Page 1 of Dirty Saint

1

Victoria (Tori) Walsh

Workingkeptmesaneand drove me crazy. It was the cure and the disease all wrapped into one shitty package. I told myself I was getting ahead as long as I hustled, but the truth was, I was never moving forward, no matter how many hours I clocked in. Something always kept me from reaching the goals I set for myself. I was in a rut and unsure of how to climb out.

I couldn’t think about that, though. If I did, I would drive myself insane. So I daydreamed a lot. In my mind, I wasn’t always stuck on the fryers. When I closed my eyes, I was a kid again. I was lying in my plush bed in our old house, warm and safe. I didn’t want for anything. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t wearing clothes with holes in them or shoes holding on for dear life.

No.

I was the girl I used to be—living an easy life without worry. I had my baby sister by my side and my father holding my hand, reminding me he would always take care of us.

Grease popped up, blistering my exposed wrist and dragging me from my daydream. I blinked, the vision of my safe space replaced with the paper orders hanging from the spindle before me and the pungent smell of fried onions and old grease.

I flipped the bacon and pressed it down with my spatula to squeeze more oil from the fatty meat. Again, the grease popped, stinging my wrist.

“Shit,” I cursed, rubbing at the raw spot.

My gloves saved my hands from the oil some days, but I couldn’t do anything about my wrists and arms. The Huddle uniform had short sleeves; even if they didn’t, I would rather deal with the grease than the heat.

“Order up!” I shouted, sliding the bacon onto the plate and pushing it aside for Sadie to pick up for her table.

Sadie took the plate from the counter and balanced it on her forearm. She was my opposite, chubby and confident, with a radiant smile. She kept her curly blond hair in a bun on top of her head, but cute tendrils would escape and frame her round face by the end of her shift. Her eyes were blue, rimmed in naturally thick lashes, and even though we sweated our asses off, her makeup was flawless. Honestly, I was jealous of her in some ways. She didn’t have to worry about a little sister. She had time and money for fashionable clothes and makeup.

Meanwhile, I looked like a homeless person. I was pale, and my face was coated in grease. My dark hair was knotted on my head, but it wasn’t as flattering as Sadie’s cute bun. My work clothes were the nicest I owned, but I was positive my underwear had holes.

I was going on my tenth hour working. I was exhausted—my back throbbed, and my feet were numb—but when they offered overtime, I took it, no questions asked. Thankfully, one of our new cooks was lazy and rarely came to work. I was willing to take the hours if she didn't need them.

When the three o’clock crowd dispersed, the place slowed until the morning crowd arrived. Until then, I could sit and even nibble on a few things. The crew chatted and joked with each other, but I kept to myself most nights. I was too tired to make friends. Instead, I parked my ass on a cracked leather stool behind the counter and devoured a piece of two-hour-old bacon.

My eyes scanned the space, an older diner with timeworn tables and chairs and dated decor. The place was family-owned, and there were black-and-white photos of the original owners and their children on the wall by the entrance. The ceiling was tobacco-stained even though smoking was no longer allowed inside, much to the old patrons’ dismay, and the walls begged for a fresh coat of paint. The walls in the booth area even had worn squares where old photo frames used to hang. The Huddle was a shit show with even worse pay, but a job meant a paycheck—no matter how embarrassing the amount was.

Once my double was over, I left smelling like burnt grease with fresh ketchup stains on my uniform. My calf muscles ached, and I could hardly keep my eyes open while walking to the bus stop. I sighed, relieved to see the bench empty when I reached it. I sat and held my feet out. My shoes were embarrassing. The bottoms were coming loose; sometimes, they slapped together when I walked. I needed a new pair, but the money wasn’t there. I barely made ends meet. I considered getting a second job, but there was no time.

I looked up at the morning sky and sucked in a deep breath of fresh air. Birds flew over me, welcoming the sun as it rose above the clouds. Everyone was waking, and all I could think about was getting to my apartment and getting at least an hour of sleep before Gracie was off to school.

Caring for my younger sister wasn’t easy, but I knew it was what my parents would have wanted. Not that I minded doing it. I loved her, and I wanted her to have a better life. She begged me to let her work since she was old enough, but I refused to allow it. She was a junior in high school and had a bright future. I wanted her to focus on the books and nothing else. I would deal with the rest, no matter how exhausted I was.

Thinking of Gracie had gotten me through many things in my life. First was the loss of our father, which left a gaping hole in my heart. Second was being separated from my little sister and tossed in foster homes. It had never occurred to me that Gracie and I didn’t have extended family until I was forced to live in the homes of strangers.

Vile things happened to me in those places, and I was left with half of myself when it was all said and done. I spent my nights praying that Gracie had ended up in better circumstances—that she had been placed with a lovely family with good values. I prayed those families had enough food to feed her and kept their hands to themselves. After going to bed hungry some nights and sleeping with one eye open to guard myself, I knew what kind of creeps fostered children.

I made it through with one goal: age out and get Gracie out of the system. When I wanted to give up, I knew I couldn’t. I was all she had; I would work until my fingers bled to have her returned to me. And that was what I did. I hustled from the day I was released onto the streets with only a backpack stuffed with hand-me-down clothes until the very moment that I sat on a bench waiting for the bus—exhausted and mentally drained.

The bus ran late, the sun high, and the morning crisp with dew dancing on the tips of the grass. Even though I was in a dangerous area where people were known to walk up to you and pluck things out of your hands, I began to doze on the bench. I didn’t sleep for long before the bus’s air brakes woke me. The smell of gasoline and exhaust reached my nose, and I coughed as I stood on tired legs and walked to the bus door once it came to a complete stop. I slept through the ride, thankful that the bus driver called out to me when we reached the stop closest to my apartment.

When I finally entered my apartment, Gracie sat at the kitchen table eating a bowl of off-brand Cinnamon Toast Crunch while looking through her calculus book. I grinned, slid my shoes from my aching feet, and tossed my bag onto the couch. I was relieved to be home, even if I would only be there long enough to sleep before it was time to return to work.

“If you’d let me work, we could afford cells, and I wouldn’t have spent the past hour of my life worried you were dead on the side of the road somewhere,” she said without looking up from her book.

A dribble of milk clung to her chin as she licked her finger and turned the page. So grown, yet still a little girl in so many ways.

“As you can see, I’m fine.” I spread my arms at my sides so she could see all of me. “Plus, think of all the cell phones you’ll be able to buy once you’re done with college and making bank.”

I fell onto our dated plaid couch, courtesy of the Goodwill close to work, and sighed. Gracie shook her head, making her dark curls bounce. I was envious of the beautiful rings that framed her face. I wasn’t that lucky. My long dark hair hung limp and dull down my back. Also, I was tall and slim, having lost so much weight over the years.

Meanwhile, she was short and curvy with boobs women paid good money for. I was okay with it, though. I wanted Gracie to have it all.

“You’re obsessed with money,” she accused.

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