I nod and wave. The window of Josie and Terry’s living room slams shut, punctuating our conversation.

I take a sip of my coffee and hear the slapping of two sets of feet against the sidewalk.

“Good morning!” Jenn and Jen say. They’re holding hands as they stride down the street in sync, matching smiles on their faces. Even their flourishing plots in the garden complement each other: Jen’s bursting with flowers and Jenn’s with vegetables.

“Morning! Have a good day, you two,” I say as they march past, sounding like an auntie even though they’re probably only a few years younger than me.

I’m not faking my pleasantness. I want them to know that if their presence bothers me, it’s not because they’re holding hands. It’s because of everything else. I wish I didn’t have to think about everything else, but . . . Miss Wanda is gone. The Hancocks. Mr. Joe.

Sometimes it feels like everything rock-solid about my world is slipping away, like the sand sucked through my fingers when I’d sit in the breaking waves at Coney Island.

I suddenly remember one of our mother-daughter beach days, when I was four or five. Mommy had treated me to Nathan’s, and a seagull swooped down and snatched a crinkle-cut french fry out of my hand right before I bit into it. The biggest fry. I’d saved it for last. The sudden shock of the fry theft, the unfairness of it, had made me start wailing. Mommy shook her head and laughed as she wiped my cheeks with thumbs gritty from sand and smelling of ketchup. “Baby, if you wanna keep what’s yours, you gotta hold on to it better than that. Someone is always waiting to snatch what you got, even these damn birds.”

I’m trying, Mommy. And I hate it.

A shiver runs down my spine despite the heat, and when I look up, I see Bill Bil coming. His name is William Bilford, real estate agent, but I call him Bill Bil because it annoys him and why should I be the only one suffering? I’m alone, my new neighbors are assholes, and this con artist is roaming the neighborhood, trying to bring in more of them.

I grimace in his direction. He’s wearing jeans that are too thick and too tight for the heat index and the amount of walking he’s doing. There are sweat stains around the armpits of his tight gray T-shirt, hinting at the swamp-ass horror show that must be playing below. His face sports carefully contoured stubble and eyes that are red-rimmed from too much booze or coke or both. His light brown hair is carefully styled, though, so he’s not entirely a mess.

“Hey, Ms. Green,” he says with a wink and a grin that probably goes over well in a dive bar in Williamsburg but has no effect on me at all.

“Hey, Bill Bil,” I chirp. His shark’s smile doesn’t falter but the brightness in his eyes dims. I pick up the loosie and lighter I bought from the bodega and make a big production of holding the flame to the tip of the cigarette. The smoke that floods my mouth is disgusting—I can taste the cancer, and hey, maybe that’s what makes it enjoyable—but I’ve been smoking one with my morning coffee every now and again anyway.

“That’s bad for your health,” he says.

I exhale a cloud of smoke toward where he’s standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Nothing has changed from the last ten times you walked by here. We’re still not selling the house. Have a blessed day.”

His shark smile widens. “Come on. I’m just being friendly.”

“You’re just trying to create a false sense of camaraderie because you think it’ll make me trust you. Then you can convince me to sell so you can pocket that sweet, sweet commission.”

“You really think that?” He shakes his head. “I’m out here trying to help. A lot of people don’t even know that they could earn more than they’ve ever had in their entire life, just by moving.”

“Moving where? Where are people supposed to go if even this neighborhood becomes too expensive?”

I suck at my cigarette, hard.

He sighs. “The struggle is real; I feel that. Why do you think I’m out here hustling? I have bills to pay, too, but I don’t have a house to sell for a huge profit. If I did, I could pay off school loans, medical bills.” He shrugs, like he couldn’t help but point out those two specific things.

“Well, there are plenty of vultures circling, so if I do give up on the neighborhood, I have lots of realtors to choose from.” My hand shakes as I lift the cigarette to my lips again, and I try not to fumble it.

He drops his affable shark mask.

“You act like I’m some scumbag, but you just proved my point. There are lots of realtors interested in this area, especially with the VerenTech deal as good as done. It’s the hottest emerging community in Brooklyn right now.”

“Emerging community?” I tilt my head. “Emerging from where? The primordial ooze?”

His brows lift a bit, and I know it’s not because he’s registered my question but because the motherfucker is surprised I can use primordial in a sentence.

“Look.” He runs a hand over his hair backward and then forward, not messing up his look. “I’m not some villain twirling my mustache and trying to push people out onto the street. I’m not even one of the buyers carrying around bags of cash and blank checks to tempt people into taking bad deals. I’m just a normal guy doing a normal job.”

Just doing my job. How many times have I heard that while arguing with people over my mother’s health, money, and future? Everyone is just doing their job, especially when that job is lucrative and screws people over.

“And I’m just a homeowner who’s told you repeatedly that I don’t want to sell,” I say.

“You don’t have to sell,” he says, walking off in search of someone more receptive to his bullshit. “But you can’t stop change, you know.”

I don’t think he’s even trying to be threatening, but I mash out the cigarette against the bottom of my flip-flop and stand, suddenly full of nervous energy. After stepping into the hallway to grab my gardening bag and slip on sneakers, I lock the door and make my way to Mommy’s community garden. I could never manage to keep even a Chia Pet alive, but I’m doing my best. I go every day; I put in work, even if I don’t have much to show for it.

It keeps me close to her, and that dulls away the sharp edges of the guilt that’s always poking at me. I sigh deeply, then pull out my phone and call her—it goes to voicemail. And when I hear her voice say, “You’ve reached Yolanda Green. I’m away from my cell phone or otherwise indisposed. Leave a message, unless you’re asking for money, because lord knows I don’t have any,” my throat goes rough as usual.

“Hi, Mommy,” I say after the beep, even though I usually don’t leave messages. “Things are hard, but I’m holding steady. Just wanted to hear your voice, but I’ll see you soon. Love you.”

Gifford Place OurHood post by Ashley Jones:

For anyone who hasn’t seen it, here’s an article about VerenTech Pharmaceuticals choosing the old medical center as the location for their U.S. headquarters and research center.

Asia Martin: sigh I’m sorry. I know you, Jamel, and Preston were out there protesting every week. The drug research center is nice, but I wish we could have had something like that instead of getting locked up and having our babies taken away.

Candace Tompkins: Speak on it.

Jamel Jones: Don’t get me started. Apart from that, mad shady shit went down at the community board meetings. One rep basically told us “fuck yo community.” The wildest part is the city is paying THEM to come here! To “revitalize” the area. Meanwhile, they been ignoring us for years.

Candace Tompkins: Revitalize their pockets more like . . . eminent domain soon come.

Kim DeVries: We should all be happy that this drug crisis is being responded to with kindness and compassion. It will be great for the neighborhood, too. Look at how much nicer downtown Brooklyn has become since the Ratner deal.

Drea Wilson:

Candace Tompkins:

(75 additional comments . . . see more)

Chapter 2

Theo

THERE’S AN EMPTY BEER CAN POKING INTO MY RIB CAGE when I wake up and a photo album laid flat open across my chest. A warm wet spot under my armpit reveals the beer can hadn’t been empty when I passed out last night. When I shift, there’s the crunch of chips breaking and a bag crumpling, and shards of Cool Ranch Doritos stab into my back.

Really living the dream here, bud.