Money Hungry (11 page)

Momma’s shaking me. Trying to get me up, so we can leave this place before people start heading for work. I turn back over. I know Momma’s gotta go to work. I feel like I been working all night long myself. I open my eyes to ask Momma to please let me sleep a little longer. She’s got dark circles under her eyes. Her smile is gone. She is tired. Too tired to argue with me this morning.

But she still doesn’t give in. She says she’s gotta get our car out of the driveway or people will suspect something. And even though it’s still dark out, she tells me to hurry up and get dressed. “It’s bad enough that we’re here without permission. If someone finds you here alone, we’ll be in more trouble than you know.”

Before too long, we are sneaking out the back door, and driving away. Momma and me eat breakfast at a tiny restaurant with real nice dishes and the best doughnuts I ever had. After that, she drops me off in front of school. It’s early. Nobody is around except a few teachers going into the building. Momma says that she needs to take care of some business before work. She drives away without even saying good-bye.

For a minute, I try to talk myself out of skipping school. But the next thing I know, I’m walking across the street, waiting for a bus. I figure, I need the money more than I need to hear teachers run off at the mouth today. So I go to Odd Job’s where I know I can make some fast bucks without being hassled.

Odd Job don’t take no breaks. Him and his boys are right here on the corner making dough from the lunchtime crowd. He throws me a rag soon as I walk up. Don’t even ask me why I ain’t in school.

I’m getting good at washing cars and making change. Odd Job saying maybe he just gonna let me handle the money. “You do figuring faster than anybody I know,” he says, taking a rag and wiping some dirt out my hair.

When it slows down, he finally asks me, “Why ain’t you in school?”

His boys is working on the other cars. He’s sitting in a lounge chair. Got the seat back and the footrest up. I’m sitting on a metal milk crate. I tell him I just didn’t want to go to school today.

Odd Job sits up. Pushes the footrest back, and stares at me good. “Don’t lie,” he says, his voice getting serious.

It’s like being with the principal or something. Only Odd Job ain’t got on no suit, and he probably ain’t sat at a desk since he dropped out of high school.

“You can’t lie if you gonna be working with me,” he says, standing up, yelling at some man across the way. He laughs. “You want your car washed? I’m open more days than 7-Eleven,” he says to the man. Then he turns to me, and tells me that he knows what went down at our house. Starts saying how Check and Shoe hooked up with some baby thugs and they all went in our place and got busy.

My fists curl up. “Where they at?” I say.

“You gonna do something to them?” Odd Job says, taking a bunch of clean rags off the fence. “You a fighter now?”

I feel my fist relax. “He got our stuff.”

“Your stuff is gone. It’s all over the place.”

“They know where it’s at,” I say, walking up to a car and asking if they want to buy something to drink. Washing their front window before they even ask. When I get back to Odd Job he acts like we wasn’t having no conversation. He got his lounge chair laying back and his eyes closed. Before too long, he’s snoring. People are walking by him to catch the bus and go to work. They’re driving up to get a wash or something to drink. And he’s asleep.

His boys, they don’t miss a beat, though. They’re wetting down rides. Pushing those fans. Telling me to hustle if I wanna hold on to the change bag. Next thing I know, Odd Job is closing up the lounge chair. Standing up and stretching. Starting the conversation right where he left off ten minutes ago.

“It’s water under the bridge,” he says, talking about our stolen stuff.

“You would take care of Check and Shoe if they stole your stuff. I know it,” I say, taking out a pink lemonade icy and licking it.

“I don’t lend money, and I don’t make no enemies,” he says. “And when people screw me, I let natural consequences take care of ’em.”

I look at Odd Job real funny like. He walks away, and starts working on somebody’s ride. When he comes back, he says, “You don’t have to shoot people, or hurt them, when they mess with your head and stuff. Just give ’em time. They gonna do something to make they own lives miserable.”

I still don’t get what he’s saying. He can see that on my face.

“Natural consequences, Raspberry Cherry. Just leave people be for long enough, and they will screw things up for themselves, sure ’nuff.”

I ain’t sure if Odd Job got no family or nothing. But every once in a while, somebody like me, a kid, be working for him. And every now and then, I hear about somebody taking off with some of his cash. The word on the street is things happen when you cross him. Natural consequences? I ain’t so sure.

“Where you and your Momma staying?” he asks.

I give him a look that says I don’t have a clue.

“I got a place,” he says. “It ain’t much. Last time I looked, the dogs did it up real bad. But it’ll keep you warm. Got running water and a little furniture.”

I look at Odd Job. He got on these funny boots. They wrapped with tape right across the middle. And the shoestrings are missing. His pants are drooping, and he gotta pull ’em up every once in a while. But the word around here is that he got money. Lots of it. Property, too. Apartments all around this way.

“I gotta talk to Momma,” I say. “Maybe she’s planning on us coming back home tonight.”

Odd Job shakes his head. “I wouldn’t. You on the list now. Folks gonna be busting in all the time.”

I been out here a while. I smell like it, too. So when another car pulls up, I stay put. Let Odd Job’s boys go for it.

“I ain’t sure where you gonna be laying your head, you know,” he says, handing me another icy. “But you better not be missing no more school. You hear?” he says.

I see in his eyes that he means what he’s saying. “I’m going to school tomorrow,” I say.

“I know. I know, Miss Raspberry Sweets,” he says, squirting me with one of them water fans. Then he tells me to get busy, and stop costing him money by eating up his profits. Before I know anything, he’s handing me a bottle of water, and telling me to take a break, and go use the bathroom at the gas station three blocks away. “Girls shouldn’t be smelling like men. You know what I mean?” he says.

I take the hint, and go get myself cleaned up. When I get back, I grab me a rag and start washing down the first car I see. “Raspberry! What in the world?” It’s Zora’s dad, Dr. Mitchell. And I can tell by his voice, he ain’t happy about finding me out here like this.

“Hey, Dr. Mitchell,” I say, rubbing a spot off the hood. “You getting the whole thing done, or just the windows?” I don’t look him in the eyes.

“Are you cutting school?” he says, stepping out of his car.

I find another tiny spot and start rubbing that one, too.

“Get in,” he says, going around to the other side, opening the door for me. “What’s going on? Look at yourself,” he says, making a face.

I look at Odd Job. Then I look at Dr. Mitchell. “I ain’t finished.”

“Let’s go.
Now!
” he says.

He’s acting like my father or something. Bossing me around. But I do what he says, ’cause all he gotta do is tell Momma, and then I’m gonna be in more trouble.

“I gotta go, Odd Job,” I say, handing over the money pack.

He reaches in the purple sack and pulls out some bills. He hands me fifteen dollars and says he’ll see me later. “After school one day, all right?”

When I’m in Dr. Mitchell’s car, I hear Odd Job’s big voice say for us to hold up. “Raspberry Cherry,” he says, leaning inside the car. “You cool for tonight?” he asks, trying to see if I got a warm place to lay my head.

“Yeah.”

“’Cause you know I got a place for y’all,” he says to me, real quiet. “Except for that dog crap, it’s all right. You know,” he says.

“I know,” I say.

Next thing I know, Dr. Mitchell’s driving off. Turning on some corny music from the station that only plays stuff with violins and flutes.

“Okay. Let’s talk,” he says. “I can’t reach your mother. You’re out here when you should be in school. And now Odd Job’s saying he has a place for you two to live.”

We make it to the next corner before he takes his hand and slaps it on the dashboard. “What’s going on with you two? Is your mother all right?”

Before he can ask me anything else, the tears come. “We, we gonna be living back on the streets again,” I say, in a shaky voice. I got my money in my hand and I’m shaking all over. Crying so much that Dr. Mitchell pulls the car over on the side of a busy street and holds me till I stop.

“Why didn’t she call me?” he says, wiping my face with a tissue. “You could have stayed with us.”

I look at him, and start crying again. “You don’t know, Dr. Mitchell,” I say. “When you ain’t got your own place, people don’t treat you right. They say come stay with us, but when you do, they act like they can’t wait for you to leave.”

“You think it’s better to be on the streets?” he says. “To sleep on floors or out in the cold?”

I don’t know how many tears a person got inside ’em, but it must me a whole lot, ’cause for the next hour, I cry. My face is red, my eyes are puffed, and my nose is raw from rubbing it. Dr. Mitchell ain’t got no more tissues left when I’m done.

“Darn it,” he says, slamming his fist on the steering wheel, and cutting on the engine. “I forgot to pick up Zora. She probably took the bus by now,” he says, reminding me that school let out early today.

We race through red lights and almost have an accident trying to get to Zora. On the way, Dr. Mitchell says he wants us to stay with them. “I’ll pick your mother up from work tonight and bring her home. She needs to learn she can depend on people,” he says, pulling up to the school. Seneca is sitting out front. She says that Zora left a while ago.

By the time we get to their house, Zora is unlocking the front door. She rolls her eyes at me when I step out the car. Her father kisses her, and apologizes for not picking her up. But he don’t tell her why he’s late. Or why he got me with him. He just says that me and Momma will be staying with them for a while.

Zora don’t like it when people spring surprises on her. She don’t look at me or say a word.

When we get upstairs, Zora says, “I need privacy.” Then she shuts her bedroom door in my face.

At Dr. Mitchell’s, Momma sleeps on the couch. I sleep on the floor in a sleeping bag in Zora’s room, but she ignores me all night. During the car ride to school the next day, she keeps her mouth shut and her lips pocked out. Her dad tells her to apologize to me for being so rude. She never does, though. When the car stops, she hops out and runs into the building. I see now why Momma doesn’t want to live with anybody else. It’s bad enough not having a house, let alone being treated like you ain’t wanted by people who are supposed to be your friends. I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself, though. As soon as I get out of Dr. Mitchell’s car, Sato is up in my face. “Ja’nae’s in there with the cops,” he says, grabbing me by the arm and almost dragging me up the steps to the building.

“What?” I say, pulling my arm away from him.

He points to a squad car parked in front of the building. “Yeah, the police. They got her in the principal’s office right now,” Sato says, tugging on his skullcap.

I forget that me and Ja’nae ain’t speaking. I hurry inside and go straight to the principal’s office. There’s a big cop standing out front. Another one inside by the school counselor’s office, where Ja’nae is sitting.

“They can’t make you live with people you don’t want to. Can they?” she’s saying.

The police officer tells me to stay back, unless I got other business here. A lady cop tells Ja’nae that her grandparents have custody of her, and that her mom cannot just walk in here demanding her school records so she can take her to California to live.

Ja’nae smells like orange blossoms today. When I get close, I see that she’s crying and holding some woman’s hand. She’s kind of pretty. Got long braids with cowrie shells in them. Silver bracelets from her wrist to her elbow. She’s skinny, too. She’s telling Ja’nae that everything will turn out okay.

“But I
want
to live with her,” Ja’nae tells the cop. “She’s got money. She can take care of me,” she says, pulling money out of her pocket. That’s when I realize the woman is Ja’nae’s mom, the Heifer.

“This isn’t about money, girl,” the cop says, looking down at her. “Your grandparents got custody. If this woman wants you to come live with her, she needs to take it to court,” he says, pointing to Ja’nae’s mom.

Ja’nae’s granddad walks in. He’s cursing at the cops, and threatening to have Ja’nae’s mom locked up if she don’t get herself back on the first bus out of town.

While the cops push him into one of the guidance counselor’s offices, I sneak over to Ja’nae. “You okay?” I ask.

She nods yes. Then she introduces me to her mother. We can hear Ja’nae’s granddad from the back office. He’s telling all of Ja’nae’s business. Saying how when she was three her mom took off and left her alone in the house for two days. Then he says how her mother would spend all the money on foolishness and not have no food in the house. “That’s why I chased her off six years ago,” he’s telling the police. “Why I didn’t want her back in that child’s life.”

I’m wondering if Ja’nae knew any of this before. She ain’t letting on that she does. And her mom don’t seem bothered by her granddad’s words. She’s just sitting there, not letting go of Ja’nae’s hand. Staring at the white wall in front of her.

The principal tells me to get out. At first, I start to walk away. Then I hear Ja’nae crying again. Saying that nobody got the right to separate her from her mom no more. I don’t care that the cop has got his hand on my arm, or that the other cop ain’t talking so nice to me no more. I grab a hold of Ja’nae, and squeeze her tight. “We still girls,” I say.

“You’re looking at a suspension, Miss Hill, if you don’t make your way out of here right now,” the principal says.

Ja’nae begs the principal to let me stay. Her granddad is yelling again, so the principal tells me to shut up and sit down so that he can quiet Ja’nae’s granddad. Kids are piling in the office wanting to hear what’s going on. The bell is ringing and a teacher is getting ready to make morning announcements. The office is small. It’s like a zoo in here.

“What the devil’s going on here?” one cop says. “Can’t you control your own school?” he yells at the principal when Ming walks in asking to see Ja’nae.

“If this doesn’t concern you, get out!” the principal snaps. He takes Ming by the arm and leads him out the office.

“Ming!” Ja’nae yells.

“That’s it, everybody out,” the principal says, coming over to us. He takes me by the arm, drags me over to the door, and says, “To class, Miss Hill.” Then he shuts the door in my face.