THE MORNING SUNLIGHT STREAKSacross my childhood bedroom.
I saychildhoodbedroom, but I’ve never actually lived anywhere else in the twenty-four years I’ve been alive, so it probably should just be called a bedroom.
But the light dances over the ragged carpet, my four-drawer dresser with its chipping paint where it sits by the door, and warms where I lie on my full-sized mattress.
Last week I bought a bed frame, and now, when the sun rises, it falls directly into my eyes.
Fucking great.
I thought the upgrade would make me feel less poor, but now it’s just interrupting my much-needed beauty rest.
I spend most of every day reminding myself of how miserably my mother and I live. If manifesting were a real thing, I’d consider our situationmyfault. But dwelling is a vice I’ve carried since I was a child, and I can’t seem to accept my place in life.
I want more; I will never have it.
So instead, I drag myself out of bed and take a shower, letting the lukewarm water wash over my sweaty body. The water nevergets fully hot in this neighborhood, and lately, it’s been getting toastier in the middle of the night.
Of all the years I’ve lived in Port Orford, I can’t remember ever sweating this much while I slept.
I don’t linger in the shower; Mom isn’t home, which means I have a chance at being long gone before she gets here. That is always my end goal: getting away from this crumbly two-bedroom house before she can arrive and tell me how much I’ve let her down.
So, after brushing my teeth and dressing in what I normally wear on a day off from the auto shop—a black Henley and some worn blue jeans—I run a hand through my blond hair, grab my essentials for the day, and slip out the front door.
I need a haircut. The tips of my hair have started to curl slightly, right over the tips of my ears, and the brushing of little strands makes me feel as if an incessant fly is buzzing around my head.
Once I get paid, I’ll take some of the money I stash away from Mom and go to the barber on 3rdStreet.
My Mustang sits on the curb with its peeling black paint and old body. The sun is peeking through the clusters of gray clouds that seem to hang over our little port town indefinitely, and I slip into the driver’s seat before the rain can fall and soak me through.
As I’m pulling away, my phone buzzes from where I’ve tossed it into the cupholder to my right.
It’s a text from Michael, asking if I want to meet up with our friends after basketball.
Michael is young—almost like the baby brother I’ve never had the luxury of calling my own. He’s eighteen and full of life and hope, things I lost a long time ago. We play on the same recreational basketball team at the community center, where I’m heading now, and I’m constantly reminded of how differently my life could have played out just by being around him.
How, if I had a mom who cared, maybe we’d have the means to live comfortably. Or if Dad were alive, maybe I would be more of a man.
But I shoot him ayesanyway, because anything is better than coming back home to my mom and her drinking buddies, even if thatanythingis the constant reminder that out of all our friends, I am the only one who has to hide what they come home to every night.
The drive to the community center only takes ten minutes—Port Orford really isn’tthatbig—and I’m soon parking my Mustang by the entrance and grabbing the duffel bag I keep in the backseat.
By the time I make it to the small men’s locker room, Michael is already there, changing into his basketball shorts and white t-shirt.
“Cam!” he shouts, running a hand through his short black hair as he grins at me.
“Hey, Mikey,” I answer, not quite as loudly, as I drop my duffel on the bench next to his.
“Ready for an intense workout sesh?” he asks. “I saw Carl bring a shit ton of cones out, so I think we’re doing drills today instead of a practice match.”
I suppress a groan, pulling off my jeans to slip on the pair of name-brand athletic shorts I bought a few weeks ago—the ones I rewash and wear to every practice. Affording several Nike pieces is not in my budget.
“I guess,” I mutter, pulling my Henley off and replacing it with a worn-out muscle tank.
Michael laughs. “Don’t sound so disappointed. The drills will keep those muscles nice and big, bro.”
To emphasize his point, Michael pinches my bicep, making me jump.
He’s not necessarily wrong. I’ve put a lot of work into my body—maybe another inferiority thing—and maintaining it is a big deal to me. It’s the reason why I do free yardwork for Eric, who runs Port Orford’s only gym, so that I can have a free membership.
