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Tasha
PLAYLIST: ? CLEANING OUT MY CLOSET - ANGEL HAZE ?
Fourteen years earlier…
Zara’s criesdrown out any other noise in the apartment. I scowl and turn up the volume on my MP3 player. I’m trying to concentrate on my history homework, but it’s impossible when she gets so fussy. It’s not really her fault, though; she’s just hungry.
Mom was supposed to feed her over an hour ago.
She left as soon as I got home from school, saying she was going to the store. Zara was out of baby formula and we needed some other stuff too, like tomato sauce and noodles for dinner.
That was half past three in the afternoon.
I glance at the digital clock on the kitchen stove as the numbers blink, changing to 6:28 p.m. Clock-watching doesn’t help anything—I’ve wasted an hour sitting here, tapping my lead pencil against the dining room table, chewing on my bottom lip ’til it bleeds, and I’m still on the second question.
But it’s hard to concentrate when everything feels like chaos.
In the living room, Larry, mom’s latest boyfriend staying with us, is slumped on the couch passed out with his joint still between his lips. The TV’s on, playing the latest game. On the floor with a bunch of his Happy Meal toys sits Ramon, doing his best to play and ignore the fact that he hasn’t had dinner or done his homework yet either.
I return my gaze to my history book. Even the text gives me a hard time. It gets scrambled and takes me a moment to figure out what it says. Another reason why sometimes I take a while with my work. The words dance around, which makes reading frustrating, especially when everything’s so loud.
I really need at least a C on this assignment. I have a 68% in the class and the semester’s almost over. The only subject in school I’ve ever been good at is math. Unlike words, numbers make sense to me—moneyis easy to understand. I practically manage the household finances for Mom and have been since I was eleven. Probably the only thing I’m good at.
But it’s not like we have a lot of it. We’re always behind on the bills because Mom spends what we have on things she shouldn’t.
Like now.
The clock on the kitchen stove changes to 6:30 p.m., officially marking three hours she’s been gone. I know where she is, what she’s off doing. She probably won’t even return with any groceries. Hopefully she’s at least saved some cash for Zara’s formula.
As if she knows we’ve hit the three-hour mark, the six-month-old baby gives her most desperate wail yet.
Guilt pulls at my insides. I yank off my headphones, feeling like the worst big sister in the world, and go check on her. It’s not that I’m ignoring her—it’s that I don’t know what else to do. We don’t have any formula left and Mom took all the money, even the cash from the hidden spot under the mattress (I checked). Larry doesn’t care, and waking him up will only set off his temper.
Our neighbor across the hall, Ms. Bronson, used to help, but I think she got sick of Mom taking advantage. The last time I went over and asked to borrow money for some groceries for Zara, Ramon, and I, she slammed the door in my face. Telling a school counselor’s out of the question—the last time I got them involved, they called Mom to express their concern and I got the belt for snitching.
Besides, I’ve had friends from school who wound up in the system. That’s not something I want for Ramon and Zara. At least here, we’re together. Even if we have to deal with Mom and her vices.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” I coo, scooping up Zara into my arms. I bounce her around, hoping it’ll calm her down, but she only clings to me and cries harder. “Zara, you’ve gotta be patient. Mom’s gonna be back soon… hopefully.”
I can’t even lie with a straight face as I stare into her big, brown, teary eyes.
Mom’s not coming back anytime soon. Probably not even tonight.
Zara senses this, because her chubby-cheeked face scrunches up and she bursts into another cry. I bounce her around some more, holding her to my chest.
“Please, Zara, please, stop crying.”
I’m only fourteen. I don’t know how to care for a baby. I do my best, but sometimes it’s overwhelming. Then, being responsible for Ramon too, it’s way too much going on. My heart beats fast in my chest like I’m running when really I’m just panicking.
I don’t know what to do.
Neither of them have eaten. I haven’t either. We’re broke and Mom’s missing (again).
“Shut that baby up!” shouts Larry suddenly. “Can’t I sleep? She woke me up with all that damn crying.”
I wander out into the living room, still holding a wailing Zara. I glare at him, barely holding in what I really want to say—IhateLarry. I’ve never hated a person more.
“She’s hungry,” I say.
