I don’t have room for anything or anyone else.
Chapter Seven
“Can I go to Janine’s house to study?” E asks me when she pads into the kitchen on the first Saturday of April.
Her head is down and she’s typing on her phone. But she stops short when she finally looks up and sees me. “Oh, my God! What happened to your hair?”
I run a hand over my new TWA, the teeny weeny afro I was left with after my spontaneous big chop the previous night.
“I finally got around to watching Nappily Ever After yesterday,” I answer.
“That one movie about the old desperate lady who cuts off her hair because she’s mad at some man?” E asks.
I love E, but sometimes teenagers can be complete trash.
“That’s not what it’s about?” I say to E. “It’s more about discovering your self-worth and realizing it’s not all about hair. Also with the governor having just issued that stay-at-home order for all of Missouri, I don’t think I’m going to be able to get into St. Louis for a new relaxer anytime soon. Plus, I’m trying to cut down on expenses. We’re not going to be able to afford to pay the rent on the apartment in Pittsburgh if I don’t save up. And I don’t know how long it will take to sell the house this summer.”
“Okay, whatever.” Not even pretending to be interested in the practical decisions that keep a roof over her head, E flips her red ombre box braids which she ordered from Amazon, and spent a whole day installing herself. “Can I go to Janine’s?”
“Nope.” I stand up from the kitchen table where I was reading the St. Louis Post Dispatch on my phone with a cup of coffee. “What do you want in your smoothie today?”
She huffs. “Nothing! I want to go over to Janine’s house.”
“Okay, I’ll decide then.” I open the refrigerator door. “How about kale and pineapple juice?”
“Eww no! Strawberries and bananas please.”
At least she said please. I pull some frozen fruit out of the freezer and walk it over to the blender. But of course, that’s not the end of the conversation.
“I don’t understand why I can’t go. It’s not against the law to go over somebody’s house until Monday.”
“And it’s also not a good idea. Just because something’s not against the law yet isn’t a good reason to put yourself at risk.”
E lets out a frustrated sound. “But I’m so bored!”
“Guess what? Same thing applies to boredom. My mother used to tell me only boring people get bored.”
E screws up her face. “That’s not true!”
I shake my head, wondering not for the first time how my mom got away with answering me with statistically impossible folk wisdom when I was E’s age. I had just accepted her sayings as immutable facts I couldn’t argue against. But clearly, E doesn’t accept that saying at easily as I did.
“I’m not like A,” she whines. “I can’t just play video games online with my stupid friends all day. I need people. And company.”
“What am I? Chopped liver?” I ask her. “You can hang with me today. We’ll paint our nails. And you can teach me how to put on those magnetic lashes you love so much.”
E just rolls her eyes, like the prospect of spending the day with me is the worst consolation prize ever.
And yeah, I could remind her that I’m the only reason she’s finally living a stable life with a roof over her head after trailing behind her mother for years. But I don’t. Her life before my dad was the opposite of mine. Unlike a lot of stereotypical step kids, she was ecstatic when her mother met and married someone level-headed. And she was nearly as devastated as me when he died.
So as easy as it would be to guilt her out of this argument, I’d never play that card. It would feel too much like rubbing my privilege in her face.
Instead, I keep my voice patient and level as I answer, “Listen, E, I know this is hard. I’m used to seeing a lot of people who aren’t you guys myself most days. But this won’t last forever and we will get through it. And until then we have to keep ourselves safe.”
“But why do I have to stay at home if nobody else is—” E starts to ask.
“Because you’re the sister of a nurse, that’s why.”
On television, girls in E’s position always say, “You’re not my mother!” She could even hit me with the double whammy of “We’re not really blood-related!”
But we both know I’m the closest thing she has to a mother. And that I love her like a real sister.
Dad was only married to her mom for a couple of years before he died. That means it’s only been five years of stable living since I decided to stay on after Dad’s funeral. Less than a third of her life. That’s how little time she’s felt safe and secure.