“Summer Money”

By Gabby Velasquez

The worst time to get a job is when you don’t need it. My ma doesn’t need her fix and I don’t need this job…especially since it’s my money she uses to get all her drugs. Here I am, my face sticky-sweaty and my arms sore from holding a sponge all day. I ain’t built for this type of hot work, standing in the Missouri sun all day cleanin’ cars. Whatever, ma’s dying anyways. She told me herself. From all the drugs, she said.

If it were up to me I’d buy myself somethin’ useful with all this new money, like an umbrella for the carwash, or makeup to cover the bruises all up on my neck. Yeah, an umbrella sounds real nice right about now but I’d settle for some plain water. My arms are too sticky to wipe my face and my hair is falling all in my eyes and makin’ me work slow.

“Hey you,,” hollers Daniel, the grumpy old manager of the carwash. “Get off your ass and finish the damn car.” I blink, unaware that I’m suddenly sitting on a trash can under a tree. Drops of sweat are fallin’ off my nose and the top of my head is heatin’ up like a bonfire.

“Sorry, man,” I yell back.

“Damn Mexican.”

 

I’m not even Mexican.

 

I’m scrubbing the car and thinkin’ about the city. I should get a ticket outta here. The next bus maybe… and I ain’t even gonna tell ma.

My walk home gives me too much time to think. My head starts daydreaming about a place away from this brutal sun and hot pavement, maybe a place where I can walk to the corner store and see people the same color as me. A place all to myself, no cooking for ma whenever she feels hungry and no being forced to take a job. Now, I don’t want much, but a place with a decent AC would be appreciated.

My phone riiings in my pocket, pulling me out of my happy daydream. I can hear the whirr of washing machines in the background and the distant bickering of a mom and her kid.

“Ma, I’m comin’ home now,” I say first, wanting to deflect her usual suspicion.

Her voice, deep from years of cigarette use, drones out, “Girl, get ya ass to the house, I’m gonna need some dinner after this hellhole.”

“Yeah, I’m going.”  Man, I need out of this hellhole.

 

With my head down and my feet walking quick across the street I pass the dull grey paint job on the front of an abandoned trailer. A couple months back they covered up a big ole racist sign telling all the “Mexicans and gays” to get outta their town. I bet they didn’t want to cover it up, they had to though. And on the corner a little group of white boys wearin’ “wife-beaters” stand smokin’ and jeering at passing cars. “Mexican,” I hear one of ‘em hiss.

 

I’m not even Mexican.

 

Cars pass by the rest of the walk home. I’m starting to cool down by the time I reach the rickety wooden porch with the faded blue lawn chairs.

“Ma, I’m home,” I yell into the house. Silence. Good, I don’t need her on my ass right now. My body moves instinctively to the old computer on the table, and a search gives me tickets to St Louis for tomorrow. What if I did get one? I’m gonna buy one. No, its a bad idea. I have to take a chance, though. As I slowly pull out my card to pay the dull paint, racist signs, and white smokers flash through my mind.

“What’re ya doin?”

She’s here. I’ve missed my chance.

“Uh-”

She wobbles over, bags of laundry clinging to her sweaty pale, skin. She pushes the power button.The computer’s screen goes dark. My hands are clammy, my neck is sweating again. The card falls to the floor with a little putttt. I know how she feels about cities: the dirt, gangs and politics. It can’t be worse than here though, nothing can.

“I said come home and get the dinner together, girl,” she says, her eyes flashing hotter than the sun. Her hand reaches out, she’s gonna hit me. I can feel the bruise forming on the back of my arm. But no, she wants my cash. I hand her my tip money.

“I’ve said it a million times, girl. If you want a place of your own you’re gonna have to do it when I’m dead and gone.” She’s real serious. She’s said it before, but I’ve never actually tried to buy my way outta here before.

“How did ya think you were gonna make it, huh?” She snaps, “How’d you think you were gonna take care of yourself? Make money?” She has a point. She stares me in the eye, a look that knows I’m a stupid little girl. She rolls her eyes and throws the bags on the floor, not even bothering to see where the clothes fall. I slide to the floor, picking up socks as I go.

“Now get in there and fix dinner.” It’s a final statement. I’m stuck. She hobbles away, murmuring to herself about the damn computer. My brain is fried, like I’m in a hazy dream. I was so close. But of course she had to come. I can see myself in ten years spoon feeding her soup and old lady foods. I’m gonna be walkin’ by that grey paint for the rest of my life.

I’m choppin’ up some onion when ma comes back into the kitchen. There’s a glazed look in here eyes and I can tell she’s fixin’ to get high. She’s gonna do that thing where she disappears for days and expects me to keep up the house and be a good girl. It’s not fair to me that she gets to leave and go wherever she goes but I’m stuck here. I need more onions.

“I don’t want anymore of this movin’ business, girl,” she says while watching me chop. She squeezes my wrist hard. That’s it, she ain’t got anything else to say to me.

Suddenly, the knife isn’t over the onions anymore. She’s facing the door, not paying any mind to me.  She said I could move out when she’s ‘dead and gone,’ so that’s exactly what’s gonna happen.