Side by side, cars passed by.
One cold January, my mother got a letter from our landlord. In that letter was a paper with the word “Evicted” in bold red letters. The next week, we were out of our small townhouse. Mom had lost her job as a waitress at a high-paying restaurant, and, while job-searching, she’d skipped out on two months’ rent.
She found a cheap condo at Niagara Heights, that looked more like a chain of motels than a condominium complex. But we were on a budget, and the down payment was pretty cheap.
“What if I got a job?” I said as I carried the box labeled “Dishes” in my messy scrawl uptake stairs.
“Be careful with that,” Mom warned from behind, carrying a box of her own. “And no. We’ve had this conversation before. I’ve got it under control, Ro. I’ve got an interview Thursday.”
I bit back a retort, kicking open the cracked door of our brand-new condo. The kitchen was right by the door, so I set it on the counter, brushing past my mom to get another box. It took about an hour to bring everything up, and once we were done, I made my way down the hall and to what was supposed to be my bedroom. The room was bare, the walls a dull beige, save for my full-sized bed in the center, stripped of the sheets, and my sticker-covered dresser that I’d had since birth.
Three boxes, one full of books, another full of picture frames and other knick-knacks, and the rest full of clothes, sat on my naked bed. I set to work, staking my books in alphabetical order on top of my dresser and hanging pictures on the walls. I had a small closet, which I hung my shirts, dresses, and jackets in. I put the rest in the dresser, though the bottom drawer was used for storage of any things that didn’t have a place.
It was almost five o’clock by the time I finished, and I was pooped. Mom had two lawn chairs and a beanbag chair set up in the living room. She must’ve been in her room. I stole a lawn chair and brought it out onto our balcony, which had a perfect view of the street. I liked watching cars, trying to guess where they were going.
I laid back in the lawn chair and watched the road for a while. The lady in the gray Sedan is going to her niece’s birthday party, and she’s late. The guy in the red Ford is going to get drunk with his friends.
After awhile, I felt tired, so I folded up the lawn chair. As I was about to leave, the door to the balcony on the right, our only neighbors since we were on the edge, and a guy’s head peeked out. I only caught a flash of black hair before the door was slid shut with a few muttered curses.
With a shrug, I headed back inside to start the perilous adventure to find my bedsheets.
Realistic Fiction
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