Read Online Dirty Little Secrets by C. J. Omololu - Free Book Online

kicked the back of his skateboard so it landed in his hand. “Whatcha doin’?”
    I shifted the weight of the box to my hip and turned to him. “Just some cleaning.”
    â€œMy mom always does that after Christmas so she can make room for the new stuff,” he said.
    â€œWell, there you go.” I turned to walk away.
    â€œCan I help?” he asked.
    I sighed and stopped walking. I really liked him, but the last thing I needed was a kid hanging around asking questions. “No, TJ. Not really. I’m doing fine on my own.”
    â€œAre you getting rid of anything good?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “How about I let you know when I’m finished.”
    â€œI can go through it with you,” he said. “Come on, I’m totally bored.”
    I looked up and down the empty street. “Aren’t there any other little kids around today?”
    TJ tipped his helmet back on his head with one hand. “I’m not a little kid,” he said. “I’m in third grade.”
    â€œListen,” I said. “Anyone I babysit on a regular basis is a little kid. Go find someone else to bother. I’m really busy here.”
    â€œFine.” TJ’s shoulders slumped as he turned to walk down my driveway. Great. Now his feelings were hurt. I really did not have time for this.
    â€œHey, T,” I called after him. “How about I make a pile for you to go through later? If I find any cool stuff Phil left behind I’ll give you first pick.”
    He shrugged without turning around, but dropped his skateboard on the sidewalk and, with a running start, rolled around the corner and out of sight. I took that as a yes.
    Back inside, I felt good, like I was making progress. As I stuffed the boxes full of paper, I grabbed a bag labeled “Scrub City”—Mom’s favorite clothing store. Sure enough, it was filled with colorful nursing scrubs with the tags still on, and I wondered how long ago she’d bought these. I pulled out a shirt that was covered with Simpsons characters all dressed for Christmas—Homer had on a Santa hat and Lisa’s saxophone was covered in lights. Mom always found the most obnoxious scrubs to wear because she said it made her people feel better to look at something cheerful. She never called them her patients, always her “people.” I guess calling them patients would make it more obvious that a lot of them were never going home again. Maybe after, I could take these down to her work and let the other nurses have them. Sort of like Mom’s legacy.
    I’d gone down to the hospital with her for one of those “Take Your Daughter to Work” days a couple of years ago. I’d been there lots of times, usually parked at the nurses’ station with a supply of pens and pads of paper with the names of pharmaceutical companies written on the top, but we never stayed more than a couple of minutes—just long enough for her to pick up her paycheck or see to one of her people quickly. I’d spent half a day there once when the daycare lady didn’t show up, but I’d never seen her actually work before.
    I’d expected the same cranky, irritated person I saw at home every day, but once she stepped through the sliding doors, she was different. Her face softened, and there was a slight smile on her lips as we approached the floor where she worked.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Evans,” she said to a tall, skinny bald man as we got off the elevator. He was wearing red plaid pajamas with a matching red plaid robe and gripped a tall pole that held an assortment of IV bags. Tubes snaked from under his robe and attached to the bags as he wheeled the contraption along beside him.
    â€œGood morning, Joanna,” he said, his gaunt face assembling into a slight smile. He turned to me. “Do we have a new nurse on the ward?” I’d picked the least objectionable pair of scrubs in