Rebel

Rebel Malone’s heels click-clacked on the faux cobblestone pavement of Fremont Street as she dodged through the crowds of tourists and street performers.

She’d already seen two old men in banana hammocks, more pasties than she could count, and at least half a dozen off-brand cartoon characters during the short walk from her car.

It was hardly past noon, but in Las Vegas, debauchery got an early start—especially in August, when the average temperature was 109 degrees. People feared the mafia, but the desert sun had a much higher body count.

She had an obscene number of business meals in the recently-trendy corner of downtown. She didn’t mind; it was only a ten-minute drive from her apartment.

She wore a teal summer dress that hugged her curves. As she rushed to collect a donation—her second of the day—she plastered on a convincing phony smile to hide a truth she carried everywhere: Rebel hated rich people.

She took a sharp left onto Las Vegas Boulevard, heading toward the doors to the Golden Goose Hotel and Casino, but veered to the side before going in.

“Gerald,” she half-shouted over the noisy crowds.

She squatted carefully, praying she didn’t flash her panties at any passersby.

Like many unhoused people in Vegas, Gerald sought refuge just outside the entrance to a busy casino. The canopy provided shade from the blistering sun, the aggressive air conditioning offered the occasional blast of cool air, and with dozens of people walking in and out every minute, he went virtually unnoticed.

“Hi, Gerald,” she said.

She dug through her oversized purse and handed Gerald two bottles of water and a bag of chips.

“I’ll be out with food in about an hour.”

“I’ll be here.”

Rebel stood and smiled as she walked into the casino.

The truth was, Rebel always felt more comfortable with clients like Gerald than she did with rich donors—but her parents had taught her to work with the gifts you’re given.

Unfortunately for her, her gift was charming the bourgeois.

Rebel stepped into the glorious air conditioning and slipped her blazer on.

She gave herself a once-over in a mirrored wall. She blinked a few times and blew a stray eyelash off her cheek. She adjusted her black semi-rimless glasses. Her coffee-colored hair always picked up golden highlights in late summer.

Spotting a bracelet on her right wrist, she switched it to the left so her tattoo was visible. She petted the little lion and traced the foreign phrase with her fingertip.

Binti ya simba ni simba.

She took a deep breath and reminded herself these people were donating money to an excellent cause—out of the kindness of their hearts.

Or for tax deductions and social clout. But sure, let’s call it kindness.

She pushed open the doors to Goldie’s and marched in.

She passed the busy counter and slipped quietly into the banquet room.

“Rebel!” Stephanie Matteson shrieked when she spotted her.

Stephanie was a hugger—one of those full-body, backbone-crushing, perfume-transfer hugs.

She wrapped her arms around Rebel in a squeeze so tight, Rebel always feared Stephanie's implants would pop like overinflated balloons and douse her in silicone and boob juice.

“Stephanie! Always a pleasure,” she said through a smile tight enough to crack a molar.

“I’m delighted that you could make it,” Stephanie beamed.

“Me too,” Rebel replied, dripping with artificial sincerity.

In truth, Stephanie only hosted luncheons if Rebel was available. She wasn’t going to just mail a check like a peasant—she needed to perform her philanthropy.

Luckily for both women, Rebel had a plan. A local newspaper wanted to do a segment on The Poverty Project, and they loved candid shots of “community leaders.” Stephanie had practically begged to participate.

“Your reporter is here,” Stephanie said. “We’ve got about twenty minutes until guests arrive. Is that enough time?”

“We’ll make it work,” Rebel assured her.

The two women parted—Stephanie to micromanage centerpieces, Rebel to stage her own press coverage.

The reporter and photographer sat quietly in the corner. Rebel kept her smile painted on and approached.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m Rebel Malone. You must be from the RJ.”

Both men stood to greet her.

“Yes, Ms. Malone,” one said.

They were medium height, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and tanned—like a matched set in RJ polos.

“I’m Joaquin,” he said. “This is my photographer and brother, Freddy.”

Rebel had recently read an erotic novel about two brothers that loved the same woman, and it was hot. She smiled crookedly, remembering the steamier scenes.

“It’s lovely to meet you both,” she said. “Please, call me Rebel.”

She shook their hands.

“I’m afraid we’re a little short on time, so let’s jump in.”

“Sounds good,” Joaquin said. “Have a seat.”

Rebel sat across from them.

“I’ve got all the official info about your organization,” he said. “Stats, mission, contact stuff.”

“Great,” Rebel said.

“Now I just need some info about you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. It’s always good to have a pretty face for the company.”

“Oh, sure,” she said, with the faintest smile.

Being the pretty face of the company is literally my full-time job, jackass.

“Rebel is a unique name,” he said. “Were your parent's just huge UNLV fans?"

“No. My great-grandfather was an Irish freedom fighter, he had it tattooed on his arm. His son took the nickname as a boxer, and my parents liked the sound of it—so here I am.”

“Where are you from, and how long have you been in the Valley?”

“I’m originally from Iowa. I moved here six years ago. The pandemic had just ended, Vegas was one of the worst-hit economies, and I figured I could help.”

“Tell me about your family.”

Rebel swallowed hard.

“My parents had me later in life. I was an only child. They met in nursing school and spent about twenty years together doing humanitarian work. They were trained nurses, but their passion was global aid.

Before I was born, they vaccinated remote Ethiopian tribes, installed plumbing in Indian convents, built schools in Malaysia, helped leprosy patients transition into modern facilities in Japan…”

“Wow.”

“After I came along, they shifted to local volunteering for a few years. Soup kitchens, bake sales, horseback therapy for the Special Olympics.

But when I was old enough, we started traveling again.

I missed so much school that by second grade, they pulled me out and homeschooled me full-time.”

“What was that like?”

“We could pack a bag and hop a plane in twenty-four hours. That was just… life. I missed a lot of typical American-kid stuff, but I had a passport full of stamps and was done with my associate’s degree by the time I finished high school.”

“So you were raised for this kind of work.”

“I think so. We all have gifts.

Honestly, I thought I’d be building homes in Haiti. But my gift is convincing people to care about needs in their own backyards.

So here I am.”

“Your parents must be proud.”

“I’d like to think so. My dad died suddenly when I was seventeen—heart attack. My mom passed five years ago. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. I’m their legacy, and I’ll keep fighting the good fight on behalf of all three of us.”

“That’s remarkable,” he said, practically swooning. “Tell me how you ended up at the Poverty Project. You moved out here to work with someone else, right?”

“Yes. I moved to work with the Diaper Bank. Babies are easy to advocate for. People love babies.

Nobody loves the guy outside 7-Eleven with a stump and a cardboard sign. That’s why I’m here. I love a good challenge.

There are 127,000 empty homes in Vegas. And people still sleep on the street.

I’ve seen people donate thousands to build a school in Ecuador, but cross the street to avoid someone panhandling in their own neighborhood.”

“I’ve noticed people tie homelessness to addiction.”

“About half the unhoused struggle with addiction,” she said. “A third have mental illness. Half have chronic health problems or disabilities.”

She leaned in closer, as if she were telling them a secret. “But ultimately, we don’t help people because of who they are. We help people because of who we are.”

Cue Angel’s voice in my head: Save it for your manifesto. Just give them the stats.

“This is perfect,” Joaquin said. “I got some great quotes.”

“Wonderful. You’re welcome to stay for lunch.”

“Perfect. We’ll grab some photos too.”

“Thanks again. I really appreciate the coverage.”

He smiled—flirty this time. She turned and walked away.

Awkwardly flirt with a journalist in a room full of Botox Barbies? Hard pass.

Soon the room started filling with women who clapped and kissed each other’s cheeks when they met.

When you spend enough time with trophy wives, they start to blend together. They were cosmetically perfect and symmetrical—but instead of making them beautiful, it made them look like variations of the same person.

Stephanie was the blondest of the group, but she had no other distinct physical traits. She had the same Botoxed lips, the same contoured cheekbones, and the same nose that must’ve been on a surgeon’s wall with a number next to it.

They all have the exact same nose. Their plastic surgeon must order them in bulk. She smiled and shook hands with everyone.

She gave a short speech about homelessness in Las Vegas—crafted specifically for people who didn’t want to see it.

People thought Rebel was quirky. Glasses—even couture ones—curly hair in its natural state, and an authentic, if not entirely flawless, freckled face made her seem like a novelty.

Rebel glanced down at her freckled arm.

Do people get freckles removed?

Then the standard chit-chat began. Stephanie fed the crowd bits of information about Rebel. They pretended to care and asked easy questions to prove they were paying attention. Rebel gave memorized answers with a polite smile.

Servers made laps around the table, refilling water glasses and offering wine. Rebel politely shook her head when the server attempted to pour her a glass of white. Most of these women didn’t have a job to return to after lunch, but she did.

More servers appeared with trays of pasta. Rebel was relieved the meal was at least something she recognized.

Despite most of the women hovering somewhere between a size 00 and size 2, they put away the pasta impressively fast. Rebel was a size 8—if she skipped lunch—and could barely keep up.

Must be their carb allowance for the week.

The informal interview continued during the main course. Rebel answered questions with pleasant precision.

Soon, cherry pie à la mode was placed in front of each guest.

Goldie’s made the best pie in the city. It was the only reason Rebel looked forward to this event. Besides the check at the end.

“I met Rebel at a function that the Senator put on,” Stephanie told the group.

“That’s right,” Rebel agreed.

“Really?” a blonde asked.

“Yes,” Rebel told her. “Senator Gutierrez was a practicing dermatologist before he took office. Years before that, he was a doctor in the armed forces.

He spent a few years in Hawaii during his time in the military, so he was familiar with their “housing-is-healthcare” initiative.

As a medical doctor, he knew that healthcare, housing, and counseling were the best tools to fight homelessness.

He’s a big supporter of the Poverty Project. He visits all of our cooling stations at least once a year and does skin exams for our clients.”

“Isn’t he just something?” Stephanie said, rhetorical and glowing. “I’ll tell you, if I wasn’t married…”

“He’s something,” Rebel agreed sweetly.

If you ignore the fact that he’s part of a corrupt system and gets handsy after two drinks.

She finished her pie, noting that almost an hour had passed since she had arrived. She reminded herself not to fidget as the table was cleared and the room grew quiet.

She didn’t have any urgent matters to attend to at work. She just didn’t want to be there anymore.

The photographer stood at attention, ready to capture the moment of fake generosity.

“Shall we get down to business?” Stephanie asked sweetly.

“Sure,” Rebel replied, trying not to seem too eager.

Stephanie picked up an expensive-looking black leather clutch and popped it open. She pulled out a mirror and a tube of lipstick, touched up her lips, and returned both to the bag. Then she pulled out a check.

The servers arrived with champagne.

“This is for you,” Stephanie whispered.

“Thank you,” Rebel said, slipping the check into her coat pocket without looking at it.

She knew the drill: real check delivered discreetly, followed by a photo op with the oversized one. Then the novelty version got pinned on the Wall o’ Giant Checks at the office, so everyone knew these ladies were generous.

“Here we go,” Stephanie said, rising from her chair.

Rebel followed, standing beside her. The other women sat patiently, looking more excited than they probably felt.

Someone held the giant check just out of camera range, ready to hand it to Stephanie. She held it backwards, and despite Rebel’s best efforts, she couldn’t read the amount.

“On behalf of the Green Valley Women’s Club,” Stephanie began, flashing an expensive, toothy smile, “I would like to present the Poverty Project with this check…”

She paused dramatically.

“For five thousand dollars.”

The group clapped frantically, pretending to be surprised.

Rebel smiled and placed her hands on the check for the photographer. There was a long moment of camera flashes and applause before she could speak.

“From all of us at the Poverty Project,” Rebel said, “I cannot adequately express our gratitude for your incredibly generous donation.

This is much more than we could have hoped for, and it will do a lot of good for the homeless community in Las Vegas.”

Stephanie stood frozen while the photographer clicked away.

After another moment, Rebel politely placed the giant check down for the customary handshaking pictures.

Then came the standard hug photo—meant to signify that Rebel was overcome with emotion and gratitude.

She had dozens of these in a drawer at the office.

Once the photographer stepped away to get shots of Stephanie’s entourage, the donor’s face returned to normal.

“How great that you could make it today,” she told Rebel again. The photographs were done, and Stephanie and her friends just wanted to get day-drunk without judgment.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Rebel lied.

“I’m glad to hear it. You have the list of guests, right?”

“Yes,” Rebel assured her. “I got an email this morning.”

“Your company will handle the thank you cards?”

“Yes, of course. You’ve already done too much.”

Sending thank-you cards was a great excuse to reach out to even more rich people and collect more donations.

“It’s the least we can do.”

“Well, we’re thrilled to help,” Stephanie said. “I suppose you must get back to the office?”

“I must, unfortunately,” Rebel told her. “And to the bank.” She held up the giant check as evidence.

Stephanie laughed and gave her another hug.

“Well, I hope to see you again soon,” she said. “Tell the Senator I said hi.”

“I will,” Rebel promised. “Thank you again.”