clothes from the bathroom floor and Rusty’s from his room, then looked at myself in the mirror. Not bad. I could be sixteen, maybe seventeen, at least. If the girl woke up, I’d tell her that’s what I was. She’d probably buy it, because I was tall enough. It helped to be tall. I didn’t used to like it back in the fifth grade, when I got taller than all the boys, but Mama promised me I’d be glad one of these days. Turned out she was right. Like she always said, God’s got a purpose for everything. He must of known I was gonna need to look sixteen pretty soon.
I piled the laundry in the basket and went out, and then there was the might-be-a-social-worker lady looking at me from her Cadillac SUV. The way she watched me was creepy—like she was staring right through me and could see everything. I squinted back at her, like as in, Who do you think you are, anyway? Driving around in a fancy car—you think you’re somebody?
I hurried across the street and out of sight as fast as I could get there in the high-heeled shoes that used to be Mama’s, which wasn’t easy. The green sandals were still kind of big at the back, and my feet slid too far over the front, so I could feel little dots of hot pavement under my three middle toes.
The guys in the parking lot whistled and called me Blondie when I went by. They didn’t care if the shoes were too big, or I wasn’t so good at walking in them. They just wanted me to turn around and act like I noticed them. I thought about it, but then I was afraid to, so I didn’t. I just walked on by like guys whistled at me every day. I didn’t look back to see what the social-worker lady was doing—not even once—until I was behind the mirrored window in the Laundromat. Then I watched her chase the kids out of the Dumpster, look around for them, and finally drive off.
Once she was gone, I crammed all the laundry in one washer, so I could have some money left over to go to the convenience store for a pack of powdered doughnuts and a Coke. Rusty would probably come back at lunch with dollar burgers, or a Wendy’s value meal. Sometimes he did that when it was payday, and we hadn’t been to the grocery store and there was nothing left in the kitchen.
While I walked back to the convenience store, I watched the kids from next door head to the Dumpster again. They’d probably heard the mariachi music in the parking lot last night, and they figured there was something good in there to eat. Sometimes those Mexican guys got so drunk on Friday night that, along with the beer bottles, they threw away containers with tortillas, fried pies, rice, and beans still in them. The stuff looked pretty good, if you could get past where it came from. I’d watched the kids sit on the steps and eat it before. I warned them you could get sick eating out of the trash, but they didn’t care. I told Rusty about it the next day, and he told me to stay out of the Dumpster. Duh. Like I would really crawl around in there and eat food that’d been sitting next to old diapers and beer bottles. Sometimes Rusty could be such a dope. It didn’t bother him that the fat guy came to the door and hung around asking me for the rent, or that the money on the counter this morning wasn’t enough for laundry and breakfast, and that he left some strange girl in my bedroom, but he did tell me not to eat out of the Dumpster.
The kids were finished looking for food by the time I got the laundry done, had my doughnuts, and went back to the house. Rusty’s girl was still in my room. Her kid had moved to the couch, though, and was sitting with its arms twisted around its legs like a little pretzel. After looking a minute, I pretty well figured out that Rusty might of been wrong last night when he called it a boy. It had braids with little red rubber bands at the end, and it was wearing a pink T-shirt and girl underpants. And sitting on my sleeping bag.
“I hope you’re, like, potty trained and stuff,” I said, and
I piled the laundry in the basket and went out, and then there was the might-be-a-social-worker lady looking at me from her Cadillac SUV. The way she watched me was creepy—like she was staring right through me and could see everything. I squinted back at her, like as in, Who do you think you are, anyway? Driving around in a fancy car—you think you’re somebody?
I hurried across the street and out of sight as fast as I could get there in the high-heeled shoes that used to be Mama’s, which wasn’t easy. The green sandals were still kind of big at the back, and my feet slid too far over the front, so I could feel little dots of hot pavement under my three middle toes.
The guys in the parking lot whistled and called me Blondie when I went by. They didn’t care if the shoes were too big, or I wasn’t so good at walking in them. They just wanted me to turn around and act like I noticed them. I thought about it, but then I was afraid to, so I didn’t. I just walked on by like guys whistled at me every day. I didn’t look back to see what the social-worker lady was doing—not even once—until I was behind the mirrored window in the Laundromat. Then I watched her chase the kids out of the Dumpster, look around for them, and finally drive off.
Once she was gone, I crammed all the laundry in one washer, so I could have some money left over to go to the convenience store for a pack of powdered doughnuts and a Coke. Rusty would probably come back at lunch with dollar burgers, or a Wendy’s value meal. Sometimes he did that when it was payday, and we hadn’t been to the grocery store and there was nothing left in the kitchen.
While I walked back to the convenience store, I watched the kids from next door head to the Dumpster again. They’d probably heard the mariachi music in the parking lot last night, and they figured there was something good in there to eat. Sometimes those Mexican guys got so drunk on Friday night that, along with the beer bottles, they threw away containers with tortillas, fried pies, rice, and beans still in them. The stuff looked pretty good, if you could get past where it came from. I’d watched the kids sit on the steps and eat it before. I warned them you could get sick eating out of the trash, but they didn’t care. I told Rusty about it the next day, and he told me to stay out of the Dumpster. Duh. Like I would really crawl around in there and eat food that’d been sitting next to old diapers and beer bottles. Sometimes Rusty could be such a dope. It didn’t bother him that the fat guy came to the door and hung around asking me for the rent, or that the money on the counter this morning wasn’t enough for laundry and breakfast, and that he left some strange girl in my bedroom, but he did tell me not to eat out of the Dumpster.
The kids were finished looking for food by the time I got the laundry done, had my doughnuts, and went back to the house. Rusty’s girl was still in my room. Her kid had moved to the couch, though, and was sitting with its arms twisted around its legs like a little pretzel. After looking a minute, I pretty well figured out that Rusty might of been wrong last night when he called it a boy. It had braids with little red rubber bands at the end, and it was wearing a pink T-shirt and girl underpants. And sitting on my sleeping bag.
“I hope you’re, like, potty trained and stuff,” I said, and
Similar Books
