Missing Girl

CHAPTER 1

"But Mama," I protested as she scooted the laundry basket across the kitchen table towards me. It was brimming with two weeks' worth of Mama's worn-out delicates and my brother's dirty gym clothes. "Why do I have to go today? You know the laundry mat is shady any day of the week, but Friday nights are the worst."

"Do you have other plans tonight, chica?" Mama asked, setting a trap that I couldn't avoid. My lack of response was the answer she expected.

The late September heat that had settled in the valley was suffocating. Mama wiped her forehead and turned away from me, but not before I saw the skid marks of perspiration that had been left behind on her forehead. With her back to me she pulled her long chestnut hair up into a messy bun on her head and I caught a glimpse of the sweat stains that had formed under her arms, turning her light pink shirt nearly red. In the past week the air conditioner had heaved one final breath before dying and our wash machine followed suit. We didn't have money to fix either so we were left to sweat in our soiled clothes.

Mama sighed as she looked out the window that overlooked our neighbor's overgrown, weedy yard. It was one of her complicated sighs that was infused with frustration and regret. "Sophia, I need you to do me this favor."

"Why can't we use Mrs. Jeffries machine?" I whined like a two-year-old. Mama had always said teenagers were like toddlers only taller and mouthier. I was only acting the way she expected, I told myself.

Mama turned around. "Because Mrs. Jeffries is an old woman, her home is rank, and our clothes would leave there dirtier than they were before they were washed. And," she added one more pair of Jesus' foul gym socks to the top of the pile as a punctuation mark to her point, "because it is not Mrs. Jeffries responsibility to take care of us."

Mama walked away leaving me in the sweltering kitchen pondering the point. I felt like shit. Really, I did, because with Jesus and me in the house it shouldn't always have to be Mama's responsibility to take care of us. I was 17 years old and Jesus would be fifteen in two weeks. We were capable of being helpful, responsible children. We were also capable of being complete and total asses.

Begrudgingly, I snatched the laundry basket off the table, tucking it under my arms, breathing out of my mouth to avoid the stench of Jesus' socks. It didn't help. With my free hand I grabbed my cell phone out of my back pocket and texted Hayden. Meet me at the laundry mat? Earning my keep, I guess.

I waited for her to respond outside of the house, sitting on a lawn chair Mama kept near the front door. It was her smoking chair, she said. While she didn't care if she destroyed her lungs, she certainly wasn't going to go down for killing her kids with second-hand smoke. The chair was one of those old lawn chairs from the 1980s with weaved fabric that frayed and fell apart too easily. This chair was green and yellow, faded from the sun.

I tapped my foot and waited impatiently for Hayden to text me back. She was the only friend I had whose parents allowed her to come to my home. Mostly I was a pariah; someone that was looked down upon for having a heritage that wasn't fashioned from diamonds, Mercedes, and Vera Wang. I can't say that it was discrimination. I lived in Mission Valley, an area of San Diego that was rife with Hispanics and last names like Rodriquez, Garcia, and Sanchez. Of the 800 teenagers that attended Vista Linda Senior High, Hayden, whose skin was whiter than the porcelain toilet in my bathroom, was the minority. The problem wasn't the light, cafe color of my skin or way I tried to adopt my mother's accent even though I was a born and bred American.

No, the problem was that the tiny section of the universe I inhabited was downright dangerous. Any parent in their right mind wouldn't let their kid come to this neighborhood that was littered with shells from stray bullets and riddled with drug dealers that divided their time between here and Tijuana. Hayden was only given a wide berth because her parents cared more about their stock portfolios and fancy parties than paying close attention to the whereabouts of their daughter; her assessment, not mine.

My phone vibrated against my thigh. Can't. The parentals are being particular tonight. She ended the short text with a sad face emoticon. I put my phone into my back pocket and shrugged off the letdown. The sun hadn't set yet. It wouldn't for another three hours. I had plenty of time to get back home before it became suicidal to walk alone.

The screen door to my house slammed. Mama walked up to me and placed her hand on my shoulder. She kissed my cheek and looked into my eyes. We shared the same eyes. She always told me I had my papa' s sturdy features, but the eyes we shared. "I love you, Sophia. Be safe. If I didn't need your help, I wouldn't ask you. I've got some business to take care of tonight. Okay?" I didn't ask what her business was, although I suspected it was visiting Mr. Debold.

Mama had invited him to dinner several times over the course of the past several years and he behaved in a halfway decent manner, but he wasn't a gentleman. I had seen the way his eyes looked me up and down, filled with carnal indecency. It was gross and disgusting, but what was sicker was the way he eyed my mama. I had caught him grabbing at her ass when he thought I wasn't looking. Mama didn't shoo him away, but she wasn't responsive either.

I began to put two and two together about a year ago when I noticed that after Mr. Debold's visits things started showing up in our house that we couldn't afford. First it was the dishwasher. Next, Jesus was able to attend the soccer camp he had begged Mama to send him to for almost three months. I finally realized the extent of Mama's and Mr. Debold's relationship when the Honda Civic materialized in our driveway. Taking care of business meant visiting with Mr. Debold to get the air conditioning fixed and the wash machine in working order again. Sending me to the laundry mat was part of the plan.

I leaned my forehead against Mama's and released her of a little guilt. "It's okay. Sorry I'm being a little shit."

Mama smiled, patted my cheek, and pointed her finger at me. "Language, little girl. You talk like that and you won't ever find your way out of this inferno of poverty. You understand?"

"Sí, Mama. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Mama smiled, satisfied with my answer and walked back into the house. That would be the last time I ever saw her.