Page 67 of The Last to Let Go
“You’ve known her longer than me. Tell me what to do, please?”
“Did you lie to her?” he asks. “She thinks you lied to her.”
“I didn’t lie,” I lie. “I mean, I didn’t mean to. It’s more like I haven’t told her the whole truth about some things.”
“Well, then it’s easy. Just tell her the whole truth.”
“That’s the opposite of easy,” I tell him, suddenly losing my voice.
“Look, why don’t you keep your distance till the end of the day, at least? I’ll work on her for you. Call her tonight, okay?”
I took Tyler’s advice. I didn’t go to lunch. I went to the nurse’s office instead. I told her I had a migraine, which, as it turned out, got me a lot more sympathy than a simple headache—it got me out of school early. I’ve been missing so much school lately that somehow it has stopped seeming so important.
But when I get home, I’m greeted by a notice stuck on my door with a crooked piece of clear tape:7-DAY NOTICE TO PAY. From the landlord. I rip it down, but I’m afraid it’s already been seen by our neighbors—one more thing to be ashamed of.
Damn you, Aaron.He could’ve mentioned in his little good-bye note that he didn’t pay the rent. There was some cash Aaron left in an envelope that I found mixed in with the debris I threw off the table, but I thought it was extra money, since it clearly wasn’t enough for rent. Aaron didn’t care what would happen, apparently. Just like Mom.
Or maybe this is Dante’scontrapassoat work again: I freaked out, lost my temper, wrecked the place, scared the neighbors. But it was all because I wanted to stay. I wanted us all to stay. Therefore they’re trying to kick me out. A just punishment, according to Dante.
Well, screw Dante. Screw Aaron, too. Screw Mom and Dad.
I start making calls before I’ve even closed the door. I leave a message for the landlord. “There’s been a mix-up, I’ll have the rent to you this time next week, I promise.” I bring Mrs. Allister’s paper to her, sure to give her extra smiles and pet her cats. “Oh, the noise—that was nothing. I fell trying to move the furniture by myself—that was stupid, huh?”
By the time I get back upstairs, Callie’s home from school. She’s eating cereal from the box, the volume on the TV too loud.
“Can you please turn that down?” I shout.
She turns it off instead. Then leans back into the couch and stares at me.
“What?”
“Are we getting kicked out?” she asks, tilting her head in the direction of the letter that I stupidly left out on the coffee table.
“No, of course not. We just had a mix-up with the rent this month, that’s all.”
“Where’s Aaron?” she asks, her voice flat and hollow.
“I told you already, Callie. He’s out of town for a few days.”
“It’s been a few days.”
“Well, I don’t know exactly when he’ll be back. Remember, he said it could be a week.”
“No, you said that. He didn’t say that. He didn’t say anything. He’s not answering his phone.”
“He’s probably busy, Callie—he is there to work, after all.”
“But where’sthere?” An uptick in her voice. Is it anger, worry, frustration? I’m not sure, but it sparks all those things in me.
“What do you want me to say? I’m not sure, okay? He didn’t tell me.”
“This is...” But she stops short before finishing, shakes her head instead.
“This is what?”
She stands abruptly, brushing past me on her way to her room.
I make endless calculations. I call Jackie and beg for more shifts. I scrounge up every last bit of money hiding in piggy banks and coat pockets and dresser drawers and even in the basement laundry room. Miraculously, I come up with $35.32 in under an hour. I add in my paycheck from last week and the social security check. If I don’t pay the electric or buy any more groceries, I’m short only $75.00.
