I repress a sigh. Just because Dad walked out the year you were born, I snapped at him once in an argument, it doesn’t mean you get the right to make us live in hell. You need to get a handle on your shit, Rob.
But he never has, and it’s been years. He barely looks at me as I walk across the apartment to Mom’s room. Her caretaker, Jackie, is walking down the hallway with an awkward twist to her lips.
“Camille,” she calls to me, “I’m so glad you’re home!”
“Why? Is something wrong with Mom?”
I glance in apprehension at her bedroom door. Her multiple sclerosis is still in its relatively early stages, but it hasn’t been getting better. I live in constant fear that something catastrophic will happen when I’m not here to comfort her. Leaving the house every day for work practically gives me an anxiety attack. Every time my phone dings unexpectedly, I jump out of my seat behind the desk at Dr. Delson’s—or rather, I used to. Guess I won’t be doing much of that anymore.
“Did you check her blood pressure? How have her moods been? Has she been sleeping too much? Too little?”
“No, no!” Jackie says quickly. “It is not that. Your mother is fine. She is sleeping right now, but no more than usual. No, it is just that I am still out two weeks’ pay. I wouldn’t bring it up, you know, but my rent is due tomorrow and …” She looks around the room, embarrassed.
“Oh.” I bite my lip. But inside, I’m screaming. That’ll be the last of my cash.
But what else can I do? I’m not the only person in the world with problems.
“Of course, Jackie. Don’t worry. I’m really sorry about that.”
I reach into my purse and take out the money, leaving a pitiful three dollars crumpled at the bottom.
“Here you go.”
She takes it and folds it efficiently. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She starts to leave, then pauses, studying my face. “Hey, are you all right, Camille?” she asks cautiously.
I nod, wearing what I hope is a convincing smile. “Always,” I tell her. “You just worry about my mom. I’ll be fine.”
“Angela is a strong woman.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Yes, see you then. Have a good evening.”
Once she’s left, I crack the door and peer in at Mom, sitting up in her chair, snoring softly. She looks peaceful. At times like these, I can almost forget about her illness.
“Shit!” Rob roars from the other room. I sigh, smooth the hair back from her forehead, and leave as quietly as I can.
He’s on his feet when I return to the den, pacing up and down.
“Your team lose?”
He scoffs. “How could you tell?” He wrings his hands, huffing and puffing like an animal in line at the slaughterhouse. “This is getting fucking ridiculous. Shit, shit, motherfucking shit! How many guards does the local bank have?” He is ranting, teeth grinding like a maniac. “One, right? I could take down one fucking rent-a-cop.”
“Rob.” I walk across the room, hand outstretched. “Don’t talk crazy.”
“You don’t understand,” he growls, batting my hand away.
“No, you don’t understand!” I snap.
He pauses. Even hopped up on weed, alcohol, and adrenaline, he can tell that something is wrong. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it—I know firsthand that his offers to help usually end up causing more harm than good—so I just give him the SparkNotes version of today’s batch of godawful drama and misfortune. Out of a job, low on funds, depressed for the future. The usual.
It sounds even worse out loud than it did in my head. I feel a nasty migraine coming on.
“So the bank isn’t such a bad idea, then?” he laughs cruelly.
“Don’t be stupid.” I drop onto the couch. “But we do need some money, fast. What about … something less drastic?”
“Like what, petty theft?”
I shrug. I can’t believe it’s come to this.
“And that’ll keep us going for what? A month? Less?”
“I’m not the one who spends all our money making stupid bets!”
“If my team had won, we’d be rolling in it right now!” he yells. “Can’t make a fucking three-pointer to save their fucking lives. Jesus fuck …”
“But they didn’t!” I toss a cushion at him, though it misses by a foot. “Now we’re really screwed.”
We fall silent and watch a stream of cringeworthy car ads and commercials for payday loan companies on the television. One of them has a mascot of a giant dollar bill dancing across the screen and diving into a pool of fake cash like Scrooge McDuck. The sight of all that money, fake though it may be, almost makes me vomit.
Rob lights up another blunt. I give him a nasty glare, but he ignores me. It’s long past the time he once listened to his big sister.
As we sit there, I think about how Rob’s life could have gone an entirely different direction. If he hadn’t gotten into drugs. If he hadn’t ended up in juvie. If he didn’t have a rap sheet the length of my forearm that reads like a buffet of petty crime: grand theft auto, burglary, vandalism, public intoxication, on and on like that. Maybe, without that stuff hanging over his head, he’d be able to get a job. A life.
“There is something else,” Rob says quietly after a while, sliding over to sit next to me on the couch like a conspirator. “You’re a virgin, right, Camille?”
“Ew!” I hiss. “Rob, what the fuck?”
“Just answer the question,” he says implacably. He’s got that stubborn gleam in his eye. I know him well enough to know that he won’t drop it no matter how much I protest.
If only he could contribute something to the house other than the constant smell of pot or getting our mom’s nurses to quit the second he decides to try hitting on them.
But still, I don’t like the question, or the implication, or—most of all—the fact that it is one hundred
