Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Or how my period’s late. No, I don’t think about that, no way, no thanks.
I have bigger problems as I heft my grocery bags through the apartment building’s front door. The elevator’s broken yet again. I angle toward the stairs already preparing myself for an upward death march, purposefully not thinking, when I spot the landlord Dennis stalking toward me.
Ah, shit, that’s never good. I see Dennis once a month, when I hand over the check. Any other time, and it’s a very bad sign.
“Angelina! Can I have a word, please?”
Freaking Dennis. I turn and give him my best smile, arms getting tired from holding all my groceries. “Sure, what can I do for you?”
He pauses, stroking a hand through his patchy white beard. I don’t know how old Dennis is, but he’s definitely not young. The guy’s always in gray slacks and white shirts, and it’s like he’s a marshmallow person, soft and doughy, devoid of any color.
“There have been some complaints.” He crosses his arms and spreads his legs, getting into a power stance. Please, God, hurry it along.
“What happened?” I ask, although that really means, what did she do now?
“It’s the smoke. I know it’s legal in the city, but we have rules in the building, you know that.”
“I’m so sorry.” I lift one bag, getting a better grip. “I’ll talk to her.”
“I tried going to your mother directly, but you know how she can be. She says all the right things, but I’m not sure she’s really hearing me.”
“I promise, I’ll talk to her.”
“It’s too much, you know? That much marijuana can’t be healthy for anyone.”
He’s got no idea. “She’ll cut back.”
And then hell will freeze over.
“It’s not just the smoking. It’s the music—“
“I’ll have her turn it down.”
“And the drums.”
“I’ll break them. I promise.”
He runs a hand through his thin hair. “I like you, Angelina. Unlike your mother, you’re dependable. I don’t want to cause you trouble, but you have to see my side. I have other folks to worry about. And your mother, her apartment is rent-controlled—“
And he’d use just about any excuse to kick her ass out.
“I understand. I’ll talk to her.”
“I hope so.” He turns away. “Good luck with that.”
I grunt and push open the door to the stairwell with my hip. He didn’t even offer to help me with all this stuff, the bastard.
But I can’t be too mad at him. Dennis wants to get rid of us, but fortunately, he’s incompetent, lazy, and spineless, which means Mom has been able to skate past on her good looks for years and years. The thing is though, without rent control, I don’t know what’ll happen to her. We can’t afford this neighborhood anymore, and there’s no way in hell Mom’s going to move anywhere else, let alone get a job. God forbid she earns a living.
No, that’s been on me ever since I was fifteen years old.
I lug everything up the stairs. The conversation with Dennis gets filed away in the drawer of all the things I don’t think about, like my period being late—but no, nothing, never mind, it’s fine. I fumble with the front door lock and step inside, greeted by the reek of weed and the stereo playing Jefferson Airplane.
“Mom! I’m back!” I sigh with relief when I get the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. I don’t bother waiting for her to come help put it all away. When I’m finished, I find Dawn Bellandi sprawled on the couch in a shawl and a pair of yoga sweats, a joint between her fingers, a stoned smile on her face.
“Hello, darling,” she says and wiggles her wrist in a greeting. “How was—“ She flexes her toes toward the wall. “The outside world?”
“It was great.” I yank open the blinds and crack the window. “You should try it sometime.”
“You know I love fresh air, but alas, my sciatica—“
“I know, I know, it’s okay.” I sit heavily in a chair beside the couch. “Did you eat?”
“Sometime.”
“Recently?”
“I’m sure.”
“I’ll cook.”
“Darling, it’s fine.” She parts her thick, dark curls. Despite being in her late fifties, my mother is still stunning. She’s toned and her skin is immaculate. I swear, she looks like she could be my sister. It’s simply not fair. I don’t know how a woman can sit around smoking weed and doing nothing else for twenty years and not age a day. “You know the universe always feeds me.”
“My name’s Angie, not The Universe,” I mutter at her and stretch my legs. “What do you want? I was going to make some salads—“
“Chicken nuggets.”
“Excuse me? I thought you were a vegetarian.”
Mom sits up abruptly and takes a big hit. “I got a sign! From the stars!” She gestures at the ceiling. “Chicken nuggets, my love. That’s what I need.”
“I don’t have… I mean, are you serious right now?”