I feel stupid, and so alone.
What am I supposed to do now? Call my brothers so they can bail me out on my first fucking day away?
And tell them that they were right, that I really can’t cut it without my family’s money. That I’m a big fat failure.
No way in hell!
I’ll starve before I ask them for a cent.
“You all right?” someone asks from behind me. I turn to see a boy. He’s young and struggling to carry two large garbage bags full of trash.
“Yeah.” I exhale heavily.
He walks over and unlocks a large bin and climbs up and throws the trash in and relocks the industrial bin.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“I’m on close.”
“Close?”
“I work behind the bar.”
“Behind the bar?” I screw up my face. “Aren’t you like twelve?”
“Fourteen.”
“Don’t you have school tomorrow?”
“I don’t go to school.”
I stare at him. He has black curly hair and is of Spanish descent. He looks so young, but he has an old-soul feel about him.
“Why not?”
“I support my household.”
“At fourteen?”
“Yep.” He smiles with a shrug. “You coming back in?”
“Nah . . .” I keep sitting on my step.
He lingers. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.
I exhale heavily. “Have you ever felt like a complete failure?”
“Nope.”
I look up at him, surprised. “Not once?”
“Nope.” He shrugs. “I know where I’m going. I got this shit.”
His optimism is contagious, and I smile too. “I bet you do.” I look back out over the street. “My card got stolen, and now I have no money, and I really don’t want to call home and ask them to bail me out.”
“Oh,” he says. “Who took your card?”
“A gorilla.”
“A what?”
“A woman with a gigantic amount of pubic hair.”
His lip curls in disgust. “Ew.”
I widen my eyes. “I hear you.”
“So don’t call home,” he says. “Sort it out yourself.”
I look back over my shoulder at him. “And how am I supposed to do that?”
“Get a job.”
I frown. “A job?”
“Yeah.”
“Where would I work?” I ask him.
“Anywhere.”
Hmm . . .
“Anyway, I’ve got to go clean the oven.”
I stare at him; this kid is fourteen years old, and he’s cleaning an oven at midnight.
“You’re all right, kid.” I smile. “What’s your name?”
“Eduardo.”
“I’m Christopher.” Oh crap, I told him my real name. “Everyone calls me Christo,” I correct myself.