Ever The Same
Iknock the wordcasualaround as I dry a glass.
There was another Pierce-party-all-nighter.
When I got home, my mother and brother were so fucked-up they were barely conscious sitting at the kitchen table. I found them in the exact same place this morning when I woke up. An entire cigarette had burned to ash in the cheap gold tray.
Lord help me.
I sent them both to bed then proceeded with my Cinderella duties of cleaning up the apartment. I swear I’m becoming OCD. I can’t stand living in this mess anymore, watching these two deteriorate into nothing. It makes me livid. I open the cabinet under the sink and shake the imitation Febreeze bottle. There’s like a drop left, so I pour some water in it and mix it up. The thick stench of cigarettes is killing me. I’ll probably have lung cancer by the time I’m thirty from the secondhand smoke that’s turned the walls yellow. What a great future to look forward to, huh? I spray all over the apartment before I finish scrubbing the kitchen and tidying up the living room. Once done, I move on to the stack of mail on the counter. There must be two weeks’ worth of letters.
I sit down at the tiny kitchen table and start sifting through the pile. Bill, bill, junk, junk, all in my mother’s name, then I come across something interesting.Ryan Pierce, Freehold Municipal Court.
Hmmm.
I rip one side of perforated edging off the rectangular paper, then the other and just before I can flip it open, Sean snatches it out of my hand. “What the fuck?” I snap.
“That’s mine.”
“It has my name on it,” I stress.
“Clerical error.”
I slant my head and glare at him. “Bullshit.”
“I swear.” He hops up on the counter in his white tank and baggy jeans.
“Sean.”
“I’ll take care of it, bro.”
I stand up and get right in his face. “How many fucking times have I told you not to use my name?”
“It’s no big deal,” he plays it off. “It was just a misdemeanor.”
“I don’t care if it was a goddamn parking ticket. You want to be a fuck-up the rest of your life, that’s fine. Just leave my name, my social security number, and driver’s license out of it. Hear me?”
“Yes.” He stews, glaring back at me with my exact eyes. If I were anyone else, he would have thrown a punch for talking to him that way. Tough guy. But with me, it’s different.
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“How much do you need for the fine or whatever?”
“Oh.” He flips open the letter. “One-fifty.”
I sigh, annoyed, then stomp into our bedroom. I pick up the shorts I had on last night and pull out the money Alana won at the track. So much for spending all of it on her.
I walk back into the kitchen and slap two hundred dollars against Sean’s chest. “Take care of it.”
“Done.”
“And don’t do it again,” I seethe.
I storm out of the kitchen and into the bathroom, slamming the door instead of slamming my fist into Sean’s face.
Motherfucker. I hate when he pulls that shit.