We’ve been here for three weeks and it feels like a lifetime. Mom’s gnarly black eye is now a disturbing shade of yellow with a few splotches of purple that make me worry the damage will be permanent.
“You go first, honey. You have somewhere to be and the hot water’s been running out faster, it seems.”
I shrug and grab my bag with my toothpaste and soap. While I hate the thought of my mom taking a freezing shower, this stupid scholarship to Haverton seems to be the only positive point she can hold onto, and she’s clinging to it for dear life. Like my dancing talent will save our asses from homelessness and starvation. But if it’s all she’s got, who am I to tell her otherwise? I’ve got to make my skills pay the bills, or else we’re completely screwed with a capital S.
The women’s shelter is full if you’re wondering how we’re doing as a human race. Like the fact that one family has to be in there is fucked up enough, but an overcrowded shelter to hide from your own father doesn’t make life seem all that promising.
“They’re giving you free lunch at school, right, sweetie?”
“Yup,” I say without elaborating. “Peanuts.” I say it like I mean it’s easy to get lunch, but what I mean is, my lunch might actually be peanuts.
They don’t do free lunch at Haverton because every single asshole who goes there has an Olympic size swimming pool filled with cash. I’m not telling her that, though. It’s already fucked up enough.
The family shelter we tried to get into only takes male children under fifteen, which I turned last month. How’s that for rotten apples? So now we’re in a downtown adult shelter, the two of us sleeping on top of our duffels full of our few worldly possessions so they don’t get ripped off.
In the evenings, we rush back to this hell-hole and wait in line in the cold to even guarantee a shitty bed for the night. And to make matters worse, my mom has to roam the streets all day looking for work while dragging our suitcase. So I can buck up and do whatever the hell I have to. Look at the sacrifices she’s making for me.
The communal bathrooms here are the worst. I think it’s an old, converted school in the shittiest part of downtown, mind you. The water is hard and rusty, and the water pressure is so insane the stream hurts as it hits your body. I wash up quickly and brush the heck out of my teeth, standing next to a dude with a huge beard and no teeth who still makes a point to brush his pink, naked gums. Good for him. I’m gonna use that energy in my own life. Pretend like it’s there and maybe you can manifest it.
After a quick kiss on my mom’s cheek and a final scan of our two cots, I’m ready to hit the line for my public transportation pass to get to Haverton. We’ve got to make sure all our shit’s packed up because anything left behind will get thrown the fuck out.
I get in line behind eight or nine people. The woman in front of me has two boys who look like they’re in high school. I wonder if they got bypassed for the family shelter, too. It sucks. One of her sons clings to her arm like they’re lost at sea, even though he’s probably older than me. I don’t blame him one bit.
Some lady in a fluorescent orange vest is handing out sandwiches and brochures about Jesus. I salivate, and my stomach growls in response.
“Absolve yourself in Jesus,” she sings. Her eyes are a piercing blue and her hair’s so blonde it looks white.
I raise my hand timidly to flag her down. “I could use some salvation in my life.” And a fucking sandwich, even if it’s Wonderbread, a crooked slice of baloney slapped on, and an unspread dollop of mayo. I’d eat feed corn at this point.
She hands me some brochures—which I stuff into my messenger bag—and then a sandwich wrapped in so much saran wrap it might survive Armageddon.
“Baloney?” I ask her. “I mean, the sandwich, not the God stuff.”
“PB and J today,” she says, patting my shoulder.
Shit. I could eat a dozen of those. Easy. I also owe a sandwich to one super over-achieving ballet dancer who eats the weirdest food I’ve ever tasted and who is also likely starving despite having a private driver to whisk her away from school.
“Hey, Miss, excuse me.” I tap her on the shoulder.
She’s handing God pamphlets to the mom with two boys, and now the younger one is sniffling. She sets her crazy blue eyes on me.
“Could I get a few more sandwiches, like two or three? I have a friend at school who’s struggling, and she’d be interested in the—” I stretch my eyes to check out the brochure, “—Episcopal Gospel at Grace Church,” I say, my eyes glued to her handout.