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“They’re gifts from my wishlist,” I say. “I guess I have a secret admirer or something.”
Her hand lifts to the collar of her coat as if she’s warding off evil. “You have men buying you things? Didn’t your mother teach you anything?”
“No, she didn’t, actually.”
I could tell her they’re not from a man, but I don’t know if that’s strictly true. No one will admit to being my benefactor. My best guess is that my friends have all banded up to make sure I have the things I need. A new backpack for Izzy. Larger clothes for her. An industrial-sized jug of soap. A new thermometer. Simple things that I can’t really afford. I shouldn’t accept the gifts, and I definitely shouldn’t keep adding to the list. But those little gifts, those signs that someone is looking out for me, are food for a starved soul. So I keep adding things to the list, and I keep accepting them with a grateful heart.
Damn her for making me feel bad about it.
“Well, she should have,” Mrs. Longhorn harrumphs, then passes by, pulling out a packet of cigarettes as she goes.
I’m tempted to say her mother should have taught her not to smoke, but that would only prolong an unpleasant conversation. Instead, I give her back the finger once she’s passed me, then try the keys again. Nothing.
So I do what I always do when I have car trouble. I take off my gloves so I can call my best friend, Tank.
Tank runs an auto repair shop, and if not for him, Vanny would have been relegated to a scrap heap years ago. Literally. He gave the van to me as a Christmas gift several years ago after I sent him a blog post about the growth potential of mobile businesses.
Then again, it seems like my old camper van is still headed that way. Every week something new goes wrong. Maybe cars are like people and there’s only so long they can last, regardless of how well you care for them.
Tank picks up on the second ring. “Are you okay?”
No. “Why is that the first question everyone always asks me?”
“You’re supposed to be working at the diner right now.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” I say, being a bit prickly, because even I know it’s not professional to call in sick so you can devote time to what is essentially a hobby.
Especially if you have a child to support on your own.
Especially if you just learned that you need to get expensive ear tube surgery for your child—surgery you will probably be paying for in installments for the rest of your natural life.
You’re getting paid for the event today, I reassure myself. More than if you worked your shift, probably. But it doesn’t make me feel less guilty. The payment still won’t be large enough to cover the time and expenses I’ve already put into this enterprise, and I’m not going to get paid at all if I can’t get Vanny moving.
Breathe in, breathe out.
I close my eyes tightly, shutting everything out, my hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s a life preserver. I lean forward, resting my forehead against the cool, peeling leather, the phone still pressed to my ear.
I need this to work out. I need it bad.
If only ear surgery were something I could add to my Amazon wishlist.
My brother would help me cover the cost, but I hate asking him for money.
“Something’s wrong with Vanny,” Tank says with the confidence of someone who knows me well.
“He won’t start,” I say, feeling my heart speed up in my chest. “I’m supposed to run a bookmobile event at Buchanan Brewery’s southside location in half an hour, and he won’t start.”
Getting the gig at Buchanan had felt like a big deal. Buchanan Brewery is one of the biggest breweries in town, and sure, I don’t expect that many people on a Monday afternoon, but then again, this town runs on tourists. Local kids might be in school, but rich people pull their kids out of school all the time so they can go on vacation. They probably have nannies or au pairs who come with them and teach their children French while they sip on craft beers and talk about the shitty economy.
I wish I were a rich person.
Instead, I’m a hustler always trying to make something happen. It really feels like I have an idea that might grow legs this time…
Whenever I open up the back of Vanny, I feel a magical tingle that I’ve only previously experienced while watching Izzy leave her room on Christmas morning. Or, let’s be honest, when I’m falling in love with a terrible man. I built bookshelves into his sides and stacked them full of thousands of storybooks. Little fairy lights line the interior, and on the exterior there’s a beautiful mural that Tank’s friend painted for me, based off one of Izzy’s drawings. There are poofs and stuffed animals and drawing pages, and it’s basically the best place on earth for little people to hang out while their parents watch them from a short distance away and drink.
I’ve also formed a partnership with Dog is Love, a local animal shelter, and they’re bringing an adoptable dog today for the kids to read to. I mean, who wouldn’t want to do that? And, yes, the only reason Buchanan Brewery took my call is because the owner of the shelter is married to the events director, but you’ve got to take your breaks when you get them.
Izzy begged me to let her stay home from Kindergarten so she could come, because the one thing she wants more than a functional household is a dog. I couldn’t let her skip school, but I did promise to take pictures.
