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  “Good deal, Deon.” She looks up at the menu, but already knows.

  “The usual?” He asks, then looks at me again in confusion.

  “Deon, I’m living on the edge today. Give me a large order of nachos, hon.”

  “Well, well . . . That poker table must be treatin’ ya alright then, Miss Stella?” He punches the order into the register. “Large nach-os. Sprite today, pretty lady?”

  “Yes, and one for my friend here, too.”

  I feel warm when she calls me her friend. Stella has that aura about her, warm and sunshiny. Her presence is comforting. We find a table and sit across from one another. She gets up to get salsa, and I wait to start eating until she gets back.

  “Dig in, hon.” She grabs a nacho as she sits down. “I want to help you out, Chandra.”

  “Help me out?” Help me out? Does she know I’m desperate for money? Does she know I’m without a mother? How does she know I need help?

  She finishes chewing before speaking.

  “Let me tell ya something, hon. That table. If the joker in the straw hat raises on the second round, get out. Fold without thinking. Don’t ever, ever . . .” she looked me in the eyes, “stay in a hand with Jim. That is, after he’s raised on the second round.”

  Oh, I get it now.

  “Well thanks, good to know.” I take a loaded nacho from the middle, one with a mound of meat and sour cream. “Anything else?”

  She thinks a few seconds as she chews.

  “Do you have kids?”

  I giggle.

  “Oh, I meant are there any other poker tips?”

  “I know what you meant, hon. You have kids?”

  My first thought was Dad. Well yeah, I have a kid.

  “Nope, no kids yet.”

  She goes for the middle of the nacho plate too.

  “Hmm. No kids, huh. How old are you?” She doesn’t give me time to answer. “When I was your age I already had one and one on the way.”

  I laugh.

  “It will be a while before kids.”

  We sit and enjoy our nachos together, with slot machines ringing in the background.

  “So how many kids do you have?” I ask.

  She pauses a minute, contemplating her answer.

  “Oh, never mind them, hon.”

  I knew it. Stella has sadness. She has some type of sadness in her life. I knew it. So maybe that’s our connection.

  We sit in silence for just a few minutes as we finish eating. Ms. Stella digs in her granny-style purse and pulls out a stack of business cards wrapped with a rubber band. She pulls one from the stack and pushes it across the table with me. “Here, hon.” She taps the card a couple of times. “If you ever need anything.”

  I read the bright pink card. STELLA’S SILVER SCISSORS - ALERATIONS AND SEWING. 4544 Bluffcreek Drive. 405-912-0909.

  “Oh, thanks, but I don’t ever really get any of my clothes altered.”

  She smiles a motherly smile.

  “Not for alterations, sweetie. For just anything.”

  I place the card in my purse to let her know that yes, I may need her. “Thanks, Ms. Stella.”

  “Goodnight, doll.” She leaves.

  And that’s where the goodness ended. When I get back to the table I don’t win another single hand. The one against the troll doll is the only hand I win all night long. I didn’t give drunk guy enough credit. The more he drank, the more careless I played, the more he won. Pathetic.

  Down to my last three dollars, and I hate myself. I should have gotten up after that first big win. I know better. I sit through three hands in total disbelief before I force myself to the door.

  Although it’s four o’clock in the morning, I stop and pump three dollars’ worth of gas. Actually, I stop pumping at $2.99 because I’m scared to death the stupid thing will run over by two cents or something, and I don’t have the extra two cents. The drive seems longer than usual. It’s eerie because I’m literally the only one on the road—highway and side streets. The rest of the town is tucked in to their warm beds and not worrying about their electricity being shut off.

  When I get home I make myself a cheese sandwich and eat just two bites before I go to my room, climb into bed, and curl up into fetal position. I don’t want to deal with this mess.

  I don’t want to be me.

  Chapter 20

  “Chels, honey, you better get up . . . It’s one thirty in the afternoon.” Dad rustles my hair, and I hear him walk out.

  I stretch and remember the shit creek I’m in before I even open my eyes. Why me?

  The only thing I’m thankful for is that it’s still the weekend. I can’t bring myself to get out of bed. My mind wonders about ways to earn fast cash. Plasma donation. Clean someone’s house. Street corner with cardboard sign of desperation. I can maybe sell some stuff. My new boots on Ebay? But it would take at least a week for that transaction.

  I muster the energy to sit upright when my phone rings. The first ring sends a signal to my brain that I can’t afford this phone, and I need to sell it. The second ring signals a message to actually pick it up and answer it. The number looks familiar, but I don’t know who’s calling.

  I let out a perky “Hello,” trying to fool whoever is calling into believing that I’ve been awake for hours.

  “Hey, it’s Nate.”

  I’m wide awake now. I stand up to prove it.

  “Oh, hey . . .” I say in a way that shows no excitement. In a way that tells him that, you know, this is an everyday occurrence . . . guys calling me all the time and such.

  “Are you busy?” he asks.

  “Oh, no. Just getting some laundry done. You know, those Saturday afternoon chores.” I move to shut my door.

  “Gotta love those chores. Hey, I was wondering if you’d want to meet for dinner tonight. Something low-key . . . maybe pizza or something like that.”

  “Can you hold on for just a sec?” I sit down on my bed and scoot the phone under the covers to process this. Dinner? CRAP. Dinner? What happened to his girlfriend? I stand up and look in the mirror on my wall and quickly fix my hair. As if he can see me through the phone.

  “Okay. I’m back.” No response.

  “You there? Nate?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. What do you think?”

  “About?”

  “About meeting me for dinner tonight?”

  I ask him point blank.

  “Um, don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  He laughs.

  “Have a girlfriend? Why would I be asking you out if I had a girlfriend? Nope. No girlfriend here.”

  “Hmm. Are you sure about that?”

  He laughs again. “I’m sure, I’m sure . . . I know it’s shocking that a charming guy like myself is single, but it’s true. No girlfriend.”

  I muster up the courage.

  “Well I thought I saw you with a girl one day.”

  “A girl?” He pauses a few seconds. “I have a twin sister, and we run around quite a bit, maybe that’s who you saw.” He appeases me. “Where at?”

  “Uhh, I can’t remember, I’m guessing it would have to be the casino.” I stammer.

  IT WAS JUST HIS TWIN SISTER AND HE IS SINGLE!

  “Well, you’re not avoiding my question, are you?” Nate gets back to business. “Dinner tonight?

  “Oh yeah, sure. Sounds fun.”

  “Cool. Would you rather me pick you up or do you want to meet?”

  “Meeting sounds good. I’ve seen what can happen on pick-up dates. I watch 48 Hours, you know.”

  He laughs. A really cute laugh, I must say, then replies, “I wouldn’t sink you to the bottom of the lake on the first date, silly. That’s like, third date stuff.”

  “Ha. Ha. Very funny.”

  We decide to meet at an old
Italian restaurant downtown, one I’ve never been to, one he goes to all the time. For five minutes I’m completely unaware of my financial “situation.” Until I hang up and remember my car has no gas.

  I open my door and walk into the living room. My dad is flipping the channels about to go down for his before-work nap when he looks up to acknowledge me.

  “Heeeey, Sleeping Beauty. All that sleep just makes you more and more gorgeous, kiddo. I better clean my gun so I can get ready to fight off all the boys that are going to be knockin’ down my door.”

  “That’s hilarious, Dad.”

  Wait a minute.

  Gun.

  Dad’s gun.

  Gun is valuable.

  Gun can be pawned.

  No, that’s ridiculous.

  I could never do that.

  That’s what desperate drug users do.

  I could never do that.

  Chapter 21

  I wait for Dad to roll over on the couch and enter the REM state of sleep before I go back and sneak into his closet with a black garbage sack. It’s in the corner, behind his flannels, and I pray it’s not loaded because the thought freaks me out.

  I grab a throw blanket off his bed and tuck it in around the rifle, then peek down the hallway to make sure Dad’s still out (although I know he’ll be out for at least two hours).

  It’s a go.

  I feel like a criminal.

  I am a criminal.

  Is it considered stealing if it comes from your own house?

  Surely not.

  Ever-so-quietly, I sneak out the front door and choose to leave the door open since I’ll be right back.

  I’m eighty-five percent sure there’s a pawn shop next to this buffet restaurant that I’ve eaten at before. Before now, I’ve never given much thought about pawn shops, and basically all I know is that they give you money for items that you can come back and get.

  I’m extra attentive to the speed limit signs because getting pulled over with a gun in a trash bag would not be a good thing. My hands are at ten and two on the wheel, and I’m using my turn signal like never before.

  It’s about five minutes from my house, and approaching the major intersection I squint to see the shop on the corner of the strip mall. Bars are in the windows. They buy gold and silver. The sign says All-American PAWN Shop. I wonder what this has to do with being American. I pull around the parking lot once. It’s disgusting. Trash, excessive oil spillage from broken-down cars, and faded yellow lines giving people a vague idea of where to park. I feel sketchy already.

  I find the closest parking space possible, one reserved with two old Happy Meal boxes that have been run over a time or two. I sit in my car for just a few minutes to observe the people going in and out of this place. A young couple, about my age, gets out of their beater—a faded chalky red color—and the dad pulls an infant carrier with a baby from the backseat. The baby is asleep. What are they here to hock? Trading a necklace for diapers wouldn’t be a bad thing at all. You gotta do what you gotta do.

  I sit for a while longer, glancing in my rearview mirror a couple of times.

  The gun isn’t going to walk in and pawn itself, so I get out of the car and open the back door. Without opening the bag I feel around to make sure I grab the gun barrel-down. Am I really doing this?

  The sidewalk is uneven so I walk extra slowly and extra carefully.

  A gun.

  I’m carrying a gun for God’s sake.

  As I push through the door a buzzer rings. It’s a department store on a smaller scale. An electronics department showcases flat screen TVs, and they’re all on the same channel showing the evening news. I pass through kitchen appliances then walk back to the counter, and I notice the security monitors showing about nine angles of the parking lot before I even notice the worker.

  “Whatcha got?” He looks down at my bag.

  My response is delayed because I’m incredibly distracted by the handgun holstered to his hip, partly concealed by his belly fat. Good grief—could a hiccup trigger that gun?

  “Uhh,” is all I can come up with. I reveal the rifle and place it on the counter. I smell power tools and electronics with a hint of men’s cologne. Cheap cologne.

  “Uh huh . . . You’ve gotcha an old twenty-two, do ya?” I begin to shake when he opens it up and starts making all those loud gun-cocking noises.

  “Yeah.”

  “What, you givin’ up deer hunting this year?” He cracks himself up.

  I fake laugh then respond, “Yeah.”

  He pulls out a blank order form and starts filling out information about the gun in all capital letters . . . serial number and description. There’s a box with a dollar sign showing that sixty dollars is the principle amount of the loan. I don’t bother with reading the volume’s worth of fine print because I’ll be back by tomorrow to retrieve it. He points to a place for me to write my information and sign at the bottom. I decide—on the fly—that I’ll give all correct information, and it’s a good thing I do because he asks for my driver’s license.

  It takes no time for him to verify my information and pull three twenties from the cash drawer. And boom. I’m pulling out with sixty bucks.

  Chapter 22

  I pump ten dollars’ worth of gas into my tank knowing that will be plenty, round trip, for the Italian restaurant downtown. When I get home, Dad’s in the exact position he was when I left: hands clasped behind his head, knees bent, as if he fell asleep in the middle of a sit up.

  I try not to make any noise. I go back to my room and begin to regroup. My bed is unmade. My nightstand is cluttered with papers. I scoot my covers to the end of the bed and start making stacks. Graded school assignments. Notes and fliers from school. Bills. Checking account statements.

  I’ve got fifty bucks. Dad gets paid in four days. I’ll go by and pay ten dollars toward the electric bill and beg them not to turn it off. It’s worked before, but it all depends on who’s working and what kind of a mood they’re in. The whole thing is humiliating. But so is going to school with wet hair if our electric was to get cut off. I take all my stacks and compile them back to one stack and set it back on my nightstand.

  I begin to flip through my closet and try on clothes. Thirty minutes and a mound of clothes later, I decide on old jeans and a coral button-down shirt that I can tie at the waist. However, that night, I leave in a short, black cotton dress, barelegged with my boots.

  As I drive downtown, I look forward. Forward. Forward. Forward. I do everything I can to avoid looking over and making eye contact with any driver on the street. For Nate to see me driving to our date would be so . . . awkward. I tell myself he’s probably coming from a different direction, but I still feel like such a goob.

  Downtown is packed. Teenagers, families, old people . . . it’s a potpourri of Okies down here. I find the restaurant and pull into the parking lot across the street. A lot attendant holds a sign, but he’s turned around talking to a group of women wearing conference badges, so I can’t read what the sign says. I find a space, and take a few deep breaths.

  When I get out of the car, it takes effort to walk. I didn’t think I’d be this nervous. I’m about to cross the street when I see the lot attendant coming after me. He’s hollering, “Hey! Miss!”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Nate walk out of the restaurant.

  The attendant catches up to me, and I realize why he’s chased me down. The sign says parking is eight dollars.

  EIGHT DOLLARS.

  I smile at the man (Nate’s watching), and get a ten from my purse. The attendant, a guy in his sixties, makes change. I don’t have time to process this expense or the impact it will have on my financial situation. I cross the street.

  Nate laughs.

  “Trying to slide by the ol’ parking lot guy, are ya?”

  I feel my cheeks flus
h red.

  “Oh, no. I didn’t see his sign, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, that’s what all the parking lot bandits say.”

  I laugh.

  “I’m not a parking lot bandit.”

  Nate opens the door for me, and we enter the restaurant.

  It’s a cozy little place. Dim lights. Round tables with red checkered tablecloths. Couples sharing bottles of wine. The smell of bread hangs in the air. Although it’s a relaxing atmosphere, my hands begin to shake.

  Nate makes his way to the hostess stand, and I follow behind. The hostess (the only one in this joint that seems to be my age) tells Nate it will be a twenty-minute wait.

  “That’s fine. We’ll just wait in the bar,” he responds. He takes my hand and pulls me toward a cramped row of barstools where I stand behind him, still holding his hand.

  Nate takes initiative.

  “What do you want? I bet you’re a margarita girl, huh?”

  The bartender makes eye contact with me, and I quickly look away. I stall.

  “Hmm. I’m not sure, yet. You go ahead.” Nate picks up the bar menu and asks the bartender for a few minutes to decide. The bartender, a short, Italian-looking guy with wet, slicked black hair tosses two square napkins our way and designates our spot for drinks.

  My shaking intensifies, and the hand that Nate’s not holding, I clinch to a fist. Will he serve me? Are the two napkins code for “go ahead and order, I’m not asking for your ID”?

  Nate releases my hand to study the menu.

  I’m a nervous wreck. I glance over at the bartender serving someone down the bar. He’s yet to smile, and I can’t get a read on this guy.

  “I need to use the restroom. I’ll just take whatever you get.” I stretch myself taller to look over heads for the restroom.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m easy.”

  He laughs and widens his eyes.

  It dawns on me.

  “I’m easy. Like easy to please . . . not easy like easy!”

  He continues to laugh.

  “Oh, you know what I mean!” I walk away to find the restroom.