Spinning on my heel, I retreat to my room. It’s a tiny square with a futon bed, library printouts of my favorite art pieces tacked to the wall alongside photos where I’m posed with Gemma and Mom, and stacks of paperbacks under the window.
They’re my collection from the twenty-five cent bin at the thrift store. Most of them are beat up, with cracked spines and yellowed pages, but I love digging through the bin once a month to find a new treasure to add to my collection.
Wriggling out of my dirty clothes, I toss them in the corner to be dealt with later. I pull my hair up into a twisted bun and put on my old track pants and SLHS girls track team t-shirt to relax in. My hand smooths over the green shirt and a wistful smile tugs at my lips. I don’t need the track team to run regularly, but I do miss the way it occupied my time. It was something I had for myself, and those are far and few between.
Yet another disappointment to credit Devlin for…
Sighing, I shake my head and cross to my paperback stacks. I sit on the floor and trace my finger over the spines to pick out something suited to lose myself in until Mom gets home.
I don’t have as many as I’d like. If I could, I’d fill my room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. But we don’t have the space, so I limit myself to only titles I want to hold on to the most. The books I don’t love, I donate to the free book exchange shelf at the Ridgeview library.
My finger pauses on a biography of Frida Kahlo. The corner of my mouth lifts. Perfect.
I’ll read anything, but books on art and artists are among my favorites.
Picking out my book, I flop on my futon, dragging a pillow over to prop myself on.
* * *
The racket of the front door snaps me out of reading Frida’s biography.
“I’m home, Blair!” Mom calls from the main room.
I roll off the futon and flip my book over to save my place before heading out of my room.
Mom is at the sink washing her hands. She finishes, then turns and holds her arms out to me.
The light blue waitress uniform hangs from her thin frame more than usual, and it makes a pang of worry spear through me. Her brown hair is tied into a low bun, but a few gray fly aways fall around her face. Her skin has a waxy quality that I don’t like one bit, and her blue eyes are sunken with bags beneath.
She’s been working way too hard lately.
“Hey, how was work?” I step into her arms and give her a tight squeeze, tucking my head under her chin.
This is our ritual when she comes home from work. When I hit puberty, the hormonal imbalance made me an asshole and I told her it was stupid. She always insisted, and now I live for her hugs. For a few seconds, I don’t have to be the strong one between us.
“Work was good.” Mom smooths a hand over my bun and drops a kiss on top of my head. “I brought you home a slice of apple pie. It’s in the fridge.”
“Thanks. Want me to make some tea? We’ll split it.”
I rummage through the cabinet where we keep tea, instant coffee, and some ancient lemonade mix that I’m pretty sure has crystallized into a singular mass. I hold on to it because that shit would hurt if I chucked it at the drunkard two trailers over who tries to enter our trailer every few days. I like to be prepared because I don’t trust him if he ever makes it in here.
“You can have it, sweetie.”
Mom works her fingers into her shoulder, a grimace twisting her features. I abandon the tea bags on the counter and guide her into a seat at our tiny bistro table in the corner. Her protest doesn’t last long once I rub her shoulders to massage out the aches and pains of standing on her feet at the diner.
“We’re splitting it.” I bend to kiss her on the cheek and continue taking care of her discomfort. “Do you have a shift Saturday morning? I was thinking we could make pancakes.”
Weekend pancakes are one of the few treats we have kept alive since I was a kid. No matter how little we have, we treat ourselves to a homemade pancake breakfast.
Mom sighs, tipping her head back into my stomach. “Yes, hun. Sorry. What about on Sunday?”
“Sure, don’t worry,” I assure her gently. “There’s no rush on pancakes.”
Mom taps her nails on the tabletop. Her red polish is chipped. “But after, it might be my last shift for a bit. They’re changing the waitress shifts around.”
“What?” My insides go icy and I bounce my eyes from Mom to the messy stack of bills by the toaster. “Why? You’ve been there for long enough that you should have seniority over shift choices, they can’t just—”
“Blair.” She pats my hand and I loosen my tense grip on her shoulders. “I’m going to go lay down, I think. It’s late and I’m tired.”