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“I can’t right now, sweetie,” I say half-heartedly.
“Ee-ya.” His voice sounds different now. I look over at the closed door to my bedroom and see his little fingers wiggling at me from beneath the door.
I can’t help it; I roll out of bed and open the door. Dre grins and runs into the room, crawling into bed beside me.
“This my room,” he says as he pokes me in the stomach playfully.
“I know, thanks for sharing it with me.”
My eyelids slide closed as Dre gently jabs my tummy. I feel like I’ve been asleep for a long time when I feel him patting my cheek.
“Ee-ya, you wake up,” he says.
“I’m trying.”
“You make tea.”
“Can you make me some?”
Dre pretends to pour an invisible cup of tea into my mouth.
“Mmmm, so good,” I mumble.
“Dre, get in here and eat your eggs before they get cold!” Anita calls out.
Thank God. Maybe I can go back to sleep for another hour. All the studying and getting by on four or five hours of sleep a night is catching up with me.
“No mama, I want tea!” Dre yells.
It’ll be less than ten seconds before Anita is in this room telling Dre what’s up. She doesn’t put up with backtalk. My grandma and Anita would’ve gotten on well.
She doesn’t show up, though. I throw the covers off to make sure I won’t go back to sleep and force myself into a sitting position.
The apartment is freezing, as usual. Dre is wearing sweats and a sweatshirt, and little furry boots. I’ve learned to bundle up, because Anita keeps the thermostat at 65ºF in here during the winter.
I slide my feet into slippers and put a cardigan sweater on to go into the kitchen.
“Anita?” I say from the hallway.
It’s a quick trip because the apartment is very small. When I turn the corner and walk into the kitchen, Anita is standing in front of the sink, her back facing me and her head bowed.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She silently nods. That concerns me, because Anita is never silent.
“Hey,” I say softly, approaching her. “What’s going on?”
Her shoulders are shaking. I lay a hand on one and she bursts into tears, still staring into the sink.
In the eight months I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen Anita like this. She runs a tight ship, keeping track of Dre while working and going to law school. Everything in her life is controlled—she gets groceries on Saturday afternoons, carrying her file folder of coupons, and she does laundry at the place down the block on Tuesday evenings.
I gently guide her shoulder back, peeking around so I can see her face.
“Hey, how can I help?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “You ain’t got no way to help me.”
“Let’s talk about it.”
“Mama?” Dre comes into the room, looking at Anita with concern on his little face.
I steer him over to the kitchen table, where I pick up his plate of scrambled eggs and his fork.
“Mama said you can eat these while you watch cartoons today,” I tell him, setting the plate and fork on the small crate that serves as our coffee table.
“Yeah!” Dre pumps his fist as I hand him the remote and he scrolls through the channels.
Anita rarely lets Dre watch TV, and never while he’s eating. Her lack of protest tells me she’s really not feeling like herself.
When I get back into the kitchen, Anita takes a deep breath, wipes her cheeks and starts scrubbing the kitchen sink with a steel wool pad.
“Hey.” I reach out and touch her arm. “Let’s talk.”
“Everything’s fine.” She’s focusing all her energy and attention on scouring the sink, which isn’t even all that dirty.
“Anita,” I say firmly. “Everything is not fine. What’s going on?”
She tosses the steel pad into the sink and turns to me.
“It’s nothing new! I’m broke. Not just poor, Mia, broke. The rates at the daycare are going up, and my subsidy doesn’t cover that. My friend Jackie, who watches Dre on Wednesday evenings so I can go to my night class, is moving. That means one more evening I need daycare and I already can’t afford it. Groceries just keep getting more expensive, Dre needs a new coat…” She throws her hands in the air, tears glistening in her eyes. “What the hell do I do? Do I rent out my own bedroom and sleep on the couch with Dre?”
I lean back against the counter, knowing she doesn’t really want me to answer that question.
“I was a damn fool thinking I could get through law school,” she says bitterly. “It’s just a stupid dream that’s putting me in the poor house. I need to be working another job to take care of my son instead of going to school.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Anita, no. You are not quitting. This is your last year, isn’t it?”
