Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 86741 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86741 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I focused on Ben. “Fine. Send me the link.”
CHAPTER FOUR
It was so hard for me to stay consistent with jobs, but to be fair, I grew up with a mother who overworked herself because my father bailed on us when I was three. He just up and left, didn’t pack any of his clothes, didn’t say goodbye to any of us, but he did take the savings my mother had in her safe as a rude farewell.
That burned her and we all know a woman scorned is not one to play with. She had something to prove and she worked hard to earn back every penny he’d stolen.
In the mornings, breakfast would be on the stove or in the microwave for Kell and me and she’d be out the door and headed to work before we ventured to the bus stop. At night, she’d show up at home briefly to swap out her daytime outfit for her diner uniform, kiss us on the cheek as we did our homework, and peel.
The truth was our mother didn’t have to work so hard. She’d gotten back the money that was stolen plus more within three years, and what she made from her job as a legal secretary was enough to cover the bills, according to what Kell told me. He knew more about what went on with our momma. He always did.
But like I said, a woman scorned is no joke. She had a mission, and that mission was to save up enough money for us to have a cushion and for her children to go to college. She’d accomplished that mission too, but it didn’t come without repercussions.
She had a stroke when she was forty-nine. Passed away at fifty-two. She’s been gone for seven years now but the emotion of that loss still lingers. Everyone who spoke at her funeral talked so fondly about how hard she worked, how dedicated she was, but they didn’t see what I saw. They didn’t see Momma coming home at midnight or later, bone-tired with bags under her eyes. They didn’t wake up to hear her crying at night, asking God how she was going to make it.
Momma never did love again. She hooked up here and there, yes (and always tried to hide it), but she didn’t fall for anyone. She just worked. Constantly. Always missing my band practices or Kell’s football games. Not there as often to brush my hair or even help me pick a prom dress.
Sadly, my brother is following in her footsteps. Working extra hours and constantly on the move. I worry for him, and that worry is probably why I refuse to stress myself out over working.
A job is a job and money is only an object. Sure, it’s nice to have money, but people—Americans especially—have become so numb to working. They get up at the same time every day, slave away for hours, mentally drain themselves, and for what? All so some rich, corporate man can sit in his big mansion and watch the numbers climb in his bank account?
I don’t mind working for what I need, and I don’t blame the rich for being the rich. After all, we all have our roles and we must play them. It’s the circle of life. But my problem with it all is that my mother allowed money to be her end-all, and I refuse to follow in those footsteps.
She raised me and Kell to work hard for what we wanted, no matter how hard life became, but I could never wrap my mind around such a mentality.
Why kill myself over a check that wouldn’t even last a week?
Why trudge through muddy waters when there were so many other options?
Options like the night of Lola Maxwell’s party. It was a beautiful Miami night and I had one job—to serve. Serve the rich people standing around the pools and cocktail tables with drinks in hand, get them drunk, feed them, and even compliment them if that’s what they wanted for a good night.
I can admit that, though I hated waitressing, I was pretty damn good at it. I knew how to keep a level head when a person got rowdy. I could balance a tray on one hand like an acrobat on a tightrope. I was good at knowing when not to show up, when not to hover, and how to swindle a person to tip more, though tipping wasn’t required that night.
It was so easy to me . . . but tonight my skills were against me. I didn’t want to be at that mansion, dressed in the itchy collared shirt I’d found in the back of my closet, or the black slacks that were a little too snug on me now. Jazz music was playing and most of the guests were engrossed in deep conversations, which made this feel more like a soirée type of event than an actual party, and it was so humid outside that I could feel each coil of my natural hair loosening and turning into frizz.