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It wasn’t that I was obsessed with money. I wanted my life back. I was older when we lost everything, our father included, which meant I remembered the better times—the comfort of having money and never wanting anything. Plush beds and clean spaces. I needed that lifestyle back. I wanted my sister to feel at ease with her life. She deserved it.
Gracie didn’t remember much of anything from our past. She was only seven when everything fell under, and our father was shipped to prison for a murder he didn’t commit. I was thirteen. The memories were there, and they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. Our life was a shithole, and only one person was to blame.
His name twirled through my brain, and I shut it out, slamming the doors to my mind closed before his young face could flicker through my memory like a dreaded scary movie. He had taken everything away from me. He wasn’t worthy of my thoughts.
The school bus picked Gracie up twenty minutes after I got home, and I barely made it to the shower to wash away my double shift before my eyes began to close. I crashed on the bed, adjusting myself so the mattress springs didn’t poke me, and slept without dreams until the sounds of Gracie returning from school and raiding the kitchen cabinets for a snack woke me.
My head spun when I sat up and threw my sore legs over the side of the bed. Scratching at the back of my neck, I yawned loudly before I stood, stretched, and exited my bedroom.
“Whoa, you look like death,” Gracie observed when I entered the kitchen.
She tossed a chip into her mouth and crunched it. She had pulled her curls into a cute messy bun throughout the school day. Her cheeks were flushed from her walk from the bus stop, and her healthy skin glowed with fresh, unbroken youth. She was beautiful.
“Thanks. I love you, too.” My voice was rough with sleep, and I had fallen asleep with wet hair, which was now matted and knotted in twisted strands.
My thrifted pajama bottoms hung from my thin hips, and the tank I wore, also thrifted, had an old coffee stain on my right boob. Gracie was right. I wasn’t winning any beauty contests anytime soon.
The coffee maker beeped when I turned it on, and soon, the smell of a fresh brew filled our tiny kitchen. My arm muscles burned when I reached up and pulled my favorite coffee mug from the cabinet. It was white with the words,I don’t do mornings, down the center in black font. The handle was chipped, and I had to hold it a certain way, but something about its weight and shape made it my favorite.
I filled it, leaving my coffee black before I blew across the top and took a rejuvenating sip.
“Let me guess … you’re working tonight?” Gracie guessed with a sarcastic eye roll.
“Yep.”
“What are your hours?” She crunched on a second potato chip.
They were salt and vinegar, and the smell was revolting. How my sister ate those things and enjoyed them was beyond me.
“Same as last night.”
Every night was the same. Every day. Every hour. Work. Work. Work. I was exhausted even thinking about it, but I knew it would be worth it when she walked across the stage and received her diploma. She had terrific grades. Her college would be paid for. Gracie would have a better life.
“You need a night off.” She moved to the couch with her bag of chips and sat down, folding her shapely legs beneath her.
A night off.
I wouldn’t even know what to do with a night off.
“No,” I disagreed. “What I need is to pay the rent. Mr. Rush is already breathing down my neck.”
So was the electric company and everything else that was due or late.
She groaned, the same argument she always had building. I didn’t have the brainpower to put up a good fight.
“If you would let me work, then maybe I could—”
I held my hand up, stopping her before she could even start. “We aren’t discussing this anymore, Gracie. Do you have a lot of homework?” I asked, changing the subject.
She shook her head, annoyed with me, making the loose curls that had escaped her messy bun bounce. “No. I did it on the bus on the way home.”
“Good. Do you think maybe you could catch up on laundry while I’m at work tonight? I only have one more clean uniform.”
If she wanted to work, she could do the small things to help me be ready to bring in a paycheck. I didn’t have time for laundry, and we had dishes in the sink most days. We tried to keep a tidy space, but things got out of hand sometimes.
“I’ll get it done,” she snapped, shoving another chip in her mouth before she stood, slid past me, and disappeared into her room.
She slammed her bedroom door, and I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a stress headache coming.
