Working

The boy you called lame?
He has to work every night to support his family.

    I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t know you were the Prom Queen. I’m sorry I forgot that Kobi Bryant died in a helicopter crash. I’m sorry I said anything about Minecraft. I’m sorry I tried to tell a joke. I’m sorry I sat at your table. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .

    The blisters on my hands are almost numb now. Underneath squeaking plastic gloves they’ve rubbed so raw I can’t even feel them anymore. They look awful, but I can’t feel them, so that’s OK. Everything’s OK. Everything is going to be all right . . . I hope.

    But I wish people would stop getting mad at me. I mean – I try! I can’t help it that I’m so tired. This mop is killing me. This job is killing me. No, it’s not my employer’s fault. Mr. Jimson is really nice. He even takes me out for a burger sometimes. I ask for the extra hours because I have to. If I don’t, they’ll put us in Foster Care and I’ll never see my little brothers and sisters again. I have to keep us together.

    Mom died nine months ago. Dad disappeared when I was eight. That’s another thing they make fun of me for: no parents. Everyone at school knows my parents are gone. They think my Uncle is taking care of us.

    More like we’re taking care of him. I’ve had the hardest time keeping my money out of his ashy hands. All he wants to do all day is smoke, play video games, and drink beer. Lots and lots of beer. He doesn’t work, mostly because he doesn’t care.

    Every morning – if the weather is good – Lizzie takes Andy, Gretchen and Silas out to the park where they stay for the whole day. Sometimes someone comes with a picnic lunch and shares with the ‘poor kids’ but most of the time they’re hungry for lunch.

    This is America. Why are my siblings going hungry? Why can’t I make enough money to keep them full, or give nice clothes and new school supplies? New pencils and new notebooks and new erasers. That’s what I gave Lizzie for Christmas last year. Her very own spotless eraser. She was ecstatic.

    But, really, this is America. Why is it that the hard-working me is made fun of and the kids who never do anything are the popular ones? I thought this was the land of opportunity. Where is my opportunity? So I get to push mops down halls all evening and clean school bathrooms all night. Is that opportunity? Why am I made fun of? Why do they stop Andy in school and steal his lunch-box? He’s just a kid! We’re all kids! And that’s all the food we had. We gave it to the littlest. Why couldn’t they just be friendly?

    What have we done wrong?

    Nothing, absolutely nothing – except be poor. I work. Lizzie protects. Uncle drinks. Kids make fun of us.

    I wish I knew why. I wish I knew the answers to all those questions, because then I would change things. But no matter how hard I try to make the other kids happy, they make fun of me. Of all of us.

    I try to understand. Can’t they at least do that for me? For us? We’re so tired and lonely. The teachers are nice, but they have too many kids to worry about. Strangers are mostly nice – but then they don’t know us. Why do the people in school, who we have grown up with, treat us like dirt?

    Aren’t all people equal? Isn’t there right to free-speech and free-thinking and freedom to be who we are? We can’t help that our clothes are out-of-fashion or that we haven’t seen the latest movies. I hear about Marvel and Spiderman and Iron man. I see shirts and things like that in stores with those characters on them. But do I know who these people are? No. We don’t have a TV. We have a phone, but it’s too precious to use for movies. Sometimes the kids will sit in Walmart in front of one of those really big screens that they have movies on to show how cool the screen is. They’ll get their movies from there, until someone tells security that there’s a group of kids ‘obscuring the merchandise’. Then they’d better get out fast.

    I’m sorry I don’t understand what you mean when you say ‘Infinity Stone’. I’m sorry that I haven’t heard about Taylor Swift and . . . that, that other one you like to talk about. I’m sorry I don’t know. I’m sorry I don’t understand.

    I’m sorry I’m lame. I don’t try to be. I try really hard not to be.

    But, you know, I’m not trying for you. I’m not even trying for me. I’m trying for my family. Because my family is what matters to me. My Mom made me promise I would take care of the kids, so I work every night until I feel like my arms are going to fall off.

    Until I can’t feel my palms because they’re covered in blisters.

    Until I can’t hardly breathe through all the cleaner fumes around me.

    Until I can’t remember why I’m even doing this because I’m so tired.

    You know I clean the bathrooms and the school halls. So why do you stick your gum-wads under the counter? Why do you walk through that mud-puddle before coming into the school? Why do you . . .

    And as he sprays a mirror in the boy’s bathroom, finger-prints appear along with two words:

You’re lame.

    For a long moment he just stares at them. Then, leaning forward until his head is buried in green-gloved hands, he bites his lip-

    And cries.