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She looks over her shoulder.
“If I text you, will you text back?”
“I guess there’s only one way to find out.” And with that, she disappears into the darkness.
5 THE UPS AND DOWNS OF IT ALL
Winter
Timing really is everything.
If I’d been faster getting out the door this morning, BJ and I might not have almost collided. If my reaction time had been slower, his side panel might have a me-shaped dent.
If I’d been less on the fence about giving him my number, he might have been gone by the time my dad came down the driveway. Or conversely, if I’d said yes to the diner, I could have avoided my dad altogether. Though then I might have been served by my mom, depending on how late she worked. No one needs that level of awkward.
Hanging out with rich kids is already conflicting. Did I have fun? Absolutely. Do I want to do it again? For sure. Is it a good idea? I don’t know. In the moment it’s awesome, but afterward I go back to not having enough, which makes me wish what they have could be mine for more than a couple of hours at a time.
And BJ? Well, he makes me want a lot of things.
The rain picks up as I reach the garage. I slip in and turn on the light. The space is a disorganized mess of dump worthy items, and it smells like stale beer, cigarettes, and mold. There are several clear garbage bags full of empties.
I hang my bike on the hook, so my dad doesn’t get pissed about it taking up too much space, and lay my equipment out to dry, peppering them with dryer sheets to keep them fresh between washings.
I’m on edge when I enter the house, unsure what I’m going to find. My dad going out at this time of night isn’t unheard of, but it’s often precipitated by a fight. My mom must have come home after the dinner rush, because she’s sitting on the couch with a two-liter bottle of diet cola—the no-name brand—and a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She’ll quit for a while, but she starts up again whenever she’s stressed. Seems like we’re back in the death-dart cycle.
She glances over when I walk through the door. Her eyes are red, and a pile of tissues sits beside her on the ancient, threadbare couch. Her expression shifts from sadness to guilt as she taps the cigarette, ash landing in the disposable metal tart shell.
“I’m not starting again. I just needed to take the edge off.” The end flares red as she takes a deep haul.
I hate that they smoke in the house. I put dryer sheets in my dresser drawers and shove a towel under my door at night to keep the smell out of my clothes as much as possible.
“Was he shitty because the lawn needs mowing?” I ask.
She shrugs. “He was in a mood. Didn’t like what I brought home for dinner. I don’t know why I bother trying. I should just leave, see how he manages without me.”
It’s an empty threat. One she makes occasionally, but only when she’s annoyed with dad and only to me. “Or you could kick him out. The trailer is an option.” A girl can dream.
“He won’t survive on his own. The only can that man knows how to open is the kind that’s full of beer.” She takes another pull from her cigarette and hugs a pillow to her chest.
I lean against the edge of the kitchen counter, close to the open screen door, where I can breathe fresh air. This topic is going nowhere good, and I know better than to put too many ideas in my mother’s head. Otherwise I’m liable to get thrown under the bus. Not intentionally, but sometimes she runs her mouth to my dad without thinking things through.
“I bought a pound of ground beef today with my tips,” I say. “It’s in the fridge behind the coleslaw mix. I’ll soak kidney beans and make chili tomorrow night, if you want. I made sure we have everything we need.”
Her eyes light up. “That would be amazing. Maybe we can grab a bag of tortilla chips and some cheese. That’ll almost be like nachos, and it’ll go further.”
That’s always the goal with protein—make it last as long as possible since we often can’t afford it. “I can pick up a bag tomorrow. See if maybe there’s a sale.” My stomach rumbles, the energy I expended on the ice catching up with me.
“That sounds good.” She nods absently, takes one last drag on her cigarette before she butts it out.
I put the beans in a pot to soak and pull the loaf of whole grain bread from the freezer. My dad won’t touch the stuff, mostly because he has the taste buds of a three-year-old and only likes meat, potatoes, white bread, and cheese.
“You hungry for cheese toast?”
She shakes her head.
I pull out three slices. She often changes her mind once the smell of food hits her. “You sure?”
She waves a hand. “Go on then.”
