35
Past, Las Vegas, Nevada, Age 17
On a rare day when I’m at school, I walk across the quad, glancing over my shoulder. I get this weird feeling sometimes, like I’m being watched. It must be paranoia, though. I don’t see anyone staring at me. Shelly’s sitting at our usual lunch table. It’s a relief to see her familiar face, although, as I rush over to join my friend, I notice that she looks different. It’s like she’s aged in the time that we’ve been apart.
Shelly’s dyed her hair beach blonde with chunky orange streaks. Her dark roots are a skunk’s stripe close to her scalp. Thick black eyeliner and mascara emphasize her large brown eyes and the shadows beneath. A tight black ribbon acts as a choker necklace. Fishnet stockings rise out of black Doc Martens boots.
“Hey.” I drop into the seat next to her. “I haven’t seen you in forever. How’s it going?” I’ve been so busy dealing with my mom’s illness and trying to stay caught up at school that I’m losing touch with Shelly.
“Shitty.” There’s a resigned hopelessness in her voice. “How about you?”
“Same.”
“I think we might get evicted. There’s no money left.”
“I’m worried about that, too,” I sympathize. “Our apartment manager is patient, but she won’t wait forever if I can’t make the rent.” It gives me no relief to realize that Shelly and I are dealing with the same problems. Moms that can’t or won’t work and unending debt. It’s too much for a 17-year-old to handle.
“I need money,” I admit.
She examines me carefully. “How serious are you about wanting to make money?”
“I’m dead serious. We can’t move out of that apartment. My mom’s not strong enough to look for a new place.” Even the overcast sky seems lower today. It’s claustrophobic. The weight of the clouds presses down on my head.
Shelly glances around, like she wants to make sure no one can hear. In a whispery voice, she says, “I’ve got an idea.”