Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
She laughs humorlessly. “Straight with you? You seriously just said that?”
I grit my jaw. “Yeah, I seriously just said that. Honesty is your only way through this.”
“Honesty is the only way to live your life.”
That’s what Mamá says to me all the time.
Honesty. Like telling the truth. Like not lying.
But I’m kind of lying right now.
I’m supposed to be in my room, playing my CDs. That’s what I do when Mamá is working. I’m supposed to play them loud.
I don’t mind. I like music. I like my CDs. I just wish Mamá would join me sometimes. I don’t get to see her much, even though she’s always here.
I’m not in my room, though. Instead, I’m wandering around the big house where my mom works.
The floor is too shiny, like it’s always wet, even though it isn’t. My shoes make soft squeaky sounds when I walk, and I try to step quieter. The air smells funny, kind of like flowers but also something else that I don’t know.
Red is everywhere. Red chairs, red curtains, even red lights. The lights make everything look wrong. People’s skin looks darker and shinier, like they’re sweating.
A woman laughs somewhere behind me. It’s loud but then it stops fast. I turn my head, but I can’t see her face. Just a flash of something sparkly on her arm. It might be Señorita Carlita. I like her. She’s pretty. But she’d stop to say hi if she saw me. I think, anyway.
I keep my hands in my pockets so I don’t touch anything. Everything looks soft but also like it might be sticky. Mamá always says the best move is to keep my hands to myself when I’m outside of my room. The couches are big and there are pillows everywhere.
Music plays, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from. It sounds like it’s inside the walls.
I wish I could go to school like other kids. There aren’t very many kids here, and most of them are too young to play with me anyway.
Mamá says I don’t need school because the grown-up ladies here teach me everything I need to know. Señora Valentina teaches me math. Yesterday I learned how to minus. Like two minus one is one. It’s the opposite of one plus one equals two.
Then there’s reading. Mamá taught me that.
The place where all the ladies work is called a brothel. That probably means they spend a lot of the time in the kitchen cooking broth.
Mamá says I’m lucky to not have to go to school. One of the men she works for, Señor Vega, has a son. She said maybe he would like to play with me.
“Mamá, nobody will want their kids to play with me. I don’t even have a dad.”
“You and Mamá have done just fine,” she says. “Who needs a dad?”
“But other kids will ask me about a dad,” I say.
“No, they won’t. I’ll call Señor Vega. I’m sure he’ll love to have a playdate with you for his son.” Mamá grabs her phone. She punches in a number.
“Señor Vega, good morning.”
Pause.
“Of course. I’ll be happy to take care of you while the children play together.”
Then Mamá gets pale. She is so pretty. Dark black hair that’s long and really shiny. And her skin is a nice tan color, but sometimes, when she bites her lip, and when her eyes start to look all glassy, her skin gets lighter. Kind of like a ghost.
“You owe me,” I hear her say into the phone.
Then she sees me listening.
“Go back to your room, mijo,” she says. “This is a private call.”
“Why’s it a private call?” I ask. “I thought you wanted him to bring his little boy over to play with me.”
But Mamá just gestures me away.
I go back to my room.
My room is small, and it’s on the top floor of the big house. But it’s my own because I don’t have any brothers and sisters to share it with. I have my CD player and my CDs. I don’t have my own television, but that’s okay. I’d rather listen to music and make up stories in my head.
I have a few books I read. Some by a doctor named Seuss. Others about a rabbit named Peter. But I read them all. I’m a good reader, and I’ve asked Mamá for new books, but she hasn’t bought me any. I think I’m ready to read something with more words. Chapters, even.
I put on my CDs and lie down on my bed and close my eyes. I like closing my eyes because the music makes me think of things. Pictures. Pictures of people and places, and I make up stories about them.
I make up stories about being with other kids my age, going to school. Maybe even having a best friend.
I jerk my eyes open when my door opens.