quincy dashes for the stairs. "I'm gonna go try them on!"

"You literally almost got arrested for doing that."

"I know!"

I smile to myself and start bringing in the groceries. By the time all the bags are sitting on our kitchen table, I've worked up an appetite. But before I can dig in to a bag of chips or a box of Pop-Tarts, the phone rings.

Is it too soon to expect a call from hardware-store-Dorothy?

My stomach gurgles. Maybe I should've bought a mall pretzel? I ignore it and pick up the receiver, "Hello?"

"Hi, Mr. Richardson. Or should I say Mr. Richardson-Park."

"Phoebe. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Is Quincy there?"

"In the house? Yes."

"Then can I talk to her?"

I pause, listening for signs that she's on her way down. No dice.

"Unfortunately, no. She's busy at the moment. Anything I can help you with?"

"No," Phoebe sounds momentarily disappointed, but then regains her prior exuberance. "Just tell her that we're on for the sleepover tomorrow night. If she still wants to."

"Oh? I thought-- I thought your mother was visiting."

"She is, but…" she trails off. "She's leaving tomorrow morning."

"I see." I'm not sure what to say to this -- does she know that I know about her mom's circumstances? "A sleepover tomorrow, huh? I'm sure she'll be excited to hear it." After today, though, I'm not sure how much more excitement I can handle.

We say a quick goodbye and I return the receiver to it's home.

I'm on my way back to the kitchen to pacify my rebellious stomach when Quincy's voice calls out from the top of the staircase.

"Look! I'm wearing both at the same time!"

Quincy, Part Two

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