Keep Holding On Read Free Page A

Sherae’s house. Thick, juicy cuts of steak. Mashed potatoes made from scratch with extra gravy. Fresh, roasted vegetables. Soft, warm rolls with garlic butter melting on them.
    “I can’t get a break,” mother rants on, looking everywhere but at me. She avoids eye contact. If she saw me, like
really
saw me, shewould be forced to face reality. “It’s like the whole world’s against me. How am I supposed to raise a kid if I can’t get paid decently? They have no idea what it’s like to be a single mother in this community. None.”
    There will also be dessert at Sherae’s. Mrs. Feldman’s chocolate cake is unreal. She makes this vanilla frosting that is so insanely good you can’t even believe it. And when she ices the cake, she puts a lot of frosting on. We’re talking frosting so thick you get a forkful with every bite.
    “They think welfare and food stamps cut it?” Mother laughs bitterly. “What a joke. They should walk in my shoes for a day. They wouldn’t even last five minutes.”
    Moist, delicious chocolate cake. Sweet, rich vanilla frosting.
    “I mean, look. I’ve been there much longer than the idiots who’ve gotten promoted. He’s always trying to keep me down. I should be
his
boss. Then things would start running the way they’re supposed to.” She takes a sip of soda. “Why can’t I ever get a break?”
    “Maybe the other customer service reps are nicer to the customers?” I suggest. “And that’s why they got promoted?”
    Mother snaps her head up. She squints at me in a daze, like she’s trying to remember who I am.
    “What?” she says.
    “Nothing.” There’s no point in trying to convince her that the conspiracy she’s imagining doesn’t exist. She’s convinced that the whole world is against her. Including me.
    Soon this rant will segue into mother complaining how shehas no money. According to mother, it’s my fault that we’re poor. If she hadn’t had me right after high school, then she could have gone to college and had a real career. Instead of making minimum wage at a job she can’t stand.
    She explained all of this to me when I was thirteen.
    “You ruined my life,” she told me.
    My mother is not a mom. She’s just some selfish woman who should have never had a kid.

    Things parents are supposed to do for their kids:
    buy needed supplies
help pay for college
look at them
do laundry
talk to them about their lives
love them
    Things from the above list that my mother does or intends to do:
    none

three
monday, april 11
(49 days left)
    My hair is so scary that if you saw it walking down the street, you’d cross to the other side. This humidity is not helping. It’s just an excuse for my hair to let its frizz flag fly.
    I seriously doubt Jolene DelMonico has to get up way early to deal with hair that refuses to be tamed. She’s in my physics class. Every morning her perfect hair is like a smack in the face. Keeping mine shoulder-length helps. I can kind of control it with product, but it’s impossible to maintain for more than a few hours. And it’s this boring, light brown color that almost exactly matches my eyes.
    Unfortunately, my hair isn’t the only disgrace I have to deal with this morning. My eyes are puffy. There’s no way I can go to school with puffy eyes.
    Time for the cold spoon.
    I go to the kitchen and grab the spoon I keep in the back of the refrigerator for puffy-eye emergencies. My eyes probably shouldn’t get puffy like this. It might be some kind of allergic reaction. But mother never takes me to the doctor, so I guess I’ll never know.
    In the bathroom, I close my right eye and press the back of the spoon against it. The cold metal soothes my swollen eyelid. My eye waters.
    While I’m waiting for the puffiness to calm down, I consider wearing something different from what I decided on. I have on my standard ensemble for the middle of April: jeans and an oversized tee. In the winter, I can get away with wearing bulky sweaters. Or one