Sugar Daddy Read Free Page B

and my throat felt thick and tingly like I’d just swallowed a spoonful of warm honey.
    The sunset finished with a long crack of light rimming the horizon, as if the sky were a big door and God was taking one last peek. Good night, Welcome, I thought, and went into the trailer.

Chapter 2
    My new home smelled agreeably of fresh-molded plastic and new carpeting. It was a two-bedroom single-wide with a concrete patio pad in the back. I’d been allowed to pick out the wallpaper in my room, white with bunches of pink roses and a narrow blue ribbon woven throughout. We had never lived in a trailer before, having occupied a rent house in Houston before we moved east to Welcome.
    Like the trailer, Mama’s boyfriend, Flip, was a new acquisition. He’d gotten his name from his habit of constantly flipping through TV channels, which hadn’t been so bad at first but after a while it drove me crazy. When Flip was around, no one could watch more than five minutes of any one show.
    I was never sure why Mama invited him to live with us—he seemed no better or different than any of her other boyfriends. Flip was like a friendly, oversized dog, good-looking and lazy, with the hint of a beer belly, a shaggy mullet, and an easy grin. Mama had to support him financially from day one, with her salary as a receptionist at the local title company. Flip, on the other hand, was perpetually unemployed. Although Flip had no objection to having a job, he was strongly opposed to the concept of actually looking for one. It was a common redneck paradox.
    But I liked Flip because he made Mama laugh. The sound of those elusive laughs was so precious to me, I wished I could capture one in a Mason jar and keep it forever.
    As I walked into the trailer, I saw Flip stretched out on the sofa with a beer in hand while Mama stacked cans in a kitchen cabinet.
    “Hey, Liberty,” he said easily.
    “Hey, Flip.” I went into the kitchenette to help my mother. The fluorescent ceiling light shone on the glasslike smoothness of her blond hair. My mother was fine-featured and fair, with mysterious green eyes and a vulnerable mouth. The only clue to her monumental stubbornness was the sharp, clean line of her jaw, vee-shaped like the prow of an ancient sailing ship.
    “Did you give the check to Mr. Sadlek, Liberty?”
    “Yes.” I reached for sacks of flour, sugar, and cornmeal, and stowed them in the pantry. “He’s a real jerk, Mama. He called me a wetback.”
    She whipped around to face me, her eyes blazing. A flush covered her face in delicate red patches. “That bastard,” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe—Flip, did you hear what Liberty just said?”
    “Nope.”
    “He called my daughter a wetback.”
    “Who?”
    “Louis Sadlek. The property manager. Flip, get off your ass and go talk to him. Right now! You tell him if he ever does that again—”
    “Now, honey, that word don’t mean nothing,” Flip protested. “Everyone says it. They don’t mean no harm.”
    “Don’t you dare try to justify it!” Mama reached out and pulled me close, her arms wrapping protectively around my back and shoulders. Surprised by the strength of her reaction—after all, it wasn’t the first time the word had been applied to me and certainly wouldn’t be the last—I let her hold me for a moment before wriggling free.
    “I’m okay, Mama,” I said.
    “Anyone who uses that word is showing you he’s ignorant trash,” she said curtly. “There’s nothing wrong with being Mexican. You know that.” She was more upset for my sake than I was.
    I had always been acutely aware that I was different from Mama. We garnered curious glances when we went anywhere together. Mama, as fair as an angel, and me, dark-haired and obviously Hispanic. I had learned to accept it with resignation. Being half-Mexican was no different than being all-Mexican. That meant I would sometimes be called a wetback even though I was a natural-born American and had never set so much as a