Page 16 of The Picasso Heist

MICHELLE STARES AT me across our table the next day in the Empire Diner, her head tilted slightly as if she’s trying to make up her mind. The way she’s been picking at her bacon and cheese omelet, I can tell something is bothering her.

She’s nine years old.

“Halston, is it okay if I… you know, like, ask you something?”

“Of course,” I say. “And you never have to get my permission, Michelle. You can always ask me whatever you want. It’s okay.”

With her fork, she pushes a small piece of bacon around her plate. “Why do you do this?” she asks finally.

“Do what?”

“This. You know, spend time with me and everything.”

“That’s easy,” I say. “It’s because I like to spend time with you, Michelle. That’s why.”

“Janet says it’s because a judge makes you do it.”

“A judge?”

“Yeah, Janet says you probably got arrested and this is your punishment, having to hang out with me.”

“Who’s Janet, by the way?” I ask.

“She’s someone new at the house. She’s weird. The other girls call her ‘Janet from Another Planet.’”

“I hope you don’t call her that.”

“I don’t,” she says. “But is she right? Does a judge make you do this?”

“No, of course not,” I say. “No one makes me do this. I spend time with you because I want to. I’m your friend. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” But Michelle’s not looking at me. Her eyes are down, fixed on that small piece of bacon doing another lap around her plate.

The Sisterhood Project doesn’t have a handbook for new volunteers but the mantra I heard over and over in the interviewing process is “We are all worthy.” Most of the girls they help are in difficult family situations and are living either in the Sisterhood Foster Home or with a relative who can’t realistically be a strong female role model—in other words, a man.

Michelle was a baby when her father left her mother.

She’s never met him. Her mother’s a drug addict, currently trying to get clean.

Her rehab is split between three months in an upstate facility followed by another three months in a halfway house in Queens.

Naturally, Michelle feels abandoned. I don’t have a magic wand that can make those feelings disappear but I do have every Saturday at noon.

That’s when we meet for lunch, followed by an “educational, entertaining, and/or empowering activity.”

It’s been a total of four Saturdays now. I thought this moment might come.

I’d love to be able to tell Michelle that it’s all going to be okay, that her mother’s going to quit the drugs and get better, and that they’ll be back living together soon. But I can’t do that. I can’t lie.

I don’t know if everything’s going to be okay. Her mother might not get better. Michelle might never get to live with her again. Filling a young girl with false hope is simply cruel, and Michelle’s already had far too much cruelty in her life already.

“Michelle, look at me,” I say. Slowly, she does. “I know you’re missing your mom and I know how much it must hurt that she had to leave. But she left because she loves you, not because she doesn’t. You’re the reason she wants to get better.”

“But what if she doesn’t?”

“It won’t be because of anything you did. You’re the one giving her the strength to try, and no matter what, that makes you special.”

“I don’t feel special,” she says.

“But you are.” I watch Michelle, hoping that I’m getting through to her. Judging from her expression, though, I may have gotten through a little too much. “What is it?” I ask.

She puts her fork down slowly. “I feel bad,” she says finally.

I don’t ask why. I know why. I remember all those nights I spent alone crying in my room after my mother killed herself. “You mean you feel guilty,” I say. “Because you’re so mad at her.”

Michelle looks up; her eyes lock on mine. She’s on the verge of tears. “Yeah,” she says.

“It’s okay that you’re angry at your mom,” I tell her.

“I’m angry at both of them. They both left me.”

“I know how it feels—”

“No, you don’t,” says Michelle. “You can’t.”

“Actually, I can. In fact, I wish my mother were here so I could yell at her and let her know how mad I am. But she’s not alive anymore. Your mother’s very much alive and fighting hard to come back to you.”

Now we’re both on the verge of tears. Michelle reaches across the table and puts her little hand on mine. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Did your dad also die?”

“No. He’s still alive. But he left me too. At least, that’s how I felt at first,” I say. “Just like you.”

“Where’d he go?” she asks.