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“Forget about my house. Let’s go,” I said sharply. He pulled his head back as if I had slapped him, but he walked out of the mall with me, a small smile on his lips.
I paused outside the entrance and turned to him.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you. People think it’s difficult being poor. Well, it can be difficult being rich, too. Everyone has so many expectations. You’re supposed to act this way and do this and be this.”
“So you’re the original poor little rich girl, huh?” he said, not much moved to be sympathetic.
I glared at him, and then I started to laugh at myself.
“Okay, okay, forget it,” I said, and led him to the SUV.
“Nice car. It looks brand-new,” he said, getting in.
“It is. My father bought it for my mother to use for her daily errands, but she won’t give up her Mercedes. She thinks it makes more of an impression when she pulls up to valet parking in a Mercedes and that’s important, even when she’s shopping at a department store.”
He smiled and looked out the window.
“I always thought there was something about you that was different from the other girls at school,” he said, still looking out the window. My heart began to thump harder and faster.
“What do you mean?”
He turned to look at me.
“You seemed… older, like you have had more experience, and I don’t mean just the kinds of things rich people can do. I guess I’m not that good at explaining things,” he concluded when I continued to look at him, keeping one eye on the road ahead. “Forget it,” he tagged on, almost angrily.
“No, I like that. I know what you mean, too.”
“Yeah? What do I mean?”
“You knew how much I hated being thought of as that poor little rich girl you just accused me of being.”
He laughed.
“Maybe, but give me the chance to hate being rich,” he said.
He followed that with more specific directions to his house. We drove into the city and to the very run-down neighborhoods. Many buildings looked like they had been condemned. They were obviously empty, their windows boarded or broken. Finally, in the midst of the garbage-laden empty lots, there was a small house with not much of a front lawn left, just some weeds and patches of wild grass. The driveway was broken and pitted. The house was a faded brown, with rust stains from the broken roof gutters streaking down the siding.
“Home sweet home,” he said.
I pulled into the driveway. He sat there staring at the house’s front windows.
“Looks like my mother’s not home,” he remarked, and then added, “Damn her.”
He got out angrily, seemingly forgetting all about me. I shut the engine off and followed him.
“You oughta just go,” he said at the door, waving behind himself as if he wanted to shoo me off. “Thanks.”
“It’s all right,” I told him.
He hesitated, and then he opened the front door. I couldn’t help grimacing at the smell. It was a combination of neglect, stale food, something that had burned in the stove, and cigarette smoke that was so embedded in the old, threadbare curtains and worn thin carpets and furniture, it would take a hurricane to wash it away.
There were toys scattered over the small entryway and hallway.
“Shawn,” Del screamed. “Where are you?”
A thin, dark-h
aired seven-year-old boy with sad and frightened brown eyes appeared in the living room doorway. Evidence of a recently eaten chocolate donut was smeared about his lips. His shirt was out of his pants, his fly wide open.
