Page 5 of The Other Half

I shrug. “Sorry, Ma,” I say as I take one more quick drag and then put it out in the ashtray beside me.

She shakes her head. “Supper is ready.” I nod and she closes the door behind her.

I hate disappointing her, but she knows about my bad habits and has never tried to get me to quit them. I think she’s just too exhausted to bother. She spends most of her energy taking care of our little brother, Liam. I guess she sees him as the only one who might not be a fuck up, so she focuses on keeping him good for as long as she can.

I sit down on my bed and pull my books out of my backpack. Some people say that weed makes them lazy, but that isn’t the case for me. If anything it’s easier for me to get my homework done when I’m high, it goes by quicker.

I flip through my notes from the day, trying to decide what to do first. I’m in all AP classes so I have a fuckton of homework every night, but after being in advanced classes most of my school career I’m pretty used to it. Sometimes it feels like a huge waste of energy, though. I know I’m not going to college next year, but I can barely stay awake in my AP classes. If I were in regular classes I’d be so bored I’d probably just drop out.

So I persevere and try to ignore when my classmates talk about their big plans for next year. Some of them hope to become doctors or engineers, most of them have already been accepted to multiple colleges. Most kids who grow up here can’t wait to get the fuck out the minute they turn eighteen, and I don’t blame them, but I know it can’t be that way for me. My parents couldn’t afford to send me to college even if they wanted to. Neither of them went to college and they don’t see any reason I should either.

I toss my schoolwork aside and walk into the kitchen. We don’t have a dining room, just a small kitchen table that seats four, but my dad always eats dinner in the living room anyway. I grab a bowl and scoop a ladle full of soup into it. We hardly ever have anything besides vegetable soup nowadays. I guess it’s the cheapest way to feed all of us with what my mom can gather from the foodbank up the road.

“How was your day, bud?” My dad claps me on the shoulder.

“Fine, yours?”

He chuckles a humorless laugh. “Another day in paradise, son.” I can see the markings of stress on his wrinkled face. He’s looked everywhere in town for a job, but with no degree and his work experience being limited to only factory work, he hasn’t had any luck. Not to mention, there are hardly any jobs here to begin with.

I know he’s ashamed, he’s always worked hard to provide for us. He and mom had Nate when they were only eighteen, then I came along a couple of years later. When we were little I remember him working over sixty hours most weeks. He’s been working at the mill ever since he graduated high school, up until he was suddenly laid off with no notice a few weeks ago. My mom finally went back to work at the mill last year when Liam started kindergarten, but she was laid off too.

I feel bad for them, for all of us, but at the same time I kind of resent them for not making more of an effort to leave this town behind a long time ago. My family’s lived here for generations and they’ve all done the same thing: work at the mill, have a bunch of kids, remain poor till they die. Then those kids grow up and do the same thing.

I know it’s not easy to get out, though. Poverty has its ways of digging its claws into people and keeping them in places like this. I’d like to leave, I know there’s got to be more for me out there. But I don’t feel like I can leave my family behind, especially now that they’re dealing with the fallout of losing their jobs.

I’ve always been taught that family comes first. Before anything else: money, friends, even happiness. So, it is what it is. I’m stuck in Poplar Valley, and that’s something I’ve just learned to accept.

Chapter 7

Oakley

I tell Oliver to meet me at the front gate of my neighborhood. I have no earthly idea why I decided to invite him over to my house, but I’m regretting it majorly already. My parents will either freak out at the sight of his piercings, or they’ll be too busy screaming at each other to notice, and in either of those scenarios I’ll end up thoroughly mortified. I should’ve just suggested the library or something.

I walk towards the gate and see him standing behind it with an irritated look on his face. As soon as Oliver is close enough for me to hear him, he scoffs loudly. “Wow, you need a password to get in here? Guess they want to keep my kind out, huh?”

“Nah. It’s just for safety, y’know.” I shrug casually and keep my tone light as I punch in the keycode and swing the door open to let him through.

“Sure. Can’t be having lowlifes snooping around. If you don’t have a Mercedes and a big ass house it must mean you’re a criminal, am I right?” he says with obvious contempt as we start walking up the hill that leads to my house.

Why is he being so rude? Of course I’d get partnered up with a guy like this. Not only is he so attractive that it makes me uncomfortable, he’s also mean.

I watch him glare at the houses as we pass by them. I know not everyone lives in a community like ours, and I’ll admit that the carefully manicured lawns and long, winding driveways made of cobblestone seem a bit excessive, even to me. It’s all I’ve ever known though, and after going to expensive private schools all my life I’ve mostly had friends with similar living situations.

We arrive at my house and he stops walking suddenly. “Holy shit. This is your house?” he asks incredulously as I lead him toward our driveway.

“Yeah?”

He stops in his tracks and glares at me, then he scoffs again but doesn’t reply.

Sometimes I honestly forget what my house looks like to people who don’t live here. It is a bit much. Our home is a three-story French style chateau, complete with tall turrets poking out of the roof and green ivy crawling up the side. It screams opulence and it’s completely over the top, but that’s what my parents like.

We walk past the three-tiered fountain in the middle of my circular driveway as I try to evade his judgmental stare. “Didn’t know you were a rich girl, " he says.

“Well, I’m sure you wouldn’t since we hardly know each other,” I reply, trying not to sound defensive but probably failing. I’m completely taken aback by his tone. Usually the insults that are hurled at me have nothing to do with money. I wouldn’t call myself rich, anyway. Middle class, maybe even upper-middle class, but not rich. At my old school I knew people with private jets and yachts, I would consider them rich.

I hold the front door open for him and we step into the bleach-white foyer. In front of us is a baby grand piano and a semi-spiral staircase that wraps around it. I watch as he cynically takes inventory of his surroundings, starting with the shiny marble flooring beneath our feet and working up to the crystal chandelier hanging above our heads.

Luckily my parents are busy doing something elsewhere in the house when we walk in, so I don’t have to make an attempt at awkward introductions. That’s the last thing I need right now.

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