Page 1 of Return Billionaire to Sender

1

Noelle

“Are you nervous?” my roommate, Francine, asks. “I’d be nervous.”

I tuck a pen into one of the pen-holding slots inside the flap of my bag. I rotate it so that it’s perfectly lined up with the other pens, all nestled in their slots, then I look up and smile, putting a brave face on it. “It’s just another delivery, right?”

She snorts. “Ummm…it’s a little more than that, I think!”

I shrug and review my pen-alignment situation, then I snap the bag shut.

When I look up again, she’s beaming at me. Like she thinks I’m a heroic person.

It so helps.

I’m not a heroic person—in fact, I’m scared out of my wits, but I’m our last hope. It would probably be better for my friends if they had somebody else for their last-ditch effort to save our home, but they have me.

Maybe he’ll listen. Maybe he’ll rethink his wrecking ball plans. If there’s one thing I’ve learned after seven years of being a letter carrier, it’s that people sometimes surprise you, and more often than not, it’s a good surprise.

Then again, the person we’re talking about here is business mogul Malcolm Blackberg—the ultimate big bad.

Still.

I unsnap my bag and do one last check. In addition to my wallet and phone, I also have my iPad, two backup iPad chargers, extra subway tokens, and my pepper spray—not that I’ll need it, but I’ve gotten used to carrying it over the years.

I arrange my carefully curled hair in the mirror and then I clip on my favorite brown butterfly bow tie.

Francine comes up next to me. Her silky black hair is up in her ballerina bun, all ready to take and teach classes today. She groans at my reflection.

“Don’t even,” I say.

Two years I’ve lived here, two years my friends have teased me for wearing a butterfly bowtie whenever I have somewhere official to go. I know they see it as a total backwoods thing to wear in the big city, but I love how practical it is, like a cross between a small neck scarf and a bowtie, and I think it’s pretty, too. Most of all, it’s what I’m used to, and today of all days I need to feel comfortable.

Honestly, I find it unnerving to go new places alone when I’m not wearing my United States Postal Service letter carrier uniform, but I’ve figured out some non-work outfits in life that operate like my uniform, like the pantsuit and butterfly tie. I have several colors.

I like how uniforms take the guesswork out of dressing. For going out, I have a proven-cute skirt and top set that I copied from my friend, Mia—also in different colors. For staying home, I have a specific brand of yoga pants and T-shirts.

“Fashion-reeducation camp with armies of Tyra Banks clones working round-the-clock to break you of those weird ties! That’s what we need.”

“We’ll see,” I say. “Maybe when this is all over…”

Francine’s delicate features are suffused with sadness, making me wish I hadn’t said that.

Everything we say about the future is suffused with sadness because of Malcolm Blackberg.

He sent us all eviction notices last week. His dreaded wrecking ball is scheduled. Our beloved building will soon be rubble.

People from our building have tried to get meetings with him, called him, sent emails and even letters; we’ve visited lawyers, petitioned the city.

Nothing. Nobody seems to be able to get to Mr. Blackberg.

I’m determined to try.

“Forget it, you look cute,” she says. “You look like young Sissy Spacek.” She hugs me and wishes me luck.

Two subway rides and five blocks later, the August humidity has flattened out my curls—I can see this clearly in the gleaming row of glass doors of Blackberg Plaza. I pause, looking up at the six stories of polished black marble with actual gargoyles on top.

I belong here just as much as anyone else does,I whisper to myself, though I wish I had my uniform on.A letter carrier belongs everywhere.

---