Personal Effects by E. M. Kokie Page A

asap. I told Pendergrast you’d have the first half in by the last day of classes.”
    Half? No fucking —
    “No way he gets to say shit about this family, like he’s gonna have to chase us for it.”
    Shit. Dead set on some insane deadline, just to make this suck that much harder. “I’m not sure —”
    “Call him again.” Dad hangs up without anything else. No “I’ll be home for dinner” or asking how I feel.
    I stare at the phone, ready to chuck it against the wall. Everything still hurts like hell, but I’ve got two weeks to come up with more than six hundred dollars. Even with what I’ve got saved up, it’s gonna be tough.
    T.J. worked for Anders & Sons all through high school, and I’ve worked for Mr. Anders the last three summers. That first summer, he just had me mowing lawns or running errands or doing other odd stuff now and then when I needed money — like picking up supplies at the hardware store or cleaning the paintbrushes at the end of the day. But the last two summers, I’ve worked my way up to a full-time spot on one of the crews that comes in after the serious renovation work is done. Usually I sand, paint, clean up, or install the final touches, the light-switch covers and doorknobs and cabinet doors and handles. It’s not bad — the guys are OK, and I make more than I could doing pretty much anything else.
    I return the phone to the cradle and dig for Mr. Anders’s cell number. While I listen to the phone ring, I brace for the conversation. He’ll find me something. I know he will. But he’ll be pissed I got suspended. Maybe so mad he won’t let me work during the days I should be in school. It would be just like him to say I should study and not get to make money for getting in trouble.
    “You need the money badly?” Mr. Anders asks after I ask if he can give me any work right away.
    “Yeah. I have to come up with twelve hundred dollars fast. Any way you can use me this week?”
    “
This
week?”
    “Yeah, I was hoping Thursday and Friday.” Not tomorrow. Probably couldn’t hold a hammer or crouch down tomorrow, but I’ll have to by Thursday. “Then maybe after school and weekends until school’s done?”
    “After school, weekends, sure, maybe. But Thursday? What about school? Matt —”
    “I got suspended. There was a fight. Display case got busted. That’s what I need the money for. I have to pay for it.” Freaking Dad. “I really need the money.”
    Anders blows out a breath across the receiver and then mutters to himself for a minute. I know this is a lot to ask. He’ll either be eating the extra cost or shorting someone else, one of his year-rounders, or maybe some guy with a wife and a bunch of kids.
    “OK,” Anders says. Some papers rustle near the phone. “I have an interior painting job a couple blocks from you. You can work that starting Thursday. The crew I’ve got you on for the summer doesn’t start until the third week of June, but I’ll look at the schedules and see if I can use you somewhere else until then.”
    “Great.”
    “Might not be painting. Might be some cleanup or hauling stuff.”
    “Whatever you have. It’ll be great. I really appreciate it.”
    “OK, well, see you Thursday. Get there by eight. On Fenton. You’ll see my sign out front.”
    I leave a voicemail for Dad, telling him about the job. Then make a circuit of the downstairs as best I can. I look everywhere I can without bending over or reaching too high — in every drawer and cabinet, in or under everything on the shelves and in the hutch. Then I knock on all of the panels and walls, looking for any space he could have hidden the bag or T.J.’s things. Nothing.
    When I start jumping at every car outside, I spread my algebra notes out on my bed and pop in a movie I know so well I can close my eyes and just drift. Best if Dad finds me down here and zonked out, ignoring my homework, as he expects. Actually doing my homework would be that step too far.
    The walk over to