Juked

Chapter 5: Quincy

I'm so f*****g tired, and yet my mind won't shut off.

Once again, I'm wide awake in the middle of the night. I thought making bottles before bed would help me get a little more sleep, since I wouldn't have to actually think when it was time for Chance to eat overnight.

But it doesn't really matter because my mind won't stop spinning. All I can think about is Sarah and the last conversation we had.

The movement of the turnstile inside the microwave is almost hypnotic as the bottle goes round and round. It lulls me into a false sense of calm. And just like that, the memories start to invade my mind again.

"You're doing what?" I screech into the phone. I'm going to be late for work if I'm not careful, but once again Sarah has to be talked off a metaphorical ledge.

"Quincy, I know you're mad," she said. "But things have changed - "

"You are less than two years away from a degree," I chide. "Two years! Why the hell are you going to throw away two-and-a-half years of college to go to vocational school?"

I dump the contents of my make up bag onto the counter. It sucks putting makeup on one-handed, but I don't have a choice with this ridiculous conversation happening.

"It's not vocational school," she says quietly. "It's a program to get my administrative assistant certificate. I'll be learning all the latest computer programs, plus filing systems and shorthand which most people don't even know anymore, so I'll have that extra skill for my resume."

"Right. So vocational school." I roll my eyes. It's not like I should be surprised. Sarah has always been flighty. But being a television reporter has always been her dream. And after this long and this much effort, I really thought her degree was a sure thing.

"Call it whatever you want but when I'm done, they'll help place me in a job. A good job."

"Dad would be so pissed at you," I mumble, mouth stretched wide open as I swipe on mascara. Mascara, eyebrows, and lip gloss. That's all I have time for today. "The money he left us was so we could get an education and you're telling me you want to waste all of it."

"You went to cosmetology school. What's the difference?"

I brush my eyebrows liberally with a pencil. Being blonde sucks sometimes. "I had to do something quick, Sarah, you know that. I had to have a fast career so I could pay our bills."

The ding of the microwave pulls me out of my memory but doesn't take away the crushing guilt I still feel as I remember that conversation.

I'd hung up on her as I raced out the door that day. I'd hung up and never called her back. I thought she would call me when she finally came to her senses, yet I never came to mine.

I shake the bottle to spread the heat out before testing it on my arm. I glance down at the baby book sitting on the counter.

The damn book cost me twenty-five dollars. Twenty-five dollars I don't have, but it was worth it. I've been slowly reading through it, making sure I don't miss anything important I should know about raising a baby. The topic on this page catches my attention. It's called "How to Safely Heat up a Bottle." In big bold letters, it says NEVER HEAT UP A BOTTLE IN THE MICROWAVE. The radiation causes a breakdown of the properties in the formula, making it less nutritious. Also, there is research that indicates a possible breakdown of the plastic in the bottle, causing the baby to ingest those chemicals.

FUCK!

Now I have to dump the bottle out. It's only four ounces, but formula is expensive. So are diapers and clothes and everything else a baby needs to be taken care of. Day care alone is going to cost me almost two hundred dollars a week. The facility is fifteen minutes out of my way to work, which tacks on an extra thirty minutes to my commute every day, each way. But that was the cheapest rate I could find.

I find my glass measuring cup that fits two cups of water and fill it up halfway before popping it into the microwave and turning it on. The memory of that final phone call assaults me again.

She sighs into the phone. I'm hoping that sigh means I'm getting through to her. "Do you know how much the average television reporter gets paid at their first job?"

"Never asked."

"Twenty thousand dollars a year," she says. "That's less than ten dollars an hour. And it's salaried so they can call me in at all hours and work me as many hours a week as they want."

"So what? You're young and single. You can live on Ramen," I say rudely as I dab on lip gloss and blot my lips.

"The average job only lasts eighteen months. That means I'll be moving every year-and-a-half to another location."

"You love to travel."

"It's complicated, Quincy. I need to have a job that pays me enough to live on - "

"Sarah," I cut her off as I sit on my bed to put on my brown boots. "There is more to life than money. I have killed myself for the last six years so you could have it better than I did. You're being stupid and irresponsible and selfish, and I won't approve of this. This is stupid."

"Things have changed, Quincy," she says with a sniffle. It's the same sound she used to make when she was trying to pull one over on dad. But I'm not dad. I'm me. I don't fall for that s**t.

"I don't care." I stand up, race out of my room, and grab my travel mug full of coffee. "You need to think about this before you make any big decision. Remember, I'm the one in control of your inheritance, and I already told you, if you don't graduate, you don't get any of it until you're thirty."

"But Quincy - "

"No 'buts'," I say sharply. "Listen, I gotta go. I'm gonna be late. I love you. We'll talk more about this later."

The microwave dings again and I pull the boiling water out. I drop a second bottle inside the water and wait for it to warm up.

All this time, I thought Sarah was being flaky that day when what she was really doing was being a responsible mother. She'd been pregnant and knew she couldn't have her dream job and a baby.

And I had called her selfish and stupid and threatened her.

There's a Walmart receipt from the other day on the counter. I swear it's taunting me making me panic at the costs I was never expecting. How am I going to pay for it all?

I looked into the WIC program like Geni suggested. It provides food for children under five years old and living in a low-income household, but we didn't qualify. I make about two hundred dollars a month too much. Same thing with government-assisted childcare. It all falls on me, and I have no idea how I'm going to do it. I already dropped the night classes I was taking at the junior college across town.

I have to find a way to get more clients. And I really need to clean out Sarah's apartment. Maybe she has some baby supplies that will help take some of the pressure off. If not, maybe I can sell some of her things.

The thought makes me want to weep. I don't want to sell my little sister's things. That will make it more real that she's gone. They're also the last things I have left of her. But I know Sarah wouldn't want Chance to go without.

I'm shaking the new bottle to test the temperature when I hear a frantic cry coming from the opposite side of the apartment.

Chance is awake and hungry again. Good thing I was prepared and have the bottle ready. Maybe, just maybe, he'll eat quickly, and I can get some sleep tonight before the pressure and the lack of rest suck me completely under.