Rebecca smiled at the memory, fingered the stem as she read this week’s “Voices from James Watkins” piece, made possible thanks to her new pal Devon Robinson. Devon had lined up the interview, even helped her get three more this week alone. The kid was like a goldmine, plus he was sweet, to boot. She thought she’d enjoyed their second diner trip even more than he had, and they had another scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.
She reread the article now, remembering the little blond-haired girl she’d interviewed, Cheyenne, the way she’d swung her legs against the green hard plastic of the playground swing set as she’d told Rebecca her story, the thick Carolina accent lending a rhythm and cadence to her words.
Lisa’s Story
As told to Rebecca Chastain
Editor’s note: The following is next in a series of true stories from some of this community’s most struggling members: the children at James Watkins Elementary School. James Watkins is one of the twenty-five poorest schools in the state, statistics say, with more students per total enrolled in the government’s free and reduced lunch program than most of the schools in South Carolina. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the storyteller’s privacy.
My name is Lisa, and when I heard about this series in the newspaper, I wanted to be a part of it, too. I wouldn’t ever say this stuff if you used my real name. Mama would kill me if I ever talked about our family business in public. I don’t meanactually kill. She’d probably pull out Daddy’s belt and then lock me in the bathroom a good long while. But this here is safe. It’s almost like the poetry I read in class last year, only this time I get to tell it.
Some things you should know about me: I’m poor. I know this sounds dumb, but I just realized this recently. Like maybe six months ago or something. I know, pretty dumb to be twelve and only now getting it, but that’s the plain truth. None of my friends have much stuff, and I’m too busy taking care of what Mama calls “my responsibilities” to think much about it. But now that I know, it’s hard not to think about it, hard not to wonder if it’s always gonna be this way. It probably is. I don’t know if I mind that or not. Anyway, I’m the oldest kid in the house, and I’ve got a lot to do, so I don’t worry about it too much. It is what it is.
My typical day is basically I wake up, get my little brothers and sisters dressed and out the door to school or the free summer camp they go to, at the Presbyterian church. Mama’s usually still asleep. The baby’s been sick, or up at night, and he gets real fussy, so it’s my job to look out for the others so Mama and the baby can get a little rest. If she’d go to bed a little earlier maybe it’d be easier on me and her both. But nighttime is her time, she says. Her friends come over and stay up late, and even though me and my brothers and sisters keep the door shut in our bedroom and the covers over our heads to drown out all the music, it can be a little hard to sleep.
I guess you can say my mom and I have “issues.” Whatever. Sometimes I wonder why she even had kids. But she loves us. I know she does. I mean, it’s not something we talk about, but she’s there. She cooks for us and asks us about our day. She’s just a regular mom, I guess.
After I drop the littles at school, I go my way. By this time mystomach’s usually growling. When we split ramen noodle soup the night before, or some of that canned stew, I usually have a real bad stomachache, but anyway, I get my breakfast at school and then do my school stuff all day. Then I get the kids, get home, help fix them snacks and dinner and do homework, and then it’s another day.
Being poor isn’t so bad. Except when it’s your birthday, and you want a party and a cake like the regular kids so bad—a big store-bought cake with thick gooey frosting and some of those frosting flowers, the good kind that make your teeth hurt—but you know you’ll be lucky to get the homemade crooked small one Mama makes. If you get a cake.
Christmas used to stink, but then the local churches put our name on one of those angel tree lists or secret Santa-type things, and now we get some great stuff and food, real food like a turkey or a ham.
I don’t wish this on you, though. It’s hard being poor. Maybe one day I’ll get out of here. But then who’d take care of the little ones?
Rebecca finished reading and shuddered. The kid had broken her heart—that limp hair all pulled back in a ponytail like pretty was the last thing on her mind, those big blue eyes that should have been shiny and bright but were flat, like she knew what to expect from the world already. Even her teeth looked dull.
Twelve years old, all long limbs and hollow acceptance. It is what it is, she’d said again after the story was told and they sat there, Rebecca fumbling for the right words.
When Rebecca was twelve, she already knew she wanted to grow up as fast as possible and move far, far from home. Make straight As in college and land a killer job that involved travel and suits and great hair and fancy dinners, like Maddie Hayes on Moonlighting.
“Rebecca?” Tiff’s voice was hesitant. Rebecca looked up. “Nice job on the little girl story.”
Rebecca waved her hand. “Thanks, but I didn’t actually do anything except write down what she said.”
Tiff shrugged. “It was good. So,” she said, chewed her lip and tap-tapped her stilettos, “I wonder if maybe I could do something similar?”
“Write some of the kid stories? I don’t know—”
“No, I mean with a whole different angle. These local businesses.” Tiff gestured to the street outside. Beyond the window, Rebecca could hear the sound of horns or revved engines from cars cruising by, and the blazing sun was already hot and bright even at this hour of the morning. “I could go try a different business every week. Sit down with the owner, ask a few questions about why they started it.” Her words spilled out faster as Rebecca shook her head. “I mean, these people are from Dahlia, most if not all of them born and raised. It’d be neat to hear their backstory.”
Rebecca’s “no” was vehement. “Sorry, Tiff, but it’s called advertorial. We need to be selling the ads, not giving them free ads disguised as news. We’re already tight on space.”
“I was thinking it could help business a little. Maybe do a little package deal—you know, advertise with us, get a ‘how you got here’ story.”
Rebecca considered. The last thing these business owners needed was an ego trip courtesy of theDahlia Weekly.
“I don’t know. Maybe in a few weeks.”
Tiff looked like she wanted to say more, then apparently thought better of it. She swallowed visibly and nodded.
“Okay,” she said quietly, and turned back to her chair.
Rebecca did her best to ignore her conscience, which was pricking. But business is just that—business. Still, Tiff’s tight shoulders bothered her, somehow.
“Thanks for the idea, though, Tiff,” she offered. “I really will think about it.”
Rebecca stood, gathered her purse. Fresh air and sunshine beckoned. “Going to scour some stories. Anyone need anything?”
