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STRICTLY SPEAKING, I HAVE NEVER BEEN ENGULFED BY A MUD-slide and had my seizing body dragged down the jagged, rocky face of a mountain to be summarily deposited at its foothills and fed to the wild boars. However, I can imagine that if I were to find myself in a similar scenario, it would be no more painful than the week that comes after I get fired.
There are several reasons. For one, I don’t want to worry Mom or my sisters, which means not telling them that Bob fired me, which means finding a place to hide during the day while I search for another job. Not easy, considering that it’s still August in New Jersey, and that free places with AC and Wi-Fi are not common enough in the year of our Lord 2023. I find myself rediscovering the Paterson Public Library: it’s changed very little since I was seven, and welcomes me and my battered laptop to its underfunded bosom.
God bless libraries.
“Upon exhaustive investigation,” I tell Easton on the phone on Thursday night, after a day of less- than- fruitful research, “I discovered that youcannotpay bills with Candy Crush gold bars. A travesty. Also, to be hired as an auto mechanic by someone who’s not your crab- enthusiast uncle, you need fancy things like certifications and references.”
“And you don’t have them?”
“No. Though I do have thatMallory the Car Mechanesscomic Darcy drew me when she was eight. Think that might count?”
She sighs. “You know you have another option, right?”
I ignore her, and spend the following day looking for something else—anythingelse. Paterson is the third- biggest city in New Jersey, dammit. There has got to be a job,anyjob for me, dammit. Though it also happens to have the third- highest density in the United States, meaning lots of competition. Dammit.
Also, dammit: the red numbers that blink at me later that night when I peek at the online bank account Mom gave me access to once Dad wasn’t in the picture anymore. My belly knots over.
“Hey,” I tell Sabrina when I find her alone in the living room. I shove my hands down into my pockets to avoid wringing them. “About those derby fees.”
She looks up from her phone, eyes scared wide open, and blurts out, “You’re going to pay them, right?”
My eyes are scratchy from staring at a screen all day, and for a moment— a horrible, terrifying, disorienting moment—I am angry with her. With my beautiful, intelligent, talented fourteenyear- old sister who doesn’t know, doesn’t understand how hard I’m trying. WhenIturned fourteen— on the very stupid day of my stupid birthday— everything changed, and I lost Dad, I lost chess, I lost the verymeI’d been, and since then all I’ve done is try to—
“Mal, can you please not screwthis one thingup for me?”
The “unlike everything else” is unsaid, and the swelling bubble of anger bursts into guilt. Guilt that Sabrina has to ask for what is due to her. If it hadn’t been for my stupid decisions, we’d have had no problem affording her fees.
I clear my throat. “There’s been a mix-up at the credit union. I’ll go check tomorrow, but could you ask for an extension? Just a couple of days.”
She gives me a level stare. “Mal.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll pay as soon as I can.”
“It’s okay.” She rolls her eyes. “Deadline’s next Wednesday.”
“What?”
“I just told you a few days earlier because Iknowyou.”
“You little— ” I gasp, relieved, and flop on the couch to tickle her. In thirty seconds I have maneuvered her into a hug, and she laughs while sayingyikesandgrossandSeriously, Mal, you’re embarrassing yourself.
“Why do you smell like old books and apple juice?” she asks. “Do we have apple juice?” I nod silently and go to the kitchen to pour her a glass, choked in my throat because of how much I love my sisters, and how little I can give them.
That night, my Gmail snoozes an unanswered message from [email protected] 5 days ago. Reply?I stare at it for a long time, but don’t open it.
On Saturday and Sunday I get a lucky break: a couple gigs— yard work for a neighbor I sometimes babysit for; dog walking— and it’s nice to have some cash, but it’s not sustainable, not long term and not with a mortgage.
“It just needs to be paid,” the credit union teller says on Monday morning, when I show her thereminder, urgent,you are behind and failing at taking care of your family, you useless member of societyletter. “Preferably, all three overdue months.” She gives me an assessing look. “How old are you?” I don’t think I look younger than my age, but it doesn’t matter, because eighteen’splenty young, even when it feels anything but. Maybe I’m just a child playing at grown-up. If that’s the case, I’m losing. “You should probably let your mom handle this,” the teller says, not unkindly. But Mom’s having a terrible week, one of the worst since the nightmare of her diagnosis started, and we probably need to change her meds again, but that’s expensive. I told her to rest, that I had everything under control, that I was picking up extra shifts.
You know, like a liar.
“You look tired,” Gianna tells me when I show up at her place later that night, in desperate need of a distraction from thinking about money. She and I used to take calculus together. We’d have study sessions in this very house that’s probably a McMansion, and would spend approximately one minute working on functions and two hours having lots of fun in her room. Her parents are out of town on a sailing trip, and she’s leaving for some small liberal arts college in less than a week. Hasan, my othergoodfriend, the week after.
“Tired is my default state,” I tell her with a forced smile.
When I get home, not nearly as relaxed as I’d hoped, I find Easton’s text (Just take the fellowship, Mal) and force myself to look at the sample contract.
It’s good money. Good hours. The commute wouldn’t be ideal, but not impossible once my sisters’ school starts. Defne might allow for a flexible schedule, too.
