Free Lunch

by Free Lunch (retail) (epub)

  We go back to McDonald’s for breakfast. I really like their breakfast menu, especially the hash browns. I try to focus on how crunchy and greasy-good those are, and think of how tonight I’ll be sleeping in a new room in a new house. I wonder if the window will face the front or the back or the side. Honestly, I don’t care.

  The plan is to go sign the papers and get the keys. Then we can go see our new place. After I have a key and see where we live, I can walk to school. I’m excited that I’m so close to home now.

  After breakfast, we drive the tree-lined streets of our new neighborhood. I keep trying to guess which house is ours. We drive past the ones I hope for. Finally, we pass the school, still driving. I ask, “Where are we going?”

  “There.” Mom points. As we drive into the parking lot, my dreams shatter like a glass bottle thrown against the wall.

  We don’t pull into the driveway of a house. We pull into the lot of a black-and-white brick apartment complex. It’s on the far side of the middle school’s football fields, just before the train tracks. On the other side, you can see an old trailer park and a junkyard where cars go to die.

  This all feels wrong. Like I’ve been tricked. I’ve never noticed this dump ’cause the bus route drives by the houses, not this way. Everything feels confused. Wrong. “You said we were moving into a new house!”

  “I never said that.” Mom sneers. “You said that.”

  “Why didn’t you correct me?”

  “House, apartment, it’s all the same.”

  “No, it’s not!” I shout.

  Driving through the lot, some elderly people are milling about all slow, like zombies, with their walkers or canes. I don’t see any kids around. There’s no pool. The park is all dead grass, and puddles of mud. There are some swings and climbing sets, all made from old tires. Vista Nueva was a dump, but it was a dump with a pool. It was way nicer than this. This isn’t a step up. This is a step down.

  I find myself already missing the cockroaches.

  The apartment complex manager’s office looks like an abandoned church, and has the name Royce Court scrawled across in an old country-western font. Ford and I follow Mom and Sam inside. While they’re signing the contracts and getting keys, I read papers taped to the fake-wood-panel walls.

  Something called the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) sponsors the complex. It allows “reduced rent for low-income families.” That means it’s public housing. That means the government is helping to pay for our place—the same way they’re paying for my lunch.

  My stomach turns upside down, and the hash browns slosh around. I feel sick. Pacing doesn’t help, so I sit. I cross my arms, but my legs won’t be still. I’m shaking. I stare daggers into Mom’s back, wishing they were real blades. She ignores me while she and Sam sign the forms. My heart slams inside my chest. Just across the street is the football field, where I can’t play football. It’ll be a daily reminder of all the things I can’t have. What if Liam or Todd—or worse, Zach or Derek—see me walking home over here? They’ll tell everyone. Everyone will know that I live like this.

  The manager hands the keys to Sam and Mom. He shakes their hands politely. They pick up Ford and walk outside, nodding for me to follow as an afterthought.

  We barely make it to the parking lot when I can’t hold it in any longer. I shout real loud, “I’m not taking another step until you explain this to me!”

  “Explain what?” Mom says.

  “Why is the government paying our rent?” I shriek.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Mom says.

  “So help me understand! You’re not old. You’re not sick. You’re not disabled. Sam has a job. And you could get a job if you really wanted. You won’t let Abuela buy us groceries, so why are we letting someone else pay our rent?”

  “It’s not someone else, it’s the government. That’s their job!” Mom shouts back at me.

  “It’s the government’s job to take care of people who can take care of themselves?!”

  “We CAN’T take care of ourselves!” Mom screams at the top of her lungs. “You think we want to be here? You think Sam and I enjoy moving to this place? Do you?!”

  People are watching. I realize I started this fight, I started shouting, making a scene in public. Just like Mom does. The thing I hate so much, I’m doing now.

  “You don’t understand anything. You’re just a kid!” she screams.

  “I’m not just a kid!” I roar back, unable to stop myself. “I’m more of an adult than you. I balance your checkbook, remember?”

  “Then you know all of our money is going to bill collectors for credit-card accounts and old loans. Sam may have a job now, but we’re in the negative. We’re drowning in debt!”

  The words hit me like an eighteen-wheeler. How did I not realize this? Every month, I watch Mom write the checks. Every month, I double-check her math to make sure every penny is accounted for. Every month, I noticed the money was negative. But I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t see the big picture.

  I’m ashamed for being so stupid. Ashamed for not understanding why we were always paying late fees and overdraft charges. Ashamed for never thinking of it from Mom’s point of view. Or Sam’s. Of course they don’t want to be here either. Did some part of me think they did?

  I feel horrible and nauseous. But at the same time, furious. My heart is beating so hard I hear it throbbing in my ears. The floodgates are open, and I can’t stop myself. It’s like I’m out of my body, and my body is screaming. All the blood in my body rushes into my face as I scream as hard as I can: “THIS IS YOUR FAULT! I HATE THIS PLACE! AND I HATE YOU!”

  I see Mom rear back, like a baseball player in slow motion. I don’t think to get out of the way, ’cause it happens too fast. Mom slaps me so hard that my left ear explodes in pain. It rings, and keeps ringing.

  My brain hurts, like it got hit too. Everything feels shocked, like the time I stuck a paper clip in an electric socket just to see.

  Suddenly I’m dizzy, I fall sideways, onto the ground.

  Mom is screaming at me, but I can’t hear anything from the left side. I can read her lips though. She’s saying she hates me too. She tells me to go to school, to get out of her sight. She looks like a rabid pit bull as she comes at me, barking and gnashing her teeth. Sam holds her back. He is dragging her away from me. He takes Ford and they leave.

  I lie there for a long time, not moving.

  On the ground, inches from my eye, I see a line of ants marching along. They look busy. All working together, not apart. I bet they never fight. In this moment, more than anything, I wish I were an ant.

  PAWNSHOP

  I am full of dread going home these days. Mom and I haven’t spoken in a week. When we’re both home, she just glares at me, like I’m her worst enemy. Like she hates me. Which is fine, ’cause I hate her too.

  She’s a grenade, my mom, but you can’t see the pin, if it’s in or out. So Sam, Ford, and I sit around, waiting for her to explode. I’m never relaxed. Never calm. Or happy. I’m always on edge.

  Like when we’re eating, I wait for her to stab me with a fork. When she’s ironing, I’m worried she’s going to hit me over the head with it. When she’s driving, I expect her to drive off the road on purpose ’cause our car doesn’t have airbags.

  That’s why yesterday, I stood outside my front door for ten minutes, scared to go inside.

  That’s why today, I’ve been standing here for almost fifteen, my hand on the doorknob. I take a deep breath, then open it.

  Inside, Sam is unplugging the TV. He picks up the TV and moves it onto the floor. I ask, “What are you doing?”

  His eyes are angry and embarrassed at the same time. He doesn’t give me an answer. I notice a big box filled with stuff from around the apartment. Inside are the toaster, the stereo, a bunch of Sam’s music collection, my Sony boom box. It’s black and can play two cassette tapes at the same time. It was a Christmas gift from my real dad. I growl, “Wha
t’re you doing?”

  “A-a-ask your m-m-mother.”

  My muscles tighten as I fill up with rage. I can’t stop myself. I stomp to the bathroom, where Mom is blow-drying her hair. I rip the cord from the wall, roaring out, “What are you doing with all our things?! What are you doing with the TV?!”

  She shouts, “No one watches it anyway.”

  “We all watch it! Every day!”

  “Well, you like reading books too. So just do that!”

  “And my boom box?!”

  Ford is sitting on the floor. He slams a plastic T. rex into his favorite fire truck-toy. He says, “Pont chop.”

  “Pont chop?” I adjust Ford’s way of speaking. “Do you mean pawnshop?”

  Ford nods. “Pont chop!”

  I turn toward Mom. “Why are you pawning our stuff?”

  “Exactly!” Mom half snorts, half laughs. “It’s just stuff. No one really owns anything. It’s all just junk.”

  “Well, this time it’s my junk!”

  Mom grabs an inch of my flesh, twisting it. The way she pinches like this, it leaves purple and blue star-shaped bruises that are sore for days. I get these all the time. But this time, she’s merciless and doesn’t let go. I scream in agony, my legs buckling under me until I’m on my knees.

  “You think I want to pawn our stuff? I don’t! But sometimes we have to. That’s how we keep the lights on, that’s how we eat!” Mom uses her thigh to kick me over. She plugs her hair dryer back in.

  I’m not letting her get the last word. I snatch the dryer from her hand, yank the cord out of the wall, walk into the living room, and throw it into the box with the rest of the things.

  “If Sam and I have to do without, then so do you!”

  “Fine!” Mom screams. “You’ll be lucky if we get six dollars for it. I don’t care! You don’t know how it feels to . . . You know what? You go to the pawnshop this time. I’m not going. You see how it feels to beg for scraps. Go on. Sam, take him with you!”

  “L-L-Luciana—” Sam starts.

  “No!” she screams. “Take him. He’s never been. He hasn’t seen how hard it is to give away your own stuff. Take him! Let him learn what it feels like firsthand!” She picks up the cardboard box, shoves it into my arms. She storms into her bedroom, slamming the door shut so hard the whole apartment shakes.

  “C-c-come on,” Sam says.

  SAM DOESN’T SAY ANYTHING AS HE DRIVES. NEITHER DO I.

  On our way to the pawnshop, we pass all these really fancy shops and restaurants. These are the kinds of places where people buy gold watches and real paintings and jewelry and expensive clothes. One place sells these little crystal figurines for, like, hundreds of dollars apiece. One of the restaurants is this fish place, where the cheapest dish is, like, thirty dollars, and that’s just for a salad. We’ve never eaten there.

  Mom and Sam have pawned stuff before. The TV and stereo they’ve pawned a bunch of times. Usually just for a few days. But they’ve never pawned the toaster or anything of mine. I guess that’s why I got so mad. But I’m also worried. Can Mom and Sam not pay their bills at all? Are we going to have to leave Birmingham? Where would we go after government-subsidized housing? Are we going to be homeless, live under a bridge and ask for change on the side of the highway? I’ve seen people do that.

  I fill up with worry. Are we going to starve? Are we going to die?

  I try to think of other things I can pawn, but I barely own anything except books, and those you can only sell to used-book stores for like a quarter. Fifty cents if it’s a hardcover. Maybe a dollar if it looks like new and you’re lucky.

  When we pull up to the store, Sam doesn’t look at me. Almost like he can’t. He gets the TV out of the backseat. I get the box with the other stuff. I follow him inside. There’s an old golden bell on the door that chimes when we walk in. After the first door, there’s a second door, so we’re trapped in a cage in between.

  An old man comes out from a fluorescent-lit back room. He watches us through an inch of scratched-up glass, a protective-barrier with a sticker that says, bulletproof. The wall is reinforced with metal bars. They remind me of a jail cell.

  The pawnbroker presses a buzzer and the second door opens.

  When the man sees our stuff, he motions us over to a counter. All around, there’s rows and rows of junk for sale. Jewelry and rings and watches all locked up behind more thick glass. TVs, stereos, electronics are safe behind red metal cages. There’s all these other things too, like fur coats and porcelain cats and seashells and pewter statues of cowboys. The wall is all clocks and neon-light beer signs. There are bookshelves, but no books. Just more junk.

  I wonder who would buy some of this crap. A lot of it is dirty or stained or broken. Though I guess some of it is kinda cool. Like a wooden box all carved with naked women. A handheld black-and-white TV. A bunch of hunting knives, some cool ninja throwing stars. At the back of the store, there’s a whole shelf filled with boxes full of all kinds of toys. I dig through, wondering what they have. There’s a few really cool action figures, but most of them are missing an arm or a leg. I wonder who owned these toys, and how they got here.

  This real sick feeling fills my stomach, and I feel like crying. I don’t. But I feel like it. Then I get really mad at myself for being such a wuss.

  Sam is stuttering worse than usual. I pretend I’m not listening, but I am.

  “H-h-how m-m-much f-f-for all o-of it?”

  “Eighty-five,” the old man says. I try to do the math in my head. The TV is old, but alone, it’s worth twice that.

  “Ei-ei-eighty-f-five? C-c-come on, m-m-man. It’s Chr-Chr-Christmas this m-month. M-m-make it a h-hundred and tw-twenty.”

  “Eighty-five,” the old man repeats.

  “S-s-screw th-that,” Sam says. He grabs the TV, ready to leave.

  The pawnshop owner says, “Reynolds Pawn closed last month. I’m the only shop in town.” Sam hesitates, then puts the TV back.

  “G-g-give me a h-h-hundred and t-t-ten.”

  “I’ll give you ninety-five,” the pawn man says. “Final offer.”

  Sam’s knuckles turn white as he grips the counter. “F-f-fine.”

  The old man writes an invoice, tears the yellow copy from the white-and-pink ones. He gives the duplicate to Sam. He counts out ninety-five dollars in cash from his register, recounts it, then gives it to Sam through the slot in the bulletproof glass.

  The way pawning works is this: You take stuff to a pawnshop. You sell it to them, but like, for temporary. The pawnshop gives you some money. Not a lot, but it’s cash, so you can spend it right away for milk or gas or whatever. Then, you have thirty days to go buy your stuff back. If you don’t though, they own it. Then they can sell it to whoever for more money. So if you come up with the money after the thirty days, you have to buy it back at a higher price. It’s not a good system, but it’s the only one there is, I guess.

  When we get back in the truck, Sam is quiet. He stares outside, his face turning more and more red. He peels out of the parking lot a lot faster than he should, and we nearly hit a car. At the next red light, he hits the steering wheel, slamming his fists down again and again and again. He doesn’t care that it’s honking the horn and people are staring.

  I shrink down in my seat, trying to make myself smaller, hoping Sam’ll forget I’m there. I wonder if he’ll turn on me next. Like when Mom pulls the car over and hits me for no reason.

  But Sam stops on his own. He shakes his head, hiding his eyes behind his hands. “I-I-I’m s-s-sorry. I-I-I’m s-s-sorry you h-h-have to s-s-see that. S-s-see th-this.”

  “See what?”

  “Me. B-b-begging. C-c-crying,” Sam sniffs. “I-I’ll g-get y-your b-b-boom b-box b-back. E-e-even if I have to w-work m-more hours. I will. I pr-pr-promise.”

  He’s never promised me anything before. It catches me off guard. I say, “It’s OK.” Then I add, “It’s just a boombox. I don’t need it anyways.”

  We sit in silence un
til the light turns green. Then we drive home.

  SPILLED MILK

  Ford asks, “Choc-lit milk?”

  “What do you say?” I ask.

  “Pease!”

  “That’s right. Good job.” My brother loves chocolate milk. So do I. Especially the kind you have to make yourself. Mom won’t buy us the powder or the syrup, but Abuela does. Mom didn’t get it in the Thanksgiving purge. ’Cause I hid it behind a pipe. Today, I squirt the last of it into a glass. We have just enough syrup for one.

  “Can we share it?” I ask.

  Ford nods. There’s a lot I don’t like about having a little brother: Cleaning his messes. Bathing him. Feeding him. Babysitting all the time. But it’s cool when he’s nice, ’cause I guess that means I’m doing a good job. Plus, he can be pretty funny.

  I let Ford have the first sip of brown milk. He gulps these little-brother-sized swallows. When he’s done, milk coats the area above his lip. I say, “Nice mustache!”

  He says, “Stash?”

  I drink some the way he did, so I have a milk mustache too. I point out our reflections in the oven window. We both laugh.

  I hand the glass back to him. He’s sipping slowly when it slips out of his hand. Milk splashes all over the floor. He looks up at me with these big wet eyes—scared. That was the last of the chocolate syrup, and I start to get real mad, but only for like half a second, ’cause I see Ford is about to cry.

  I remind myself he’s just a kid. He didn’t do it on purpose. I say, “It’s fine, Ford. It’s OK. Let’s just clean it up before—”

  Mom rounds the corner and sees the mess everywhere. She screams like one of us cut off our fingers or something.

  “It’s fine, Mom. I’ll clean it up.”

  Mom snatches up Ford, raising her hand to slap him. I grab her hand. “Stop! It was an accident.”

  “It was the last of the milk!” Mom shrieks.

  “We’ll get more.”

  “How? With what money?!” she cries. She starts pulling at her own hair, shrieking and moaning. She hits the cabinets with her fists. Then she slides down against the wall, sinking onto the kitchen floor into the spilled milk. Her hands are covered in it when she brings them up to her face. The milk runs down her arms and drips onto her legs, soaking into her shorts.