Page 40 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

Because, really, as I sit here and tug at a stray sleeping bag thread, I already know. I play this little game with myself—will she, won’t she, will she, won’t she?—but at the end of the day, I know.

She won’t change.

She’ll be at the same old shit job that makes her work overtime for the same shit illegal sub-minimum wage, with the same old shit boyfriend who tried to molest her own daughter. She’ll still be the same disappointment, even miles away, separated by a phone line.

Thoughts of my mom are just what I need to bang the final nail into the coffin of My Life Sucks.

So why do it?

I’m already gathering myself to my feet, reaching over to the plastic bag—third one in, the Walmart one with no holes—feeling for the hidden quarters, my last two.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. Maybe because I have a flair for making myself hurt more when I’m already hurting. Though I’d like to think it’s something more than that. Probably is.

I probably just miss her.

When I’m not careful, the memories come back, flooding me with such warmth that it pierces like daggers in my heart. I try to stop, close my eyes, tell my mind to shut up, because it’s too much when they start coming one after another, like they’re doing now:

My very first memory—my mom’s shining, delighted face. God only knows what inane thing toddler Joy was doing, but she was delighted with it, clapping her hands together, beaming, beautiful, “That’s it, Joy! That’s my girl! That’s my baby!”

Stacking our cups and boxes and toys at McDonald’s to form the leaning towers of Joyiza and Mommyiza, giggling maniacally to ourselves like the luckiest girls in the world.

Playing tic-tac-toe at the bus stop in the snow with the boots we just bought from the Salvation Army.

It’s always these dumb memories that remain: the fun, pointless times that seemed so inconsequential and forgettable back then, but that, as it turns out, were maybe the most important ones of all.

Mom at the end of some day of kindergarten, giving me such a big, swinging hug that my light-up sneakers whirled like shooting stars.

Hitting up the pet store and pretending to the clerks that I was oh-so-interested in getting a puppy, a kitten, a bunny, just so I could have an excuse to pet them, to smile close into their furred faces.

Wailing about Frosty the Snowman on TV being shut off since our power died yet again, only for my mom to wrestle me into poufy snow clothes, then bounding us outside to some nearby park, so we could make our own Frosty, singing the theme song all the while, turning tears into smiles and laughter.

My mom. My mommy.

I’m already on my way to the phone, so lost in thought that I didn’t even notice leaving my tent. I’m past Teddy’s, too. I won’t look back.

The sky is an indeterminate gray that could indicate early morning, late afternoon, or anywhere in between. The air is muggy with the suggestion of rain.

I have to do this. Every step is imbued with more certainty, more hope. Maybe my life is shit, but maybe it doesn’t have to stay that way. Maybe, if I talk to Mom, figure this out, maybe I can—

“Ah!”

My sneaker hits a pothole. My arms flail out. My quarters fly out of my grasp.

As I crash into the sidewalk, my gaze stays locked on the coins as they roll, away, away, away and … down.

I gape at the sewer drain, mouth hanging open.

It’s gone. The last of my money. The last of my hope.

Gone.

10

Joy

That didnotjust happen.

Please, God, tell me I’m just having a bad dream.

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