Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
I had a key that kept even my parents out of my apartment. It was the one privacy they had given me. I stepped inside and locked the door behind me. I wasn’t afraid of burglars, or Porter, or of any other ghosts from my past. I just didn’t want my mom walking in, disturbing whatever small amount of peace I could find in this world.
It was a studio apartment, with one largish room and a bathroom in the back. I had a cabinet pushed up against one wall with a hot plate and a microwave. There was a mini fridge to complete the kitchenette, allowing me to have a few small meals on my own. The bed was in the center of the room, against one sloping wall. It was a real bed, with a wooden frame and one of those mail-order mattresses. I hadn’t wanted to sleep like a squatter on the floor, so one of the first things I had done out of prison was hit up the thrift store for a bed frame. My dad had offered me the lumber if I wanted to make it myself, but it was only $20 at the Resale Shoppe, and it was much less work to buy than to build.
A desk from that same thrift store was planted between the bed and the door. On it, a cheap laptop sat, my window to the world. I played a few video games, watched some internet TV, and kept up with the news. I kept my eye on the job market as well, just in case anything turned up with few requirements and no criminal background check. I had my online banking too—not any fancy package, but the standard service they offered with a checking account.
I sat down, pulled up my bank’s website and entered my password. I had $1,200 in my account. As much as my parents pissed me off, they weren’t charging me rent. They weren’t charging me for food or electricity or internet, so all of the money I earned at the lumberyard went directly into my account. Any clothing, gas, car payments, and insurance were all on me. Still, I had managed to save more than enough for a deposit on a new place. If I could just work my way up to a deposit and first month’s rent, I would be golden.
Just one more paycheck, I told myself. One more paycheck and I would start to investigate cabins for rent. I knew there were a few up in the mountains, just far enough out of town to escape the drama. I could put a deposit down and move all my things out of my parents’ house. I would still need more funds if I was going to get out of Singer’s Ridge altogether, but a cabin in the woods would be a step in the right direction. At least it would get me away from these insulting drug tests.
I sighed, closing down the banking app and calling up YouTube. I watched sports highlights until the sun went down and fell asleep way too early for a Friday night.
2
TAMMY
Istared down into my suitcase. A dozen pairs of underwear were stacked neatly in one corner, overrun by the tank tops and jeans I was trying to take. There was very little room for the jewelry box that my mom had given me or the blue monster stuffed animal that I’d had since I was a kid. Trying to pack my entire life was giving me a headache. I wanted to call it quits and go for a jog or head down to the local bar and buy a drink. But I was leaving the next day, and I had to pack.
I checked three of the drawers in my dresser: all empty. The fourth was a collection of pictures in small frames, phone cords, and an old plastic recorder. I tossed the instrument in the “donate” pile. It had been years since I had played, and even then, it had just been an assignment for music class. I sat down on the floor to detangle the cords, finding some that were too big to fit my newest phone. In the back of the drawer, I found a coffee mug full of pens and a portable charger, that might be useful. I emptied the pens into the trash and put the mug and the charger in my suitcase.
I’d moved into this apartment a couple of years ago, after my parents died. I didn’t clean it often, but it wasn’t a hoarder’s paradise. Still, there were hundreds of little things I was finding, tucked away in places I didn’t go. One of the pictures was of my mom and me, dressed in cowgirl gear, standing in front of a ranch house.
I tucked the photo between two pairs of jeans, moving on to the next drawer. Inside, I found a necklace my dad had given me when I turned eight, still packaged in its miniature jewelry box. It was a gold star on a gold chain. I had come in second place in a bowling competition, and it was his way of saying that I would always have first place in his heart.