Today's Reading
"I'll pack this in the car right now." I set my baby book on top of Dad's copy of The Five Love Languages. I have vague memories of him reading this book in bed and scratching out the sexist comments to write in his own progressive advice. He seemed to read this thing a lot during that phase after the divorce and before he met Andrea. Maybe this was the book that led him to her. I never asked when he was alive. I was just a kid—too young to realize I should take advantage of the time I did have with Dad. But asking Mom about it now doesn't feel like the best time.
I secure the box's lid as Mom's hand rests on my shoulder. When I turn, she's peering at me with a worried smile and an eleven folded between her brows. Mom and I are about the same height even though we look nothing alike. Her hair is thin and bright like the sun. Mine is thick and darker than midnight. Her eyes are blue like the skies Dad used to fly his planes through. Mine are soil brown. No wonder the school staff gives us weird looks when I bring her to parent-teacher conferences.
I offer Mom a dimpled smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes. "Is there anything else I should carry down with me?"
"What's wrong, Catie?" Mom asks, ignoring my question. Of course, she can see through my façade. "You've hardly said a word all day."
My gaze dips to the imprint of my body on the carpet. "I'm not looking forward to moving in with Aunt Joanna. That's all."
Ugh. Just saying her name tastes like lead. I hardly know anything about Aunt Joanna. But judging by the scripture verses and political stances she's posted on Facebook, I have a feeling that someone as biracial as me isn't quite white enough for her. And someone as pansexual as Mavis is definitely not straight enough for her. And considering that Mom drinks coffee and curses occasionally, she's definitely not Mormon enough for Aunt Joanna's standards.
Mom sighs. "I'm not looking forward to moving in with my sister either."
So why, then? I want to ask. But I already know the answer. We need to move in with Aunt Joanna because Mom lost her job as a personal trainer when the owners sold their gym. We need to move because the housing costs in San Diego are climbing, and Mom is unemployed. We need to move because we have no other choice.
I clear my throat and blink away tears. Now isn't the time to whine about our situation. We should've been on the road first thing this morning.
"We're already behind schedule," I say, faking a yawn so Mom won't notice my tears. "You should drop off the apartment key so we can get going."
Mom doesn't have a chance to reply because I scoop up the box and hurry out my bedroom door. I pass Mavis's room, which is unrecognizable now that her piles of laundry aren't everywhere. I pass the living area that Mom converted into her studio sleeping space. She'd set a paper screen between her twin bed and the couch. Not once did she ever ask Mavis and me to turn the TV down while she was trying to sleep. This place may have never been haunted by ghosts, but it will forever haunt my memories as one of the few places I've called home.
I carry my box down to the parking lot. The late morning sun radiates off the asphalt, sending beads of sweat rolling down my spine. Palm trees stretch into the sky but are too high up to offer any shade. It's kind of weird to see this type of sun in the middle of June Gloom. Normally, summer break starts with low clouds and heavy drizzle. But of course, today is bright and sunny. An overcast sky would've been too ironic.
Mavis sits on the curb beside Mom's Subaru, short hair pulled into a tight ponytail. Her AirPods are in, which is code for leave me alone. From the back, she looks exactly like Mom. From the side, her rounded jawline and thick brows are remnants from a biological father she's never met. Mom had a one-night stand in college, but Dad's been the only dad either of us has ever known.
Mavis and I have lived at this complex since freshman year. We dropped eggs with parachutes from the stairwell because we needed something for our science project. We watched the raccoons crawl through the dumpsters because we were bored on a Friday night and didn't feel like attending the football game. The rocks in the succulent garden are still misplaced from that time Mavis chased an iguana through the bushes.
I resist the urge to join Mavis on the curb and instead shovel the last box inside Mom's five-passenger Subaru. The back bench is folded down to make room for the bags of clothing, the boxes of bathroom essentials, and even my beach bagsize makeup tote. There's just enough space for me to sit behind the driver's seat while our TV rests beside me in a blanket cocoon.
Mom joins us after returning the apartment key to the front office. Mavis and I pile inside wordlessly, and Mom pulls out of the complex and heads toward the freeway. We ride past Roasters Coffee—the Gucci one, not the crusty one near Francisca's house. No, the one by her place has a busted toilet seat. Gucci Roasters has bar stools.
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