Looking Real Good

to my office. I closed the door behind me and went to stand in front of my floor-to-ceiling windows. Gazing down at the city streets below and the rooftops of the historic district, I thought about the things Lisa had said.
There was a time when I had nothing. My sister knew that better than anyone. She hadn’t had anything either. Our mothers had struggled to put food on our plates. I remembered how it felt being sent off to school with two quarters in my pocket. My mother always asked me if it was enough. Could I buy lunch with fifty cents?
I always told her I could. And it was always a lie.
My first day of high school hadn’t been easy with those quarters in my pocket, hand-me-down clothes, and a notebook I’d found at a garage sale with a kitten on the cover. I’d swiped pens from places that always had dozens of them in holders on their counters, like the print shop or the DMV. At the time, I’d thought I was going in prepared, but all I was walking into at school was four years of torture at the hands of merciless bullies who terrorized me for my clothes, school supplies, lack of a father, and how poor my family was.
I came home with more black eyes than my mother ever could have dreamed of.
And now?
Well, I’d worked hard to amass my billions. I’d sacrificed leisure time and relationships to build my software and find success. I had no intention of giving those billions away and leaving myself or my mother vulnerable again. She needed me more than anything, especially now.

Chapter 2


Kayla
I secured my hair in a low bun before pulling my hairnet over it. I tucked the net up under the bun, slid two bobby pins behind my ears to secure it in place, and plucked my apron from the magnetic hook on the side of the industrial refrigerator. The soup kitchen was bustling this afternoon and they needed all hands on deck. I’d been more than happy to take the call from Rodney, the kitchen manager, begging me to come in for a couple of hours to help them get through the lunch rush.
Rodney had taken over washing dishes and was up to his elbows in bubbles when I brushed past him to make my way out onto the floor.
“Thanks again for coming in, Kayla,” he said, flashing me a smile over his shoulder. He had a nice, bright, white smile, and he wore it often. His light brown hair was cut short on the sides and he was in need of a trim on top. Little strands poked through the top of his hairnet and stuck every which way, making him look permanently frazzled, which I supposed he was. Rodney was a busy man.
“No problem at all. You know I’m always happy to help.” I tied my apron behind my back and started to adjust the strap behind my neck. These things were always far too long on me due to the fact that I was only five feet tall. My jeans were cuffed for the same reason—so I didn’t trip over them. I had my working shoes on, complete with insoles to avoid foot cramping and aches. Even though Rodney had only asked me to come in and cover the lunch rush, I fully expected to be there well into the evening. That was how these things went.
The buckle on the neck strap of my apron wouldn’t slide. I let out a frustrated growl and decided to take it off and try a different apron.
Rodney turned off the sink and dried his hands on the faded red towel draped over his shoulder. “Hold on. I’ve got you.”
I turned my back to him so he could tighten the strap for me. His fingers were hot and still a little damp from washing dishes, and I wondered how long he’d been at it for. Hours most likely. Once he tightened the strap, he put both hands on my shoulders.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome. Now get out of here before I try to talk you into dish duty.”
I laughed and hurried to rush through the swinging doors. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
The soup kitchen hall was packed. Nearly every seat at every table was taken, and there was a line against the far wall that wrapped all the way around to the double doors that led out onto the street. I was sure the line continued for at least a block, perhaps more, and I hoped deliveries from caterers were all on time and we wouldn’t have any gaps in between putting out fresh dishes. I hated having to delay people who’d already waited for hours to put food in their bellies.
For some of them, it would be the first thing they’d eaten in days.
Everyone working the food line waved and called hello to me as I fell into the open spot at the mashed-potato station. A glass divider protected the food from the volunteers and the guests coming in to get food, and it was our job to serve everyone their portions. This kept things fair and equal, avoided potential confrontation between people in line, and followed health and safety guidelines.
A woman and her young son stepped up in front of me. The boy couldn’t have been more than nine. He wore a ball cap with frayed edges on the visor and a jacket that was far too big for him. His eyes were dark brown and fixed on the steaming potatoes between us.
I grinned at him and his mother. “They look good, don’t they? It’s torture having to stand up here and serve them when all I want to do is stick my finger in them and have a taste.”
The boy looked up at me.
I winked. “Don’t worry. I didn’t do it.”
He smiled.
I slapped a hefty serving onto his plate and then his mother’s. Their plates already had some steamed