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Stella
Igripthesheettighter around me as I watch the morning sunlight filter through the dirty blinds.
A heavy ball settles in the pit of my stomach as I amreminded that it isthe first of the month.
Bills aredue.
Rent needed to be paid, and my mom had been on another month-long bender, and I was sure that the little money she had received from her government assistance was long gone.
The sound of a car backfiring and dogs barking echoed through the thin, trailer walls. I really hated it here.
My alarm blared, another reminder that a new day was starting, and I was still trapped in this endless cycle of shit. Throwing the sheets off of me, I get out of bed and pad across the dingy floor of my small bedroom. After a cold shower, I dress in a pair of tight jeans and the only clean t-shirt I could find. By the time I walked out of the trailer, my best friend, Ally, was already waiting outside for me.
Her neon green Jeep was about twenty-years-old and sounded like it would blow up if she pushed the accelerator too far. It was her dads, before he was killeda few years ago in a convenience store robbery. Now, she drove us to school, while her mom entertained men to pay the bills.
We were trash.
Discarded and looked down upon because we didn’t have money like the elite members of the Savannah Proper Society. As I moved toward her Jeep, I stopped and pulled up the tarp I had thrown over the motorcycle I kept hidden near the trash cans. No one knew it was there, and I felt a spark of excitement course through my veins at the thought.
Glancing back at the door, I spotted the notice from our landlord taped to the front door. We were already behind from last month and I didn’t have the money yet. Ripping the paper from the door, I crumpled it in my hand and threw it on the rotting front steps.
“Hey,” Ally called, as I jumped into the Jeep.
“Hey,” I acknowledged, as I nestled into the worn, passenger seat.
“Rough morning?” she asked, giving me a glance.
“You could say that,” I grumble.
Ally always knew when to shut up, and I loved that about her. We both knew that sometimes, talking about what was bothering us was worse than the problem itself.
We drove through town as we made our way toward Carver Heights High School. When people thought of Savannah, Georgia, they typically imagined the lush Spanish Moss trees, romantic historic districts, and coble stone streets. What they didn’t envision were the dirty streets with rundown homes. We made up the part of Savannah that wasn’t glamorous and romantic. The north- west side of Savannah is where I live and where tourists and the rich never venture down to. The southeast part of Savannah is where most of the wealthy live. We pass by the sign for Carver Heights, one of the crime capitals of Savannah, and where I live.
Even the damn city sign looks depressing with its worn wood and paint-chipped letters.
Ally turns up the music and rolls down the windows, allowing the soft, gentle breeze to race through my long, blonde hair. The air conditioner wasn’t working in the trailer and the muggy nights were almost unbearable. I needed to make some money soon so I could pay to have it repaired. I had no idea when my mom would come home and without a dad, I was on my own.
To be honest, I preferred it that way.
I chewed on my fingernail and Ally quickly glanced my way. “What’s wrong?” she asked, as she ran a hand through her brown hair.I guess she finally decided to check in on me. I wasn’t usually this silent and I could tell that she was worried.
Ally could always tell when I was anxious or stressed. We had been friends since we were five-years-old when we met in the center of the street of the trailer park. No one cared to watch us, so we began to watch out for one another. She was the only one who truly understood what it was like to live like scrum.
“I’m almost out of money,” I sighed.
“Do you have another race coming up?” she asked, her tone lowering.
Ally hated that I raced my motorcycle for money. She thought it was reckless and dangerous. While she wasn’t wrong, it was the only way that I was guaranteed quick cash unless I planned on stripping—which was completely out of the question.
Sadly, most girls where we live end up stripping at the local strip clubs, or hustling on the streets. Those were ideas I was willing to entertain. Regardless of where I came from, I wanted more out of life than this.
Thankfully, one of my mom’s old boyfriends had left his bike after he had been arrested and she kicked him out. To be honest, he wasn’t a bad guy. His name was Matt, and he had been the first boyfriend of moms that was decent and didn’t try to hit on me. He taught me how to ride the bike and always kept food in the house. Though, when he got arrested for dealing drugs, he left, and I never saw him again. I had originally thought about selling the thing for parts, but I decided against it. I continued to teach myself how to ride the bike,and then realized that not only did I enjoy riding the bike, but I had found illegal races nearby where I could make money. My neighbor, Johnny, was talking about it one night and I had listened intently to his conversation. At first, when I had entered, guys laughed at me and didn’t take me seriously. However, after I beat them all, they started allowing me to race against them. Now, I was making enough money to cover rent and other bills, too.
Ally had managed to get a job waiting tables at a small diner near where we lived. She earned barely enough tips to buy groceries, but at least her mom made sure the main bills were paid. I wasn’t that lucky.
I’m on my own.
Nodding, I stare out the window, watching as we pass by the old, run-down buildings that line the dirty streets. Up ahead, I can see the skyline of downtown Savannah and for just a brief moment, I am given hope that maybe one day, I won’t be stuck on this ugly side forever.
