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“Mom,” I hiss again. “Come on.”
But Jim lurches forwards then, arms flailing.
“She ain’t wakin’ up,” he slurs. “Nobody gonna save you.”
Nicole screams and cowers behind me. I can see why. Our dad is out of control, his arms windmilling wildly as he staggers to a stop, leaning heavily against the counter.
“Ain’t nobody gonna help you now,” he rasps with that gap-toothed smile. Oh god, my dad’s teeth are horrifically rotted, greyish black looking from lack of hygiene, and instinctively, we recoil. “You stuck with us.”
But I know that’s not true. I’ll get us out of here. I’m making money, even if it’s from a site called Sugar Babiez.
“Go get your things,” I whisper urgently to Nicole behind my back. “Just grab a bag and throw some things in.”
But Nicole is crying so loudly she doesn’t even hear me.
Suddenly, my mom jerks awake.
“Knock it off! He barely touched you! Ain’t like that never happened before. My paw paw gave it to me a lot worse and with a belt too!” she screeches before slumping into another stupor.
Oh god, oh god.
“Go Nicole,” I hiss. “Get your stuff now.”
My sister scurries into her room, stifled sobs sounding as she runs.
Jim leers my way.
“All she does is cry. From the time she came back from that damn hospital,” my dad sneers, slamming the refrigerator shut. “How do we give her back?”
I’m so enraged that words escape me, eyes bulging.
“Give her back? She’s your daughter,” the words spit from my lips.
But he doesn’t even care, peering into the fridge again.
“Where’s the beer? You drink my beer Carrie?” he demands, suddenly dead serious, pale blue eyes snapping to life.
But I don’t care.
“There’s no more beer. We don’t have anything,” is my furious retort.
Jim raises his hand threateningly, palm open.
“You’re so fucking sassy for no reason. Go clean up your room or something,” he hisses, gesturing my way.
But I don’t care if he hits me. I’d bear those marks with pride, standing up to these two monsters.
“How about you all go back to wherever you’ve been for the past few days. Go and never come back! We don’t need you!” I shriek. “All you do is mess things up!”
My mom snaps awake again and lurches up from the sofa like a zombie coming to life. It’s scary to see, she’s twig thin, her skin ravaged, eyes empty.
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” Rhonda rasps shakily, leaning heavily on a table. “Who do you think you are?”
Jim smirks.
“She acts like she pays rent around here. You ain’t the boss, Carrie,” he sneers. “Not by a long shot.”
But then I pull my trump card.
“No one pays the rent around here. I saw the eviction notice,” is my hurled accusation. “Don’t even try to deny it.”
Flat silence.
And then my dad opens the fridge again, like nothing’s wrong.
“Didn’t you hear me?” my voice grows louder with each word. “We’re being evicted. We’re gonna have to pack our stuff and get gone,” I say, almost screaming, wiping at my eyes now. “They gave us thirty days, and I figure we have oh, about ten left.”
But Jim and Rhonda don’t even blink, my dad locating a beer behind a half-empty milk carton. The top pops, and there’s the hiss of escaping gas loud in the apartment.
I stare at them again.
“Don’t you care?” is my painful sob. “Don’t you care what happens to us?”
But silence greets me again. Then my dad shrugs.
“Carrie, I need some money,” he says casually, like we weren’t just in a screaming match. “You got some cash?”
My eyes goggle at him.
“You must be kidding,” I manage, the words strangled. “You must be joking.”
But then my mom staggers towards me.
“You’re right, you’re right,” she coos. “We haven’t been so good, but me and Jim, we’ll be around more often now. You got some cash, baby girl? We sure could use it. Maybe buy some bread, some cheese, mmmm, I know you like your swiss cheese.”
I almost choke. Swiss cheese is way beyond our budget, we’ve been eating government “cheese product” from the local 99 cent discount store that isn’t even real. And I choke again, tears coming fast down my cheeks now.
“I don’t have anything, Mommy. Not anything,” is my quiet reply.
“Naw, baby girl,” she circles me unsteadily. “There’s something different about you.” The woman literally stops and sniffs the air in my direction, like a bloodhound. “There’s something different about you. Your hair’s shinier. Your skin’s smooth, and sweetheart, is that a new sweater?”
I look down. It’s one of the nice ones I bought myself way back when Mason first paid me. Unlike our other clothes, the colors are bright and vibrant, the fit and craftsmanship unmistakable.
“I say you got a hundred dollar sweater on,” Rhonda continues. “Something from the department store, not Goodwill. You got something,” she accuses, eyes going squinty. “You got something in your pocket.”
