Lost and Found (2 page)

“Walking on sunshine … Waaaooohhh … I’m walkin' on sunshine … waaaaoohhh…”

He’s gone before he finishes the rest of the song, but I know the tune and it restores my faith in today. I start humming it to myself as I turn around and put my feet in the fountain. My toes are way too hot and sweaty, so this water feels positively scrumptious. I lean my head back and close my eyes, letting the bliss overtake me.

“Hey, lady! Yo! You can’t put your dirty feet in the fountain!”

I ignore this person, whoever he is. I will not let him intrude on my rapture. Go. Away. Rude person.

“Hey! You hear me? Whatt’re you deaf or somethin’? I said you can’t put your dirty feet in the fountain!”

I stand up all of a sudden, my mood destroyed. All I wanted to do was cool my hot, sweaty, almost dog poopied feet off, and now this guy’s all up my ass about … what? Fountain trespass? Is there even such a thing? No, there’s not; not in my world, anyway.

I decide then and there that fountains
should
have people in them. What’s the use of all that cool water if you can’t even enjoy it? Eyeballs don’t need cool water — feet do. Cold water? Meet my feet. You’re welcome.

I take two steps out towards the middle of the thing. It has a mostly naked woman with a basket of something in her arms in the center with a bunch of fish dancing around her. The Apple logo floats in the background behind her, suspended on one side of the store’s giant glass entrance.
 

“Stop right there,” says the fat, bald-headed rent-a-cop, coming toward me through a quickly-gathering crowd of onlookers, hands on his belt at his hips. “I’m not jokin’. You’re playing with fire right now. I’m warnin’ you.”

I snort.
Fire, my ass.
I take several more steps in and can’t help but smile. Sometimes it feels really good to be bad. Okay, usually. It
usually
feels good to be bad.

He’s working up a serious sweat coming to the edge of the fountain. When he points at me, I can see big sweat stains from his pits, and the buttons going down his belly are straining to keep his shirt together.
Uh-oh.
Paul Blart, mall cop, is out to get me. So not scary.

“Get outta there right this second. I’m gonna count to five.”

I take another step towards the fountain lady.

“One!”

I take one more step. There are two higher levels of fountain between her and me. He wouldn’t dare follow me up there.

“Two! Don’t go there! Don’t you go there!” He’s eyeing the edge of the fountain, like he might be considering whether he can lift his short, pudgy leg over it.

I lift my foot and hoist myself up to the second level.

“Three! You’re almost at the end of your rope! You’re gonna hang yourself, young lady!”

A couple of teenagers standing in the crowd start chanting: “Do it! Do it! Do it!”

Their enthusiasm for my possible future incarceration inspires me. I actually skip up to the next level higher, once more a Disney princess in my head. I might actually be Ariel since I’m nearly a mermaid at this point. Plus my bangles are jangling again.
Ching ching-a-ring!
I’m walking on sunshine, dammit!

Paul Blart, mall cop, is pretty much enraged at this point. “Four! Okay, you got one more number! One more, that’s it! And there ain’t gonna be no halvsies or three quarterzies either! After four, it’s five, and then you’re done.”

I take one more big step, the one that will get me all the way to the foot of the naked lady.

“Five!”

And my foot lands on something really hard and really sharp.
Holy mother of …

“Aaaack!” I scream, yanking my leg up out of the water and away from the offending object. It crosses my mind that I’ve probably just cut my foot open on a broken bottle. Will I get tetanus? Toxic shock syndrome? Lose my foot? I’ll be unbalanced forever with only one foot!
Argh!
This must be my karmic punishment for breaking the law. When will I ever learn?

“You’re under arrest!” the rent-a-cop yells. “Citizen’s arrest for disturbing the peace!”

I try to regain my balance, but I can’t. My arms start pinwheeling out to the sides, but it does me no good. I’ve jumped back too far from the pain and now gravity has made me her bitch. I’m going down.

“Aaaaahhh!” The world literally turns upside down. Or does a one-eighty. I was never very good at math.

SPLASH!!

And what was once a very refreshing oasis of sanctuarial bliss has now become a very cold, very wet pool of regret, pain, and stumbling yet indignant rent-a-cops.

Chapter Three

HE GRABS ME BY THE arm and tries to wrestle me up, but I’m not having any of it. Because in the midst of my catastrophe, something has caught my eye. As the water settled and the sun struck its surface just so, a sparkle became apparent. A sparkle that was coming from the spot where I had just lost my balance.

“Time to go to jail,” he says, huffing and puffing and sloshing all over the place. He’s messing up the water so I can’t see beneath its surface anymore.

“Get off me,” I grind out, shoving him backwards as I get to my feet.

He falls to the wayside, making it possible for me to limp over to the naked lady. I lean over the higher edge and run my hands along the bottom of the fountain, praying I’m not going to cut my fingers off on some sort of razor or crystal. What are the chances someone threw a crystal goblet into the fountain? Probably not good, but that’s what it looked like — like a shard of crystal.

Just as the butthead in the way-too-tight uniform comes up behind me and tries to grab me again, my hand runs up against something lying on the bottom of the fountain that’s not one of the ten thousand wish-coins. My fingers close around the metal and glass
thing
and come up out of the water clenched in a fist.

I catch him right in the gut with it as I scream, “Take your hands off me!” I’m still yelling as I get to my feet. “Help! Assault! I’m being assaulted! This man is assaulting me!” My horrible hair has fallen out of the clip I put it in earlier and is hanging around my face, probably looking like random clumps of seaweed. I figure it’s making me look more like a victim, so I leave it. Goodbye, Disney princess. Hello, Ursula the Sea Witch.

He’s bent in half, groaning out a response as he gasps for air. “You’re the one hittin’ people, not me.”

I leave him in my wake, taking giant steps through the water over to my shoes.

My poopy shoes.

My long skirt flows out behind me in the water. Very soggy. Very heavy. I’ve pretty much soaked up about half of the fountain’s water.

Ugh
. I climb over the concrete edge of the pool and slide my very wet feet into my sandals before hightailing it out of there, leaving a trail of fountain-water behind me. With every step, my shoes make farty sounds.
Perfect
. The smell matches the sound effects. Could I be any more disgusting? No. I could not.

“Hey, get back here, lady! You’re under arrest!”

I can tell from the direction of his voice he’s still in the water and nowhere near a threat to me.

I flip him the bird over my shoulder. “Arrest yourself, rent-a-cop!”

Several of the onlookers who gathered to witness my shame laugh at my retort.

I move as fast as I can to get away from there. In my efforts to disappear before the rent-a-cop can get on dry land, I slam into someone headed right for me.

“Hey!” I yell, bouncing off his chest and almost falling on my ass. Again.

He looks down at himself, his briefcase held out high to the side in one hand and coffee cup in the other, his suit jacket looped over his forearm.

“What the hell…?” He’s staring at the giant wet stain I’ve left on his crisp blue shirt.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” I ask, annoyed and flustered. I look like a drowned rat, and he looks … perfect. Handsome. Possibly mouthwatering. Yes, definitely mouthwatering.

He looks up at me, obviously furious. “That better be water.”

I scowl at the implication. He’s not nearly as cute as he was half a second ago. “What else would it be?”

He lifts his eyebrows. “God only knows.” He frowns. “Oh, Jesus, what is that
smell?”
He looks down at his shoes and lifts one up.

I glance over my shoulder and see the crowd parting near the fountain. Rent-a-cop is out now and headed my way.

“Screw you,” I say, shoving past him and his gorgeous, perfectly put-together, rude self.

“Is this water?!” he yells after me.

“No, it’s sweat!” I yell back.

I cringe when I realize what I just said about myself. What kind of weirdo is so covered in sweat they leave a full-body print on the front of a stranger she bumps into?
Ugh
. Me. I’m that kind of weirdo; or a least, that’s what that guy thinks now. Thank God I’ll never see him again.

My apartment is normally eight subway stops from the shop, but there’s no way I can ride soaking wet like this. I’d be too easy to catch there, a sitting wet duck. Plus, I look like a crazy person and I’ve already suffered enough humiliation for one day, thank-you-very-much. The long walk ahead of me will not only save my pride, it will dry me off.

It’s a whole block later when my adrenaline finally calms down and I suddenly remember that I picked something up off the floor of the fountain. I open my hand to look at it, figuring I’m about to see a bottlecap or something equally worthless.

My breath freezes on my chest and won’t come out for a few seconds. When it does, it’s more like a wheeze than actual respiration.

In the middle of my palm is a giant diamond ring, the rock about the same size as a frigging dime.

“Oh my god,” I say, all the blood draining from my face.

I have no idea how I got home that afternoon. The next thing I know, I’m sitting on my couch, soaking the cushions through with fountain water that unfortunately did not dry on my walk, staring at a monstrous rock of an engagement ring while my poopy dog shoes sit on the floor next to me, stinking up the joint. What. The. Fudge.

Chapter Four

I TURN THE RING AROUND and around in my hand, squinting to read the small print on the inside of the band. There is no identifying information. All it says is 18k. I suppose that means it’s real gold. Or white gold, apparently.

The diamond, if it’s real too, has to be worth a ton of money. I’ve never shopped for a diamond before, but I know I’ve never seen a ring like this on anyone’s finger except for in photos of celebrities in
People
magazine. Those kinds of rings are usually for the marriages that last less than five years. If I were a Hollywood person, I’d tell my man to buy me something smaller just so we’d have a better chance of working out. This ring screams divorce to me. I guess that makes sense since I found it in a fountain.

A knock at the door disturbs my visions of Hollywood stardom.

“Open up, Leah,” comes the heavily Bronx-accented voice from the hallway. “I gotta get the rent from you.”

Dammit
. It’s Larry, the landlord’s son and self-appointed harasser of yours truly. Maybe I got lucky and he didn’t see me come in the front door. If I just sit here as quiet as a mouse, he’ll eventually go away. I know this from experience. I hold onto my bracelets to keep them from jangling.

“I see the trail of water going into your apartment, so I know you’re in there. Come on, open up.”

Chewing my lip, I consider my options. I only have about half the rent money, and he told me last time I tried to partial-pay that they couldn’t let me do that anymore. It’s all or nothing with these blood-sucking bastards.

I could slip out the window, using the fire escape to disappear for the rest of the day, but that won’t do me any good later when I want to sleep. I don’t have any friends I can crash with since they’ve all either moved away or gotten married, and I can’t ask Belinda if I can stay with her because then I’d have to explain why I can’t go home, and she’d feel terrible about not paying me much and it would ruin our relationship. And since Belinda’s my stand-in mother figure, I can’t do that to us.

Larry’s voice comes in softer, but more urgently, like he has his mouth right up to the crack of my door. “You know, if you can’t pay with money, maybe we can work something else out.”

Screw being as quiet as a mouse.

Disgusted, I leap off the couch and slide back the locks in record time. I fling the door open, and before I can stop to consider whether it’s a good idea or not, I slap him right across the face. My palm is stinging like a bitch, but I’m not complaining. He totally deserved that, the little perve.

He puts his hand up to his chubby, beard-prickly face. “Ow. What’d you do that for?” He’s scowling at me as he rubs his cheek and moves his jaw around.

“Ask me to pay you in hootchie one more time and see what happens, Larry.” I almost barf a little just thinking of being with him that way. Even on my worst day, I’d never…
Oh, God
. My salivary glands are working overtime and my stomach is churning. Think about puppies! Kittens! Lasagna! Anything but ….
Oh, God.
I’m seeing him naked. I’m nauseated. There’s hair … and gold chains … and …
 

He holds up his hands and backs up, the jacket of his maroon and bronze track suit opening up to reveal the wife-beater undershirt underneath and several gold chains nestled in his wiry chest hair. “Hey, ain’t nobody said nothin’ about paying in hootch. We don’t allow drugs in here.”

My equilibrium is instantly restored by his idiocy and the knowledge that even if he were the last man on earth, I would never come within a ten-foot radius of his naked noodle. The human race would just have to cease to exist. My stomach stops churning and the sour taste in my mouth disappears.

I roll my eyes as I cross my arms. “I didn’t say hootch, doofus, I said hootchie, as in
sex
.”

He drops his arms. “Oh.” He smiles and wiggles his eyebrows around. “You offering me sex instead of rent money?”

I reach up to slap him again and he ducks, watching me from under his arms. “Yo, hey, watch the violence, would ya?”

I stick my chin out a little, trying to control my temper. “I’m not kidding, Larry. Don’t ever suggest we have sex again. Like …
Ever
.” I shudder involuntarily.