Romeo is Homeless Read Free Page A

as if, by magic, they would disappear.
    “Oh my God, I hate you!”
    She inspected her arms then pulled open the collar of her plaid shirt to examine her chest. The top three snaps of her blouse popped open exposing the lace of her white cotton bra. So far, those hated spots were confined to her face, but at this rate she’d be as flecked and flawed as her mother before she ever hit adulthood.
    A gentle breeze carried the jumbled smells of her life in through the open window, disturbing the lilac ruffles of her homemade drapes. Dust and hay, diesel fuel and fresh baked bread, cow shit and cherry blossoms. Jack barke d his morning eff you to the rooster and hen s and the distant snorts of pigs rutting in the muck reminded her she hadn’t bothered to slop them this morning.
    “And I hate you too, pigs.”
    She squished her freshly glossed, pink passion lips together and dropped the gloss into her cosmetics bag.
    “August, get down here now!”
    She rolled her eyes, tucked her father’s old black comb in her back pocket and emerged from her room.
    “Mom, I can’t find my compact, have you seen it? I’m all shiny and I need to hide these ugly freckles.”
    “Damn it, August, that’s the third time this week you’ve ignored your chores.” Her mother ran a hand through her short blonde hair and emptied her lungs in one giant exhale, her morning coffee breath souring the air. “Do your shirt up.” She stood arms akimbo. “I need the eggs brought in, you hear me? And the pigs slopped every morning. Your father should never have let you wear makeup. That’s all that seems important to you anymore.”
    August cocked her head to one side and snapped her snaps while her mother played a variation of the same broken-record tune she had to listen to most days. Do your chores. Don’t wear makeup. No boys allowed. No life for you.
    “All my friends wear makeup, Mother. What’s the big deal? I am an adult.”
    “Adults are responsible. Adults do their chores. Adults don’t miss the bus because they’re too busy primping in the mirror.” Her mother crossed her arms. “And adults don’t roll their eyes at their parents.”
    “Hah! You do it to Grandma all the time.”
    “Look, sweetheart. I don’t want to fight with you today. Your father and I work damn hard and we expect you to do your share. You have no respect lately.”
    “Respect? What is there to respect? We never get to go anywhere. There’s never enough money.”
    “August, stop.” Her mother’s voice cracked.
    “You can’t even name your daughters right. Had to name them after the months they were born in. April, June and August. How bloody original, Mother. What would you have done if one of us had dared to be born in February?”
    “August, please.” Tears welled in her mother’s eyes.
    “And this farm? Who the hell wants to live on this stupid farm? We can’t even get cable TV. You won’t let us have a computer. We’re just a bunch of loser hicks.”
    Tears streamed down her mother’s face.
    August raised her voice even louder. “All we do is work. Work, work, work, work every damn day, sun up to sun down. What kind of life is that? Why can’t we live in the city? Why can’t Dad have a real job? I fucking hate that we’re dumb-ass farmers.”
    Her mother’s cheeks blazed red. She slapped August’s face.
    August stared, open-mouthed, and then began to cry. Through all the arguments, the push-pull of them vying for power over her life, her mother had never hit her before.
    “August,” her mother whispered. “Oh, August, I’m so sorry.” Her mother reached out to her.
    She pushed her mother away. “Don’t touch me.” August ran up the stairs, slammed the bedroom door and threw herself onto her bed. She sat up, the aging bed frame creaking in protest, and tucked her knees under her chin, rocking back and forth. She wiped her eyes with the corner of her quilt, staining the thinning patchwork with black lash marks.
    She wiped