The Things Our Parents Taught Us (ONC 2020)

5 / nadia

The next day, my bed is too warm and cozy to leave before noon. My shades are still down and the electric clock says it's 12:32 in the afternoon.

I roll over and adjust my pillow, grabbing my cell phone which doesn't even have service anymore. The wifi still works but it doesn't matter because nobody tries to contact me one way or another.

My eye catches the biology textbooks stacked on the floor by the door. I've got four left and it feels pretty stupid knowing they're barely worth anything. They're stupid enough to just toss into overgrowth by the train tracks.

Earlier in the morning I heard Jax and Angelo leave somewhere, which means I'm more than likely here alone. My stomach churns and the blankets go over my head.

Being under the covers brings back bad feelings of childhood. Doing this when mom and dad were high, when they were drunk, when they were on a tirade. I'd hide under my blankets and pretend I was in a warm, safe cocoon. Friendly butterflies and insects would come and bring me food, regurgitating it into my mouth like a baby bird.

I guess that's one way to look at my childhood — animals treated me better than any humans could. That was the difference with us versus our peers. That's what made us freaks in the eyes of our school.

My pointer finger follows the stripe on my sheet as hot tears form in my eyes. The wet drops slide down my cheeks sideways, tickling my skin in the process.

"Keep your guard up," I tell myself in the same way Jax told me last night, mockingly, except this time it comes out in a sob. It almost makes me laugh at the same time, too.

What am I even doing here in New Canton? This dirty city is filled with drug use and poverty. Delinquents. Convicts. People like me and my brothers who are the vein in which drugs flow. But don't tell them you're seventeen — act twice your age and get the deal done quickly.

The people we sell to are just hungry rabbits searching for their next meal. A carrot, a celery stalk, it doesn't really matter. As long as it fills their bellies for a while.

I've been doing it since I was thirteen. Jax and Angelo as well, but mostly me because men are lazy or too busy having sex, according to mom. The market is always in high demand.

The other night when I got home around midnight, I did my first gun sale alone. Usually someone is with me, like Uncle Al, because he knows everything there is to know about guns. But I did it myself. No haggling, no arguing, just a smooth exchange in the back of a 7/11 with nothing but a dim, flickering street lamp.

After thrashing the covers off, I sit up in bed and wipe my wet cheeks with the back of my hand. Snot is running down my lips and I wipe it away with my shirt, which has been dirty for weeks now. My legs feel shaky as I pick up my laundry and head into the hallway.

"Hello?" My voice echoes while I maneuver down the stairs with a hamper in both hands, then say it again for good measure.

The house is dead silent except for the kitchen window which is opened just a hair, letting in a fresh breeze and hectic sounds of the city. I park my hamper there and look around.

"Okay, then, I guess I'm alone," I say to the walls as I pull my hair back into a ponytail.

It's kind of funny talking to the walls, but moments like this are few and far between. There are people running in and out of this house like it's the local Taco Bell joint.

"Let's see what mama left us," I tell the hand rail while descending into our basement.

After emptying my hamper in front of the washer, I make my way over to the pool table around the corner.

There it is: methamphetamemes.

My fingers slip into my hair and my mouth opens wide in astonishment. "That's a big bag of drugs," I whisper to my dirty laundry, laughing a little for good measure.

It's true. There's a giant bag of meth just sitting on our pool table in the basement. Individual empty baggies are sitting next to it, like someone has some unfinished business I am not getting my hands into.

Mom and dad have done this before, but they have never let this much sit in the basement. Still wickedly amazed, I press my finger into the ziploc bag to make sure it's real and I'm not dreaming.

"Careful there, kid."

Uncle Al's voice booms through the cold, cement basement, and makes me jump out of my own skin. He's bent over a pile of junk we keep in the corner.

"Holy freaking —" With my hand to my chest, I give Uncle Al the most frazzled look ever.

"Your mom sent me over to portion this meth out," he says not so enthusiastically.

I take a deep breath and lean against the pool table for support. "Okay. Okay. I knew it was too good to be true." Shaking my head, I begin sorting my laundry.

"What was too good to be true?" Uncle Al sets the scale he was looking for onto the pool table along with his beer.

"Nothing." I quickly dismiss the conversation and throw everything into the washer.

"Lemme tell ya, this is the last time I'm ever doing this for my sister." Uncle Al chuckles as he uses a spoon to pour meth into a kitchen bowl on the scale.

My arms cross against my chest and I watch him portion out a few baggies. "Is she coming back?"

Uncle Al seals the first baggie and tosses it onto the far corner of the pool table. "You know how she is. Sounded like she would be —"

"— but probably won't be," I finish his sentence, holding down the start button on the washing machine.

Uncle Al looks at me with empathy, his eyebrows drawn in. "I'm sorry, kid. You know she's got a problem, right? Look what I'm doing. Look at what the three of ya have been doing for years."

I feel hot tears welling up in my eyes again, but I wipe them away with my sleeve before Uncle Al can notice. The basement is dingy and dark anyway, not like you can see much outside of the pool table light.

Once I'm halfway up the stairs, I feel the tears again, finally collapsing onto the kitchen floor with my head against my knees.

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