I swallow heavily around the lump in my throat.
“I’ll check my piggy bank, but I don’t think there’s more than fifty bucks in there total. I haven’t added money in ages.”
He nods and looks down again, his expression somber.
“Thanks, Brit.”
I can’t take it anymore. We’ve suffered so much trauma together, and now, things are getting worse. Instinctively, I get up and throw my arms around Joey’s shoulders. He’s stiff for a moment, but then his shoulders slump and he hugs me back.
Soon, I realize that we’re both crying because what options do we have? We’re orphans, with no close family. Joey himself is only twenty-two, barely out of childhood. He should be living life, acting irresponsibly, and enjoying himself, but instead, my brother works his fingers to the bone to support our family.
But now, everything’s turned around. We have nothing, and even more distressing, we have no way of making our situation better.
There’s a homeless shelter a few towns over. Will we need to move there? Can I bring the games under my bed? My heart breaks because it’s unlikely. I’ll probably only be able to pack a small bag, and we’ll lose the last ties we have to our old life.
Joey sits down on the couch and covers his face with his hands. I take the spot next to him, wrapping my arm around his shoulder.
“We’re going to be okay,” I tell him bravely, although my voice wavers. “How about unemployment? You qualify for that, right?”
Joey takes a deep breath.
“I’m not sure actually. Damien was paying me off the books so I actually don’t think I qualify.”
I sit back, stumped.
“Well, then how about the stimulus check that everyone says is coming? The one for people who make less than a certain amount per year?”
Again, my brother shakes his head, suddenly appearing ten years older.
“Britney, those are for people who filed taxes last year. You and I didn’t make enough, so we didn’t file. I don’t think we’re going to get that either.”
My heart contracts, and I look down at my hands. Another tear slips down my cheek, and my brother takes my hand.
“Hey hey hey,” he says, squeezing my palm. “Things are going to be okay.”
I turn tear-stained eyes to him.
“But how?”
His head hangs, and his expression is defeated. But then Joey looks up.
“I don’t want you worrying about this, Brit. You need to focus on school, and your classes. You only have a couple of months left to go, and you know that after that, you’ll be going to college. You’re smart, Brit. You deserve better.”
I smile wanly through my tears.
“It’s just community college, and I don’t know if high school is even going to stay open. If things are as bad as they seem, maybe even Corona High will close, and no one will graduate.”
My brother squeezes my hand again, his gaze faraway for a moment. But then he turns back to me.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen, Brit, but we’ll make it out of this together. Okay? Remember what Mom and Dad used to say? Even this too shall pass?”
I nod.
“Yeah, but it just seems like things keep piling on top of one another. Mom and Dad and the accident, and then we had to move, sell all our things, and now this.”
My brother doesn’t have an answer for me. He merely looks down again, his face lined and weary.
“We’re going to be okay,” he says in a low voice, even if his tone is helpless. “Trust me, Britney.”
And then, we sit in silence for a while because what choice do we have? My brother and I are survivors, but the pandemic may be our undoing.2BritneyI wake up to Joey fumbling around our trailer. The walls are paper thin, so sound carries.
Joey’s room is across the hall from me. It’s technically called the “master bedroom,” but it’s barely bigger than mine. We share a tiny bathroom that has a stall the size of a small box, and there’s a kitchenette outside that’s flush with our living room, which is really just a raggedy sofa and coffee table jammed too close together.
Joey’s in the so-called living room right now, fumbling around with something or other. What is he doing? I yawn and rub my eyes, climbing out of bed. I find my brother outside with a handful of reusable grocery bags crumpled in one hand. His shoes are on, with his jacket thrown over one shoulder.
“Where are you going?” I ask. “It’s early.”
His eyes don’t meet mine.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, Brit. Go back to sleep.”
I yawn again, stretching in my comfy moon-and-cloud pajamas.
“It’s fine. I was going to get up, anyways.”
He shakes his head again.
“It’s only seven. Go back to bed, Brit.”
But I’m awake now, and I squint at him blearily, taking in the bags in his hand.