“Go sulk somewhere else,” my Grandfather says through a mouthful of mash potatoes. “Your Gam works hard on these dinners and I’d like to enjoy mine without having to look at your pitiful face.”
“Oh, Hank, let her be, I don’t mind.” Gam says. “She’s got to eat something, she’s all bones.”
“I didn’t say she couldn’t eat, I told her to go somewhere else. She can take her plate with her. Go sit in front of the TV and eat like most people your age.”
“Enough,” says my Gam. “Wren, don’t pick. Eat.”
I shovel a heaping spoonful of mash potatoes, dripping with gravy, into my mouth.
“MMMMMMMMMmmmmmmm, tho ood.” I say.
My Grandfather just stares at me. Finally he says, “You don’t like your job, go out and get a new one. No one wants you working in that dump anyway, it isn’t safe.”
I swallow down the thick mass of potato. “It pays the bills.”
“Macy’s is not a bill, it’s an addiction. Michael Kors, meth—they’re the same.” He stands his fork straight up in his pile of potatoes, and then extends his wagging finger. “You can sit around commiserating about all the missed opportunities in your life, or you can go out looking for new ones. I say with all those new shoes you’ve never worn, it’d be more economical to go out.”
My Grandfather—always weighing life’s metaphorical costs while reminding you of the literal ones.
“No one is hiring,” I sigh. “Besides, hardly anyone comes in anyway, so I have lots of time to study.”
“So it’s a choice, then. You aren’t stuck. Stop the sulking.”
“I do it for you. If I didn’t sulk, you would have nobody to give all your unwanted Family Ties advice to.”
“I said ENOUGH.” Gam is angry now. She gets up from the table, takes my plate and then a TV tray from the space between the fridge and the kitchen counter, and marches into the living room. “Wren! Your smartass mouth can eat in the living room from now on!” she yells.
I’ve been living with my grandparents for a year, ever since my mom was raped and killed in our home while I was at a night class. Never once had she yelled at me. She’d never even raised her voice. My Grandfather and I pushed each other’s buttons and argued at the very least, ten times a day.
Gam comes back into the kitchen. “Go before I carry you in there by your ponytail.”
I stand up, push in my chair, but I don’t go into the living room. I walk over to the coatrack by the back door and take my parka. My purse and keys are on table next to the rack, and I take those, too. I open the door and walk out into the cold, night air. I don’t slam the door. I don’t even close it. I just walk out to my car, start it up, and head to my job an hour early.
When I get to the Qwikmart on Jessop Street, I park under the only working streetlamp. I crack the window and take a box of cigarettes from my purse. I light one up and smoke it slowly as I watch Carol, a 36-year-old single mother of two, do her shift change routine. Even though she thinks she has the radio low, I can hear “Don’t Stop Believin’” from my spot across from the store.
My second soul jumped into Carol once. It stayed long enough to get her clean and give her the confidence to go back to school to become a nurse. I babysit for her on my nights off sometimes. Anything to get me out of my grandparents’ house.
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