Five blocks is what separated me from the Velvet Lounge and Penn Station. Twelve minutes is the time I had to make it on time for the 12:32 Train. If I missed it, I'd be waiting at least an hour for the next one.
Unacceptable.
My legs were tired. My feet hurt. The kind of dull ache that came from standing on them for six hours straight.
Keep moving. You can rest on the train.
I made it to Penn Station at 12:27.
Bought my ticket. Made the platform with two minutes to spare.
The train was half-empty. I found a window seat, plugged in my earbuds, and pulled out my calc homework.
Lofi beats started playing. Some playlist I'd found months ago and never changed. The soft piano, the gentle static, the vague sense of melancholy that somehow helped me focus.
Twenty problems. Fifteen variations of the same formula.
Start with the hard ones while my brain still works.
The train started moving. Lights flickered past the window. The city gave way to suburbs, suburbs gave way to darkness.
I worked through the first five problems.
Not bad. My eyes are only a little blurry.
Six through ten were harder. Required more concentration. I had to reread the formulas twice.
Come on. You know this. You've done this before.
Eleven through fifteen were the variations. Easy once I had the pattern.
Almost there.
Sixteen through twenty were the application problems. Word problems about trains meeting at various speeds and balls being thrown at various angles.
Why is it always trains and balls? Who is designing these problems?
I finished at 1:47 AM.
Somewhere past Trenton.
Forty-three minutes until Philadelphia.
I closed my notebook. Leaned my head against the window. The glass was cold against my temple.
I could sleep. Just for a little bit.
No. If I sleep now, I'll miss my stop.
Stay awake. Just forty more minutes.
The lofi playlist continued. Some song about rain and coffee shops and feelings I didn't have time to feel.
I watched the darkness roll by outside.
This is my life.
Has been for two years.
Will be for... how long?
The train rattled on.
Philadelphia's 30th Street Station was quiet at 2:30 AM.
A few night owls. Some homeless people sleeping on benches. The cleaning crew making their rounds.
I walked through it all without stopping.
The bus to Kensington ran every thirty minutes at this hour. I caught the 2:45, sat in the back, and counted the remaining stops.
Seven stops. Twelve minutes. Then a five-minute walk.
Almost home.
During the day, Kensington was as loud as the bronx or queens. But at night, it was eerily quiet. Quiet was a blessing and a curse in this area. A blessing because of the silence and a curse because silence is when Kensington is the most dangerous.
The streets were empty as I walked. Just me and the occasional tabby walking from street lamp to street lamp.
Oka
Okay... take a left on Allegheny, then a right on Kensington Ave. and my building should be the third one on the left.
And there it was, home sweet home.
The apartment building was five stories high and hadn't been rennovated since the Civil Rights Movement. The elevator hadn't worked since we moved here four years ago.
But the rent was cheap and the neighbors were good people.
I climbed to the fourth floor. Found our door. Unlocked it as quietly as I could.
The apartment was dark. Small. A living room that doubled as my bedroom, a tiny kitchen, an even tinier bathroom, and Iris's room in the back.
I dropped my backpack by the couch. Slipped off my shoes.
Iris's door was closed. I opened it just a crack.
She was asleep. Curled up under her blankets with her stuffed bear tucked under one arm. Her sketchbook was open on the nightstand, some half-finished drawing visible in the dim light.
Her breathing was steady. Peaceful.
Good. She's okay.
I closed the door. Stood there for a moment.
She's okay.
That's all that matters.
The shower was cold because our hot water heater was temperamental. I'd learned to wash fast.
Three minutes. In and out.
I toweled off, pulled on clean boxers and an old t-shirt, and headed to the kitchen.
Breakfast and lunch for Iris. Then sleep.
Almost there.
The fridge was sparse but not empty. I'd gone shopping over the weekend, carefully stretching the budget as far as it would go.
Eggs. Toast. Fruit. That's breakfast.
Sandwich. Chips. Apple. That's lunch.
I cracked eggs into a pan. Got the toast going. Cut up some strawberries because Iris liked them and they'd been on sale.
The lunch went into a brown paper bag. I wrote a note on the outside.
"Don't forget your homework. Love you, idiot."
She called me idiot. I called her idiot. It was our thing.
I left everything in the fridge with another note.
"Breakfast in microwave. Lunch in fridge. Be home late. Don't wait up."
She always waited up. I'd given up trying to stop her.
3:17 AM.
Alarm set for 4:30.
That's one hour and thirteen minutes of sleep.
Acceptable. Barely.
I collapsed onto the couch. My bed. My refuge.
The ceiling stared back at me. Water stain in the corner. Crack running across the middle. Same view every night for the past two years.
Sleep. You need to sleep.
But my brain wouldn't stop.
Train tickets. A thousand a month. More if I account for price increases.
Tips tonight. Two hundred and forty-seven dollars. Good night.
Weekly income from the Velvet Lounge. Maybe eight hundred. Nine on a good week.
Rent. Four hundred and fifty.
Utilities. Hundred and twenty.
Food. Two hundred if we're careful.
School supplies. Transportation. Emergencies.
I pulled the cash from my pocket. Started counting.
Twenty. Forty. Sixty. Eighty. A hundred.
Twenty. Forty. Sixty.
Fives.
Ones.
Two hundred and forty-seven dollars exactly.
I added it to the envelope under the couch cushion. My emergency fund. Separate from the bills money. Untouchable unless everything went wrong.
Four hundred and twelve dollars total.
Not enough. Never enough.
The paper Dr. Reyes had given me was still in my pants pocket.
I pulled it out. Unfolded it. Read it again in the dim light.
Personal assistant position. Compensation negotiable. Contact through counseling office.
Substantial compensation.
I thought about the Valentine sisters. Cassidy with her death glares. Harlow with her relentless friendliness. Two more I hadn't even met yet.
What kind of family hires personal assistants for teenagers?
The kind with more money than sense.
The kind that could pay me more than the Velvet Lounge.
The kind that could make all of this... easier.
I stared at the paper.
What's the catch?
There was always a catch.
But what if the catch is worth it?
What if the catch is manageable?
What if the catch is better than this?
I thought about Iris. About the scholarship application due in February. About four more years of trains and late nights and three hours of sleep.
You can't keep doing this.
You know you can't.
Something has to change.
I folded the paper. Put it on the table where I'd see it in the morning.
Talk to Dr. Reyes tomorrow. Find out more.
Can't make a decision without information.
That's just common sense.
The ceiling continued to stare. I closed my eyes.
One hour and eight minutes until the alarm.
Sleep. Just sleep.
The lofi playlist was still stuck in my head. Soft piano. Gentle static.
I let it carry me away to sleep.