When I was thirteen, my dad gave me a set of collectable baseball cards for Christmas. I remember that Christmas clearly. It was the same Christmas that our housekeeper, Marcella, gave me a copy of the book Holes. It’s about a boy who digs seemingly pointless holes as a punishment for something he didn’t even do wrong. I was obsessed with the book; I must have read it ten times, and talked about it every day.

My mother and father barely paid attention to my interests. I doubt they ever even knew I’d read a single book, let alone one in particular over and over. But Marcella knew. She always made a point to care about the things I cared about. “You are my favorite boy, mijo,” she would say.

She always called me mijo.

Son.

That Christmas, she’d wrapped the book in a green box with a red ribbon. I remember because that was the same box I decided to keep my collectable baseball cards in.

I brought the box to Turner’s house one day to show off my new cards and proudly informed him that I had looked up the value of each one and knew I could sell the lot for at least a hundred dollars. Money was important to me back then. Money was all that mattered. My dad taught me that.

But later that day while I was mowing his lawn, Turner took my box of cards because, according to him, I was “too spoiled to appreciate them.”

He was right, of course, but at the time I didn’t care. I was furious, convinced he was going to sell the cards himself so he could have the money. But because I was just as spoiled as he’d claimed, I only stayed mad until my father bought me more baseball cards a few days later.

That’s how things worked in my family: My parents bought me whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, as long as I stayed out of their hair. I was an only child and I’m pretty sure I was a mistake. If my parents had planned to have me I’m sure they would have put a little more effort into… well, me. But I was an accident and, therefore, an inconvenience. An inconvenience easily soothed with a few new toys.

When I announced to Turner that I no longer cared about my stolen box of baseball cards, he laughed and said, “Someday you might.” Then he promised that, someday, he’d return them to me.

I stare at my cell phone where the voice mail screen blinks back at me. Maybe this is Turner’s way of coming through on that promise, after death.

The pressure starts to wind its way around my chest again, thick and tight, and I feel the air seep from my lungs. I can’t believe he’s gone. Really gone.

A clanging noise startles my thoughts and I whip around to see a tow truck backed up to Monique and hauling her onto its bed. My eyes widen in horror.

“Hey!” I shout at the overweight truck driver, who’s got a toothpick in his mouth and a handlebar mustache. “What are you doing?”

He barely glances at me. “Taking her in. Repo.”

“Repo?” I start to panic. “No, no. There must be some mistake. A year’s worth of payments were made on that car. I still have until next month.”

He hands me a crumpled statement stained with greasy fingerprints and an unidentifiable smudge of brown. “Not according to the bank.”

I quickly scan the paper. “Shit.” I was sure those payments were good through August. I rub a hand over my mouth and try to clear my head. “Listen,” I say, trying to stay calm as I appeal to the driver. “We can work this out. What do I need to do to get you to unhook my innocent car?”

He looks bored. “You got four months of payments on you?”

“Uh, no. But I have…” I pull out the contents of my pocket. “Forty-two dollars, a broken watch, and some red dirt.”

A few grains of the dirt slip through my fingers and I think about all the weekends I spent taking care of Turner’s yard. The lawn was healthy and the garden was abundant, but Turner’s favorite part of the yard was the rose garden. I could tell that he was especially fond of his white roses, so I cared for those thorny flowers like they were helpless babies, and Turner wasn’t shy about praising me for it. Every Saturday, I’d rake through the rare red topsoil Turner planted around his precious roses, making sure the bushes could breathe and grow. I pricked my fingers more times than I can count, but those roses never withered, and for that I was always proud. I think Old Man Turner was proud of my work too.

The tow truck guy shrugs. “No cash, no car. Sorry.” He starts to lift Monique off the ground and I swear it’s like watching someone kidnap a loved one.

“Wait—wait!” I hold up a hand. “I can get it. I can get you the money. I just—I just need a little time.”

“Talk to the bank.”

I quickly shake my head. “No, you see. I can’t talk to the bank because the bank hates me—”

“Gee, I wonder why.” He doesn’t look at me.

“But I can get the money!” I gesture to Monique. “Just put my baby back down and you and I can go get a beer and talk this whole thing out.” I flash a smile. “What do you say?”

He scoffs. “You pretty boys are all the same. Used to getting whatever you want with Daddy’s money and pitching fits when someone takes your toys away.” He shakes his head and climbs back into the tow truck. “See ya.”

“But that’s my ride!” I yell, throwing my arms up. “How am I supposed to get home?”

He starts the engine and flicks the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “You should’ve thought of all that before you stopped making payments.” Then he pulls out of the gas station with sweet Monique as his captive and I watch the last piece of my other life slowly disappear.

Motherfu—

“Sir?”

I spin around to see a scrawny gas attendant wiping his hands on a rag.

“What,” I snap, frustrated at everything that’s gone wrong in my existence.

“You gotta pay for that,” he says.

I make a face. “For what?”

He nods at the pump. “For the gas.”

“The ga—” I see the gas nozzle dangling from where poor Monique was ripped away and I want to scream. “Oh, come on, man! My car was basically just hijacked! I wasn’t paying attention to how much gas I was using.”

He shrugs. “Don’t matter. Gas is gas. That’ll be eighty-seven dollars.”

“Eighty-se—” I clench my jaw. “I don’t have eighty-seven dollars.”

He scratches the back of his head. “Well I can’t let you leave until you pay.”

I scrub a hand down my face, trying to contain the many curse words that want to vault from my mouth. With a very calm and controlled voice I say, “Then do you have a manager I can speak to about settling this issue?”

He tips his head toward the small gas station store. “My sister.”

Through the store’s front window, I see a young woman with curly red hair at the register and a smile stretches across my face.

“Perfect,” I say.

As I head for the entrance, a few drops of rain fall to the ground, plopping on the dirty concrete by my shoes. I look up at the dark clouds, fat with the oncoming storm and frown. I really don’t want to walk home in the rain.

A string of gaudy bells slaps against the station door and chimes as I enter the store, and the sister looks up from a crossword puzzle. Her name tag reads WENDY. I file that information away.

Roving her eyes over me, her face immediately softens. “Why, hello there,” she says in a voice I know is lower than her natural one. “Can I help you?”

I give her my very best helpless-boy grin and sigh dramatically. “I certainly hope so, Wendy.”

Her eyes brighten at the sound of her name on my lips. Girls love it when you say their name. They melt over it. It’s like a secret password that instantly grants you their trust.

She leans forward with a smitten grin and I know I’ve already charmed my way out of an eighty-seven-dollar gas bill. And maybe even found a ride home.

“Me too,” she says eagerly.

I smile.

Sometimes it pays to be me.

3 Kayla

I knew today was going to suck the moment I woke up with a spider on my face.

A spider.

ON MY FACE.

This is what happens when the only motel you can afford is a lopsided building called THE QUICKIE STOP.

But the spider wasn’t the only thing that kicked this day off to a stellar start.

First there were the mysterious body hairs on the nightstand that I accidentally touched when I tripped over the 1970s porn rug that coats the floor. A shaggy porn rug—because a flat porn rug just wouldn’t have been gross enough. Followed by the trickle of ice-cold water from the mold-caked shower, which turned out to be the home of my friendly face spider from earlier. And lastly, there was the lovely smell of cat urine that wafted in through the rusted ceiling vent all morning.

So I’m not exactly in a good mood by the time I’m dressed and ready to leave. But I’ve handled worse. Much worse. This might be a crappy motel room, but it’s a luxury establishment compared to the roach-infested place I left back in Chicago.

I catch sight of my reflection in the bathroom mirror and scowl. I suppose I’m dressed the way one is supposed to be for the reading of a will. A royal blue blouse with a black pencil skirt and black heels. The top is too fitted for my comfort, molding around my breasts and making me feel like I’m on display. And the neckline is relatively respectable but if I were to lean over my cleavage would hang out. Note to self: No leaning. The skirt is worn and a little too short to be considered professional, but it’s the only one I have so it will have to do. And the shoes are scuffed up and old, but from far away they look decent enough. Overall, it’s not my favorite outfit. I don’t like tight clothes that emphasize my hourglass figure. But since my only other options are jeans, pajamas, or the thick gray dress I sweat through in the summer sun yesterday, this is what I’m wearing.

I throw my purse over my shoulder and grab my car keys. All I have to do is get through one stupid meeting with Dad’s lawyer—the same lawyer who called last week to shockingly inform me that my father had passed away—then I can pack my things and head home. Although “home” doesn’t really mean much when everything you own fits in one small brown bag.

My eyes drop to the suitcase on the bed and a ball of stress forms in the pit of my stomach. I have no idea what my next move is. Not just in Copper Springs, but in life. Riffling through my purse, I find my wallet and count the bills within.

Thirty-six dollars. Crap.

I shove a hand into my bra, where I always keep emergency money.

Twenty-one dollars.

I pull off my right high heel, carefully pull up the black leather sole, and lift a precious few bills from the hiding place below—where I keep my emergency emergency money.

Eighteen dollars.

So altogether I have… seventy-five dollars. To my name.

Every other penny I had was spent on my trip out here and I couldn’t qualify for a credit card if my life depended on it—which it might, if things keep going the way they have—so I’m officially broke. And unemployed. And homeless.

The ball of stress tightens.

I had a job at a diner back in Chicago, but when I asked my boss, Big Joe, for time off for my father’s funeral, he refused. So I quit—which didn’t go over well.

Unbeknownst to me, my mother, Gia, had borrowed $20,000 from Big Joe to pay off some old debts. I knew nothing about this until I tried to leave and Big Joe started demanding his money. Since my mom was no longer able to pay him back, he insisted that I work for free in order to pay off her debt. It was a threat, not a negotiation, and I was scared out of my mind.

My lease was up at the roachy apartment so I packed up my stuff, cashed my last paycheck, and drove out to Arizona. And now, even if I had the gas money to drive back to Chicago, there’s no way I’d be able to afford a place to live and I’d be forced to work for Big Joe until my mom’s debt was settled. And knowing Big Joe, he’d probably demand reimbursement in other ways too, like by smacking my ass or squeezing my boob. Or worse.

I shudder.

I’m broke, but I’m not a prostitute. I’d rather sleep on a park bench than let myself be groped for favors.

Ugh. I might actually have to sleep on a park bench.

I shake myself from the thought. One day at a time, Kayla. Just get through one day at a time. God. Life isn’t going the way I’d hoped at all.