Collecting Cans
Everything I own fits in the three square cabinets tucked around my bed in the back of the fifth wheel we call home...
Something heavy is pushing and pulling on my shoulder, and I'm instantly awake. The light snaps on above me as my stomach squeezes and flips.
Surprises are never good, and I'm ready for whatever might come - even in sleep.
“Chris, come on. Get up. We’re goin’ out.”
Out where? I want to ask, but I catch the words before they tumble out of my mouth. I know better than to question my mother when she has a plan.
I sit up, squinting against the light, and notice my younger brother standing a few feet away, staring past me. He's still half asleep. Lucky.
I get up, adjust my nightgown, and look out the window over my bed. It’s still dark outside, so I know it’s not the time we usually get up.
My mother turns away from me, grabs Ronny, and pulls him into the other room while I wait for her to tell me what to do.
“Put some pants on,” she says. “And get your coat. We’re goin’ out to collect cans.”
Everything I own fits in the three square cabinets tucked around my bed in the back of the fifth wheel we call home. I linger in front of them for a minute until I remember which one has my clothes inside. I open the one to the left, grab the faded jeans (my grandmother would call them "dungarees") with the ironed-on patches covering each knee, and pull them on under my nightgown.
I hate these pants. I do whatever I can to avoid wearing them - especially to school. I hide them sometimes or get them really dirty. It usually doesn't work, though. I don’t mind putting them on now because I'm pretty sure I won’t see anyone from school wandering around the trailer park in the middle of the night.
“Let’s go! I don’t have all day!” my mother hisses as I drag myself toward the door. She hands me my coat and a garbage bag.
I hate this coat too. It was my favorite when my grandmother bought it the year before, but I'm seven now, and it doesn't fit me. It pinches under my arms, the sleeves don't cover my wrists, and the faux fur collar is matted and stained.
“I’m tired,” I say once I’m buttoned up.
My mother sighs, snatches something from the stash of bottles she keeps on the counter, and shakes a tiny white tablet into my hand. It's one of her "diet pills."
“Swallow that. It’ll help you wake up.”
I look up at her, unsure.
“I don’t have time for this, Chris! We need to get back before it gets light out,” she says.
I pop the pill into my mouth and try to make enough spit to swallow it. I stuff the garbage bag into my coat pocket, trailing slightly behind as we make our way in the dark.