Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Six?
Six phones in one year?
That had to be, what, upwards of six-thousand dollars.
God.
“But, yeah, all the shit. The apps and the fake bullshit everyone posts about their life. Once sat next to this kid at a restaurant doing some fucking five-second video or something about being out to lunch with their significant other and how they were loving life. They were alone. And sad the entire time. Fucking fake-ass shit. I’m too old for that shit.”
I mean, he wasn’t wrong. I’d seen it countless times with my own students. Hell, even with fellow teachers. They post the highlight reels of their lives, not what it was really like. And that, in turn, creates a false narrative about what their life is like and what other people think their own lives should be like.
It was a vicious cycle.
I was kind of glad I didn’t have social media of my own. I mean I used to. But it always got weird when a student found you. Or even a previous student. It always felt strange to me for them to see my personal life.
Then, well, I had other reasons for shutting it down.
I never looked back.
Though I did still have my book site that was social-media-lite. How else was I supposed to rate and shelve my books? And I did have a couple of book-world associates on there. But it was all about literature, so in my mind, it was different.
“Yeah, I can’t see you on social media, posting pictures of your food.”
“This would be picture-worthy, though,” he said, scraping his fork along the plate to get the last of the cheese and sauce and a tiny wedge of noodle.
“Thanks. I don’t get to cook often. Especially now with serving tables at night. I end up eating my shift meal for the next day’s lunch instead of making something decent.”
“You planning to serve when you start up the school year again?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’d like to quit. But it might not be… feasible right now.”
“Feasible,” he repeated. “Why not?”
“Money,” I said, shrugging.
I hated talking about money.
It had been drilled into me as a kid that it just wasn’t an appropriate topic. But it was the only answer to his question.
It all came down to money for me right now.
“Even with the money we’re kicking you?” he asked, watching me with thoughtful eyes.
“Even with,” I agreed. Especially because I didn’t know how long the hush money went for. Could they decide at any point to just stop paying me?
I couldn’t take that risk.
“What do teachers make? Fifty? Sixty?”
“Sixty to eighty-five, depending on several factors. I’m somewhere in the middle of that.”
“And the diner?”
“Most of my checks are voided. You know, for taxes. They take it out of the two-whatever I make on the books.”
“And off?”
“Average night is about one-fifty to three, thanks to the location. And the fact that I’m usually working alone.”
“So, say that’s another forty? Combined, one-ten. That’s not a huge amount of money, but it should get you a ticket out of this neighborhood at least. Then tack on what we’re kicking you. That’s, what, another sixty? One-seventy. That’s a good egg.”
“Your math skills are pretty impressive,” I said.
“Learn a lot about counting when you work the streets as a kid. Where’s the money going, Whitney?” he asked, and I swear there was a weird shivering sensation up my spine as he said my name. But, like, a good spine shiver. I didn’t even know those existed. “You got a shoe shopping problem? Gambling? Debts?”
“That’s just… incredibly personal,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “But, no. It’s none of those things. It’s… it’s my sister.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding, putting it together. “You’re the one footing the bill for her education. You know you don’t have to do that, right? Most parents don’t even do that anymore.”
Yeah, well, it was a little more complicated than that.
But that was not exactly my story to tell, was it?
“I don’t have to, no. But I want to. And, unfortunately, it isn’t cheap. So the more I can work, the more I can save, and then the less worries I will have moving forward.”
I mean, chances were, Wren would be in college for four years. At minimum. That was, what, a little over thirty-grand per year for a grand total of one-hundred-twenty grand, all said and done?
That was a big nut to cover.
Sure, it was much easier done thanks to the hush money. But if that went away six months or a year from now, I would be back to square one. Wouldn’t it make more sense to work as much as possible for the time being, save it all, and then have the money waiting for me to use when I needed it?
“You gotta have time to live your life too, baby,” he said, bringing his plate back into the kitchen to put it in the sink, which put him way too close to me.