“Lucky you,” Cammy says.
“Maybe she won’t come back this time,” Chrissy says, and neither of us responds.
It’s shitty to think that way of your mother, but all she does is create havoc and stress when she’s here. We have to hide everything from her—food and money. She takes it all. And if she runs into us when she’s in a bad mood, she makes us feel smaller than a mouse. We shouldn’t let her get to us anymore, but it’s difficult when it’s your mother. The one person on the planet who is supposed to give a shit about you, like biologically and all, but couldn’t give a fuck what happens to you. She’d throw us in front of a moving car to pick up a fucking penny. It’s disgusting behavior.
Eventually we fall asleep, and when I wake up in the morning, everyone is gone.
Cammy is at work. Chrissy is at school. Mom is… who the fuck knows. Dead in a ditch somewhere, maybe. Her death wouldn’t even give us anything, other than peace of mind. She doesn’t have life insurance—that’s a waste of money, according to her. We’d probably get kicked out since only her name is on the lease, but we’d figure it out. We’d have to.
I snatch my pants from the floor, dig out the card and stare at it. There’s nothing on it but a number. One printed phone number. No name, no address, no email. Just ten digits divided by dashes. He said his profession requires him to be discreet. I wonder what he does… Is he like a cop or something? Maybe a politician?
I get out of bed, careful not to bang my head on the bunk above me—you’d think after all these years it wouldn’t happen, but I do it all the damn time. I pull open the drawer on the bottom of the girls’ bunk, taking it off the track to pull it out completely, so I can get the cell phone we keep there. It’s prepaid, and we only use it for emergencies, but we have to hide it here or Mom would take it and sell it. She has no idea how to get these drawers off, because there is a small clip you have to press on the side to un-pop it. Even the girls struggle with it, which I hate because they’re here alone often and if they have to call for help… what if they can’t get to it? But it’s better than leaving it somewhere else, somewhere Mom can find it. Then we won’t have it at all.
As I dial the number, my fingers tremble, but I have to do this. I’m tired of this life, of struggling, of being tired. This is a chance to do something that could make us money. It could change our lives, if done right. Maybe. I mean, the way Jaspermade it seem, it could, but I won’t know until I talk to this guy more.
Being a slave? Is that like a butler? I can totally do that. Why wouldn’t I do that? Obviously the guy is rich, if he’s going to pay someone for this. It’d be like a vacation. I’d finally have a job that I’m good at and I’d make a decent amount of money—hopefully. The burger place I work at isn’t hard work, but I don’t enjoy it. I come home smelling like grease and sometimes I can’t shower because there’s no water. The customers are almost always assholes, and I’m pretty sure my boss, Sheila, fucks all the employees—the straight ones, anyway.
The phone is answered, the rich, deep voice on the other end settling something in me.
“Hi,” I respond.
“I’ve been awaiting your call.”
I pull the phone away to glance at the time. It’s nearly twelve.
“It’s late, I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you were busy.”
Yeah, busy sleeping on my twin-sized bunk bed in the bedroom I share with my two sisters. One of which could die if I don’t get her medication…
“I assume you called because I didn’t scare you away.”
“You didn’t.”
This guy feels completely out of my league, and because of that, I decide it’s best to answer in short sentences rather than over speaking and making myself sound like an uneducated idiot.
“That’s good to hear. And did you refrain from looking up anything online?”
“I did,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because you told me to.”
That sounds like the right answer. I think he wants me to listen to him, do what he asks. I can do that. It’s easy. And it’s less embarrassing than admitting I don’t have a way to look something up online. Pretty sure the library blocks that sort of search.
“I’d like you to meet me for dinner tonight.”
“Tonight?” I repeat. “I can’t tonight. I have work.”
“Hm… that is unfortunate.” He pauses for a few seconds. “Tomorrow morning, then. Breakfast.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. My car will pick you up. I’ll need your address.”
“My… address?” I say like an idiot. Of course he needs my address. “Uh… Well, I—”