“We’re okay,” I say, even though we never have enough. But I hate asking her to help us with groceries. She has her own family to take care of. She shouldn’t have to take care of mine, too.
She pats my hip. “I’ll bring it by on Tuesday.”
I smile and thank her. Retha stops at the kitchen table and spoons yellow baby food into her brother’s mouth, wiping away what he spits out. She kisses the top of his head, and then tells me she has to get ready.
I follow her to her room, saying hi to her little sisters, who are piled on the couch watching cartoons. Retha closes her bedroom door, and I turn to her.
“Your mom doesn’t have to get us food,” I say, slightly embarrassed.
“She likes to help,” Retha says. “Don’t be stupid about it.”
“Not trying to be; I’m grateful. I didn’t even have enough for hot dogs this week,” I admit.
“That’s because your dad is an asshole,” Retha says, shaking her head. “I’ll pick up some hot dogs and drop them by.” She stops at her dresser and positions a compact on the edge to use as a mirror. She picks up her eyeliner and swirls it around her left eye. Before lining the other, she spins to face me.
“Did Travis tell you why we’re fighting?” she asks.
“No. He probably figured you’d want to be first.”
“Or he knows enough to be ashamed.”
“I don’t think I want to hear about it,” I say. Their fights are rarely one-sided—they’re usually both at fault. I lean back in the cushions of the bed, pulling a small stuffed alligator from under my thigh.
Retha’s bedroom cracks me up. She shares it with her two little sisters, but the amount of pillows and stuffed animals in here is ridiculous. Her cousin works for a company that fixes those claw games, so Retha’s an expert. She can get you anything you want on the first try.
I whip the alligator at her leg.
“Ow, bitch,” she says, making me laugh.
“Fine,” I say, knowing that my lack of curiosity is what’s really annoying her. “What did Travis do now?”
She smiles. She would have told me whether I wanted to know or not. “Remember Casey?” she asks.
“Casey the girl or Casey the guy?”
“Travis’s girlfriend in middle school. The one with those dumbass pink streaks in her hair.”
“Did she used to be a cheerleader?”
“Yeah.”
“Ugh,” I say. “I hate that girl.” And I sort of do. Once upon a time, when I cared about things, she kissed one of my boyfriends and talked shit to me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had problems that simple.
“I hate her too,” Retha says. She doesn’t hate every girl—she’s not shallow like that. But when you don’t have much, you hold on to what matters. You hold on with both hands. “Anyway,” Retha continues, “Casey called Travis last night.”
My eyes widen and I sit up. “What? Not cool.”
“Right?” Retha turns back around to ring her other eye with liner. “You know she still likes him.”
“Is that why she called him?”
“I don’t know.” Retha snaps the compact shut and leans against the dresser, folding her arms across her chest. “Travis won’t tell me.”
“What do you mean?” I ask her. Travis is a good guy—he doesn’t do drama for drama’s sake. No, when he messes up, it’s big-time. Like shooting heroin or breaking into cars. Not cheating on his girlfriend. That’s petty.
“He told me she called,” Retha says, her eyes growing teary despite her hard expression. “But then he said that it wasn’t a big deal and that I needed to get over it.”
“Get over it?” I nearly shout, climbing to my knees. Telling your girl toget over itwithout explaining yourself is almost an admission of guilt.
