Fake It Till You Ace It

The Red Line train lurched violently to the left.

Iverson Sharp slammed his shoulder against the metal door to keep his balance. The air inside the subway car was thick. It smelled like stale sweat, old urine, and the metallic dust of grinding brakes. He leaned his head back against the glass, his eyes scanning the peeling advertisements on the walls.

He looked down at his feet.

He was wearing a pair of brand-new, limited-edition Jordans. The pristine white leather glowed under the flickering fluorescent lights. They were a gift from his mother's new husband. They were expensive. They were clean.

They did not belong here.

Iverson felt a familiar tightness in his chest. A physical rejection of the wealth he was forced to wear. He lifted his right foot and brought the sole down hard on the toe box of his left shoe. He twisted his heel, grinding the street dirt deep into the white leather until a dark, ugly scuff mark ruined the shoe completely.

His chest loosened. He could breathe again.

His iPhone vibrated against his thigh. The sudden buzz made his muscles twitch. He pulled it out of his hoodie pocket. The screen flashed with a name: Brenda.

He hit the green button and pressed the phone to his ear.

Before he could speak, a harsh, wet cough blasted through the speaker. It was a deep, rattling sound that made Iverson's stomach drop.

"Did you buy another pack of Marlboros?" Iverson asked. His voice was flat, but his grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white.

"No," Brenda wheezed. Her voice was raspy, defensive. "I just moved two boxes of winter coats from the back room. The dust got in my throat. I'm fine, Ivy."

The train hit a sharp curve. The metal wheels screamed against the rusted tracks, a deafening screech that vibrated up through the soles of Iverson's ruined shoes. He let go of the door and grabbed the overhead bar with one hand to steady himself.

His elbow bumped hard into the shoulder of a white commuter in a tailored suit.

The man stumbled, his face twisting in disgust. He brushed off his suit jacket like Iverson had infected him. "Watch it, you little punk," the man muttered.

Iverson slowly turned his head.

He didn't say a word. He just dropped his chin slightly and locked eyes with the man. Iverson's gaze was dead. It was the kind of cold, hollow stare born in the darkest alleys of the Rust Belt. A look that promised immediate, unhinged violence.

The commuter's breath hitched. The color drained from his face. He swallowed hard, broke eye contact, and practically sprinted to the opposite end of the train car.

"Ivy?" Brenda's voice crackled through the phone. "Are you getting into trouble out there? I swear to God..."

Iverson blinked, instantly dropping the heavy glare. He let out a soft, lazy breath. "No trouble, B. Train just took a bad turn."

In the background of Brenda's audio, a sharp sound cut through the static. It was the wail of a police siren, followed by the muffled shouts of heavy, street-level slang.

The muscles in Iverson's jaw locked. "What's going on outside the shop?"

Brenda let out a long, exhausted sigh. "It's nothing. The neighborhood is just getting worse. Rocco and his boys have been circling the block all morning. Shaking down the corner stores for protection money."

At the sound of Rocco's name, the blood in Iverson's veins turned to ice water. His fingers dug into the plastic of the overhead handle so hard the tendons in his forearm popped.

He forced his voice to stay light. "Just lock the front door, okay? Keep it locked until I get there."

"I can't afford to lock the door, Ivy," Brenda said, her voice cracking with fatigue. "The landlord just raised the rent again. Ten percent. I don't know how I'm going to make it this month."

Iverson's heart hammered against his ribs. "I have my allowance. I can cover the difference. Just let me transfer it to you."

"No." Brenda's tone turned sharp. Absolute. "I told you, Iverson. I am not taking a single dime of the O'Neal family's money. Never."

The words felt like a physical needle sliding under his ribs. He reached up with his free hand and yanked at the collar of his hoodie. The fabric felt like it was choking him. He was torn between the world he was forced to live in and the only person who actually cared about him.

The automated female voice of the train's intercom crackled to life. "Next stop, Blackwater District."

The overhead lights flickered and died for a full three seconds as the train plunged into the darker tunnels.

"I'm almost there," Iverson said to the dark window.

"Hurry up, you brat," Brenda laughed softly. The line went dead.

The screen went black, reflecting Iverson's sharp, cold features. He shoved the phone back into his pocket. The lazy teenager vanished. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

The train slowed, the rusted brakes groaning as it pulled into the station. The platform outside was covered in crushed beer cans and fast-food wrappers.

The doors slid open. A wave of heat hit him in the face. It smelled like exhaust fumes and rotting garbage.

Three guys in oversized jackets were loitering by the turnstiles. They turned their heads, their eyes scanning the exiting passengers like wolves looking for a limp.

Iverson reached up and pulled his gray hoodie over his head, casting a dark shadow over the top half of his face. He shoved both hands deep into his pockets. He stepped off the train, his ruined Jordans hitting the concrete, and walked straight into the chaos.

The Blackwater District looked like a war zone that the city had forgotten to clean up.

Iverson walked out of the subway station and into the gray afternoon light. The street was lined with boarded-up windows and flickering streetlamps that buzzed even in the daytime.

A police siren wailed two blocks over. Iverson didn't even turn his head. His heart rate stayed perfectly steady.

He walked past a homeless man sitting on a milk crate. The man held out a greasy paper cup, his hands shaking from withdrawal.

Iverson didn't break his stride. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket, flicked a crumpled five-dollar bill between his fingers, and dropped it perfectly into the cup as he passed.

He took a sharp right, ducking into a narrow alleyway. The brick walls were covered in overlapping layers of gang graffiti. It was a shortcut to Arthur's thrift store.

Halfway down the alley, two junkies were huddled together, passing a small plastic baggie back and forth. They heard his footsteps and froze, their eyes wide and paranoid.

Iverson kept his eyes locked straight ahead. His face was a blank, emotionless mask. He didn't slow down. He didn't speed up.

The junkies felt the heavy, suffocating aura radiating off him. It was the energy of someone who had nothing to lose and was hoping for a reason to snap. They scrambled backward, pressing their thin bodies against the dirty brick wall to give him the entire path.

He emerged from the alley and saw the faded, buzzing neon sign of Arthur's General Goods.

Iverson pushed the heavy glass door open. The brass bell attached to the top clanged with a dull, heavy thud.

The inside of the store smelled like dust, old pennies, and mothballs. The lighting was terrible, casting long, yellowish shadows across the cluttered aisles.

Arthur, a heavy-set man with a thick gray beard, was sitting behind the counter. He was squinting at a horse racing newspaper. He glanced up over his reading glasses.

"Well, look who it is," Arthur chuckled, his voice rough from cigars. "The rich boy. What are you doing back in the slums, Ivy?"

"Just passing through, Artie," Iverson replied, his voice flat. He didn't stop to chat. He walked straight past the counter and headed deep into the aisles.

Two young white clerks were restocking shelves in the back. They both stopped moving the second Iverson walked into their aisle. Their eyes darted to his pulled-up hood, his baggy clothes, and the dark scuff marks on his shoes.

"Look at this guy," the first clerk whispered to the other. "Baggy clothes, hood up. He's definitely here for a five-finger discount."

The second clerk nodded slowly. His right hand drifted down to his belt, resting nervously on a canister of bear mace.

Iverson heard every word. A dark, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

He turned toward the metal shelving unit. Instead of looking quietly, he started shoving boxes aside. He dragged metal objects across the wire racks, intentionally making as much noise as humanly possible. Clang. Screech. Bang.

The clerk with the bear mace flinched, taking a quick step backward. His heel caught the edge of a cardboard box, and he knocked it over, spilling cheap plastic toys all over the floor.

Iverson ignored them. He crouched down and pulled a bulky object from the bottom shelf.

It was a used, red-and-white plastic megaphone.

He held it up, flipped the power switch on the side, and squeezed the trigger. A loud, piercing burst of static feedback shrieked through the quiet store.

Iverson smiled. He clicked it off. Perfect.

He walked back to the front counter, completely ignoring the two clerks who were still frozen in the aisle.

He pulled a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and slapped it flat on the glass counter.

Arthur picked up the bill, holding it up to the light. "What the hell do you need that piece of junk for?"

"I need to send a message to someone," Iverson said. The dangerous glint in his eye returned.

He grabbed the megaphone by the handle and turned toward the door. The memory of the police sirens and the chaotic noise in the background of Brenda's phone call flashed through his mind. His stomach tightened again. The anxiety was a physical weight pressing down on his lungs.

He pushed the glass door open much harder than necessary.

The brass bell clanged violently against the glass. Iverson stepped out onto the sidewalk, blending instantly into the fading yellow light of the streetlamps.

A cold wind whipped down the avenue. Iverson reached up, pulled the drawstrings of his hoodie tight against his neck, and started walking fast toward Brenda's shop.

Brenda stood behind the glass display counter of her vintage clothing store, her chest heaving.

She quickly jammed the half-smoked Marlboro cigarette into the bottom of a heavy glass ashtray, crushing the cherry until it went out.

She grabbed a cheap, pink bottle of rose perfume from the counter. She aimed the nozzle at the air and pressed down, spraying a thick, suffocating cloud of floral mist all around her.

The smell was horrific. The heavy, sweet scent of artificial roses mixed with the stale, bitter stench of cheap tobacco. It smelled like a funeral parlor that had caught on fire.

Brenda inhaled the thick mist and immediately doubled over. A violent coughing fit ripped through her chest.

The sudden jerking motion pulled at the old injury in her lower spine. A sharp, electric shock of pain shot up her back. She gasped, dropping the perfume bottle on the counter, and gripped the edge of the glass case with both hands to keep from collapsing.

Heavy footsteps echoed on the concrete outside.

Brenda's head snapped up. Her eyes went wide with panic.

The front door swung open. Iverson's tall, broad-shouldered frame filled the doorway, completely blocking out the streetlights behind him.

Brenda instantly stood up straight. She forced her facial muscles to stretch into a bright, casual smile. "Ivy! You're here."

Iverson didn't say a word. He didn't smile back.

He raised the red-and-white megaphone to his mouth, flipped the switch, and pulled the trigger.

"HEALTH DEPARTMENT. SURPRISE INSPECTION," his voice boomed through the speaker, amplified to a deafening volume.

The sound waves physically shook the small store. The metal hangers on the clothing racks rattled against the metal pipes.

Brenda shrieked. She grabbed a dirty rag off the counter and hurled it straight at his head.

Iverson tilted his head a fraction of an inch. The rag sailed past his ear and hit the door. He clicked the megaphone off and let it hang by his side.

He reached behind him and pushed the door shut, locking the deadbolt. The noise of the street vanished.

Iverson took one step into the room and inhaled through his nose. His dark eyebrows instantly slammed together.

He walked straight to the counter, his eyes locked on hers. "It smells like a chain-smoker drowned in a vat of cheap perfume in here."

Brenda waved her hand dismissively. "It's the auto body shop next door. The wind blows all their exhaust right through my vents."

Iverson let out a cold, humorless laugh. He didn't argue. He just reached over the glass counter, grabbed the handle of the bottom drawer, and yanked it open.

The heavy glass ashtray, overflowing with crushed cigarette butts, sat right in the center of the drawer.

Brenda froze. She slowly reached up and rubbed the side of her nose, her eyes darting away from his face. She looked like a guilty child.

Iverson opened his mouth, the harsh words already loaded on his tongue. But before he could speak, his eyes dropped to her waist.

She was trembling. Her posture was completely wrong. All of her body weight was shifted onto her left leg, and her right hand was subtly pressing against her lower spine.

The anger drained out of Iverson's chest, replaced instantly by a heavy, sinking ache.

He dropped the megaphone on the counter. He walked around the display case, his movements fast and undeniable.

He placed both of his large hands firmly on her shoulders and pushed her down. "Sit."

Brenda let out a sharp hiss of pain as her weight settled onto the old, velvet sofa behind the counter. A thin layer of sweat had broken out across her forehead.

Iverson crouched down in front of her. His eyes were soft, but his voice was hard. "Why haven't you gone to the doctor, B?"

Brenda let out a dry, bitter laugh. She shook her head. "A doctor? In this country? The medical bills would bankrupt me before I even got the X-ray results, Ivy."

Iverson stood up slowly. He turned his head and looked around the shop.

The racks were sparse. The mannequins in the window were wearing the same faded dresses they had been wearing a month ago. There wasn't a single piece of new inventory in the entire store.

The reality of her financial situation hit him like a punch to the gut. It was worse than she had admitted on the phone. Much worse.

He curled his fingers into tight fists, his nails digging into his palms. The physical pain grounded him.

"Get your coat," Iverson said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "We're going to the wholesale market right now. We're getting you new stock."