Page 56
“Anyway, it’s Wednesday and—”
“It’s Tuesday.”
Shit. I’m already confusing my days. I hate when I do that.
“I need my shit washed now.”
His eyes bug out. “You can’t wash your own clothes.”
“I’ve been doing it since I was ten years old.”
“Not anymore. You’ll embarrass me.”
“You’re embarrassing me,” I say as I pass him with my laundry bag still in hand because yes, I am washing my own clothes. My last name isn’t Rhodes. I don’t have “people” for things.
“Son.”
I ignore him all the way into the laundry room that’s bigger than any kitchen we’ve ever had. It’s my first time stepping foot in it. Had I ventured in here sooner, I would’ve seen the baskets along the wall labeled with each of our names. All of them are full of dirty clothes except mine.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” I gesture at the baskets. I could’ve had my clothes washed before the weekend.
“Why didn’t you ask your stepsister to show you the ropes?”
I don’t have to see him to know he’s giving me the look.
“They just sit here, piling up?”
“Until Friday morning, when the dry cleaners pick them up.”
“All these are dry-clean only?”
“No. Those are stored separately.” He doesn’t bother giving any details on that process since we both know none of my clothes are dry-clean only. “Dry cleaners wash and fold, too.”
So that’s the secret to being rich, huh? You don’t do any of the grunt work yourself. You just focus on the money to pay others to do the grunt work for you.
I can see the appeal.
“So, here, just dump them…” My dad takes my bag from me, tipping it into the basket with my name on it.
“Old man, you’re about to make me catch a second case,” I grit, ripping the bag out of his hands.
Some of his accent slips out when he questions, “You gonna hit me, boy?”
“If I have to. I’m all out of clean clothes and I can’t wait until Friday.”
“You get them back Saturday.”
“You said Fri—”
“They can’t wash all this and get it back the same day. Use your head.”
Use my head. We’ve never gone to the dry cleaners for anything. How the hell am I supposed to know how they work?
“Just…take them somewhere.”
“I’m not taking my clothes anywhere. The washer and dryer are literally right here.” I point at the fucking machines, brand new by the looks of them.
When I reach into my appointed basket to grab the shirt that dropped in there, a thong on the top of another basket catches my eye. It’s small, black, and inside out, dried pussy juices smeared all over the crotch.
