It’s a Monday. Georgia will be heading to the garden. One of the first things she did after getting
out of prison was to start a community garden. There was an empty lot behind a chain-link fence, overrun with weeds, crabgrass, dandelion root. The elevated subway platform runs right over it, basically. So she got a lot of people to volunteer by stapling up fliers everywhere and a community was formed. She got dozens of people to start freezing their vegetable waste in plastic bags and then to bring it over to the garden for composting in giant bins. The Times interviewed her about it for the Metro section but she left out the prison part. I picture Faith wearing a red bandana working in the garden with Boomerang, sweet talking him, telling him about soy farmers de-foresting the rainforest. I pictured her putting round peppers in her purse pocket without anybody knowing. I carry my skateboard off the train, go to class and tell everybody that I think Madame Bovary’s intro speech was a piece of shit even though I loved that chapter.
When I get back to my apartment, Georgia is frying seitan in an iron skillet we didn’t used to own.
“I got you guys this kitchen stuff,” Faith says, smiling.
On the counter are jam jars filled with things, with sugar, with sea salt crystals.
“I got a job,” she says to me. “Bartending in Alphabet City.”
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