Cruz’s arms were crossed in front of his chest, probably to keep himself from punching out our landlord, who was wagging his finger in Cruz’s face and hollering at him.
“Who the hell are you?” the landlord asked him.
“I already explained, Mr. Stevens. I’m a friend of the family.”
“Lord, that woman is going young!”
“It’s not like that,” Cruz explained. He grinned, which I knew meant that he was embarrassed. I would be, too, if I was him and I was accused of dating my mother.
“Hi, Mr. Stevens,” I said, interrupting the conversation. “It’s me, Tess.”
He blinked a couple times, as if he was trying to reboot his brain and remember who I was. I detected a glimmer of recognition in his eyes and then relief.
“Where’s your mother?” he demanded.
“Well—“ I started. I caught Cruz throwing me a warning look. I had to be careful. If our landlord realized my mother had taken off without even leaving her contact information, he would call the cops, and I would wind up in a foster home.
My heart pounded in my chest. I was sure they could hear it. Thump. Thump. It was like the Marines Marching Band in there. How could they not hear it? I was a one-person rave.
I tried to calm myself enough to think of an excuse for my mom’s disappearance. Where could she be? On retreat? At a spa? On a secret mission to Afghanistan? What would the landlord believe?
Thump. Thump. My heart wouldn’t slow down. I couldn’t get words out. I tried to remember the symptoms of a heart attack. Were sweating, panicking, and a heart on the verge of exploding symptoms? I was either having a heart attack, or I was the drummer for Kiss.
I opened my mouth and willed words to come out.
Nothing.
Not a peep.
Faced with the terror of being homeless, I forgot how to speak. Mr. Stevens didn’t care, anyway. He wasn’t interested in giving me a chance to explain.
“Do you know you’re three months behind in the rent?” he demanded, his voice rising an octave. He sounded a lot like the Wicked Witch of the West, and I was half-expecting him to send flying monkeys after me.
“Three months?” Cruz asked.
“Three months?” I repeated, finally getting words out.
Cruz and I looked at each other. His face reflected my emotions.
Surprise.
Sadness.
Defeat.
My mother only left a month ago. We expected to be a month behind, but not three. How could we get three months of rent together?
“How much is the rent?” Cruz finally asked.
“Twelve-hundred a month. What’s it to you, boy?”
I had saved two-hundred, and I knew that Cruz had just gotten his first paycheck.
“We can give you seven hundred and the rest next week,” Cruz said.
“All twenty-nine-hundred?” the landlord asked.
Two thousand, nine hundred dollars. It was an impossible amount of money. He might as well have said a million dollars or a billion dollars. He might as well have said he needed me to turn my head all the way around or do the splits on a crate of dynamite.
I mean, impossible.
We could never get that much money together. We would have to win the lottery, invent Twitter, or get a Hip Hop contract to get that much money.
Tears burned the back of my eyes, threatening to pop out in a steady stream. I knew I would start blubbering any second. Faced with being a homeless orphan with their future flushed down the toilet, who wouldn’t blubber?
I was about to drop to my knees, clutch onto the front of Mr. Stevens’ Dockers, and beg him to let us live in the house for free, when Cruz said something crazy.
“Yep, twenty-nine-hundred,” he said, although his voice was a little croaky, like it was hard for him to speak the actual words. Of course it was hard for him to speak the actual words! They were crazy words. Only a lunatic would say those words.
A lunatic who was convinced he had been abducted by aliens from Jupiter and had to learn their alien Jupiter language would hear Cruz say, “Yep, twenty-nine-hundred,” and
“Who the hell are you?” the landlord asked him.
“I already explained, Mr. Stevens. I’m a friend of the family.”
“Lord, that woman is going young!”
“It’s not like that,” Cruz explained. He grinned, which I knew meant that he was embarrassed. I would be, too, if I was him and I was accused of dating my mother.
“Hi, Mr. Stevens,” I said, interrupting the conversation. “It’s me, Tess.”
He blinked a couple times, as if he was trying to reboot his brain and remember who I was. I detected a glimmer of recognition in his eyes and then relief.
“Where’s your mother?” he demanded.
“Well—“ I started. I caught Cruz throwing me a warning look. I had to be careful. If our landlord realized my mother had taken off without even leaving her contact information, he would call the cops, and I would wind up in a foster home.
My heart pounded in my chest. I was sure they could hear it. Thump. Thump. It was like the Marines Marching Band in there. How could they not hear it? I was a one-person rave.
I tried to calm myself enough to think of an excuse for my mom’s disappearance. Where could she be? On retreat? At a spa? On a secret mission to Afghanistan? What would the landlord believe?
Thump. Thump. My heart wouldn’t slow down. I couldn’t get words out. I tried to remember the symptoms of a heart attack. Were sweating, panicking, and a heart on the verge of exploding symptoms? I was either having a heart attack, or I was the drummer for Kiss.
I opened my mouth and willed words to come out.
Nothing.
Not a peep.
Faced with the terror of being homeless, I forgot how to speak. Mr. Stevens didn’t care, anyway. He wasn’t interested in giving me a chance to explain.
“Do you know you’re three months behind in the rent?” he demanded, his voice rising an octave. He sounded a lot like the Wicked Witch of the West, and I was half-expecting him to send flying monkeys after me.
“Three months?” Cruz asked.
“Three months?” I repeated, finally getting words out.
Cruz and I looked at each other. His face reflected my emotions.
Surprise.
Sadness.
Defeat.
My mother only left a month ago. We expected to be a month behind, but not three. How could we get three months of rent together?
“How much is the rent?” Cruz finally asked.
“Twelve-hundred a month. What’s it to you, boy?”
I had saved two-hundred, and I knew that Cruz had just gotten his first paycheck.
“We can give you seven hundred and the rest next week,” Cruz said.
“All twenty-nine-hundred?” the landlord asked.
Two thousand, nine hundred dollars. It was an impossible amount of money. He might as well have said a million dollars or a billion dollars. He might as well have said he needed me to turn my head all the way around or do the splits on a crate of dynamite.
I mean, impossible.
We could never get that much money together. We would have to win the lottery, invent Twitter, or get a Hip Hop contract to get that much money.
Tears burned the back of my eyes, threatening to pop out in a steady stream. I knew I would start blubbering any second. Faced with being a homeless orphan with their future flushed down the toilet, who wouldn’t blubber?
I was about to drop to my knees, clutch onto the front of Mr. Stevens’ Dockers, and beg him to let us live in the house for free, when Cruz said something crazy.
“Yep, twenty-nine-hundred,” he said, although his voice was a little croaky, like it was hard for him to speak the actual words. Of course it was hard for him to speak the actual words! They were crazy words. Only a lunatic would say those words.
A lunatic who was convinced he had been abducted by aliens from Jupiter and had to learn their alien Jupiter language would hear Cruz say, “Yep, twenty-nine-hundred,” and
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