Dad calls it “Eyesore Trashtown”. I don’t read perfect yet, but looking at the letters on the sign, I don’t think that’s right. “It’s called Eastlake Terrace,” Mom says, hugging her purse tight and shooing me into the elevator. “Dad thinks he’s funny.”
Dad wasn’t funny this morning, whisper-fighting with Mom, both of them thinking I couldn’t hear, as me and her were leaving the house. In the car, I tried to ask her about it, how somebody could spend money they don’t have, and what he meant by calling this lady the Snow Queen of Welfare, but Mom’s look said shut my hole, so I did.
Now in the elevator, the wobbly box I’m carrying—with cans all on one side and a big box of crackers on the other—makes my arms burn. I distract myself by watching Mom change her face, so by the time the doors open, the line between her eyebrows is gone and she’s wearing a big smile.
The lady who opens the door Mom knocks on doesn’t look like any kind of queen to me. She has yellow hair like mine on the ends, but where it comes out of her head, it’s dark brown. She’s wearing a baggy t-shirt and stretchy pants that have holes in the knees. This is an apartment, which is like our house except way smaller and with a bunch of them crammed together in one building. It smells like old cigarettes and some kind of food I’m glad I don’t have to eat.
There’s a kid about my age—Annie, she says—and Mom tells me to go play. Annie’s room has three unmade beds and a dresser. The carpet has stains, and the closet door doesn’t close right. We sit on the floor, and Annie hands me a little plastic Snoopy—the kind with a hole in the bottom because it’s supposed to go on the end of a pencil. “I love Snoopy!” I say, but Annie says, “Don’t call him that.” She takes him back and rubs him against her cheek. “His name is Harrison K. Snooples The Third,” she says. “You can call him Mr. Snooples.” She kisses him and hands him back. I bring him to my nose and sniff. He smells like plastic, strawberry Chapstick, and dirt.
While Annie digs in the closet for more toys for us to play with, I watch Mom and Other Mom unload the groceries in the kitchen—all the cheapest brands, like Mom says, we’re going to have to start buying.
“Let’s play Barbies,” Annie says. She hands me Ken, she’s Barbie, and Snoopy is their pet dog. Even though he’s way too small to look like their dog for real, Annie takes Barbie’s hand and makes it pat his little head. “Good dog, Mr. Snooples,” she says. “I love you.”
I’ve been trying out a word I learned from Dad, and I shout it out now as loud as I can: “Imbecile!” I lift Ken’s arm and do my best Dad voice: “This imbecile thinks he can lay me off when I gave my heart and soul to that company!”
“Let’s kiss,” Annie says and smooches Barbie’s face into Ken’s.
When the kissing is done, I sit Ken down on the floor and put Snoopy on his lap. I make Snoopy go around in a circle three times before he sits down like a real dog. “Good job, Mr. Snooples,” I say because I know Annie will like it. She laughs and goes digging in a pile for a new dress for Barbie to change into.
I watch Mom in the kitchen talking with Other Mom. The line in her forehead is starting to come back. In the store earlier, she got a notebook out of her purse and did a bunch of math problems, then she put back the steaks she was buying for our dinner and got a package of hamburger instead. She had promised me Pop-Tarts, but she changed her mind to “maybe next time.”
When it’s time to go and I stand up to leave, Annie asks for Mr. Snooples back. I say, “I gave him back to you. Where did you put him?” and start lifting Barbie clothes, hunting under them for the Snoopy. Mom says let’s go, and we leave Annie crawling on the floor, flinging aside Barbies and clothes and calling, “Mr. Snooples, where are you?”
In the car on the way home, I take Snoopy out of my pocket. My window is rolled halfway down, and I hold him balanced on the edge of the glass. I lean him in. I lean him out, feeling the wind trying to catch him out of my hand. Then I let go. I crane my neck to watch him bounce in the road until he’s crunched under the car behind us.