DREARY UNDERTONE

Poverty. It used to be simpler. Perhaps because I don't recall much of it as a child. Because I was content. All that's left now is grief, anger, and overdue bills. At seventeen, I don't know much about the world, but being undesired and unhappy is more difficult to bear than going hungry. My stomach tightens further. Maybe puking before I leave the house will relax my anxiety and clear my mind. Except that I can't afford to drop the weight. A long breath ensures that the buttons on my nicest shirt are still fastened, and that my significant cleavage is still conservatively concealed. This morning, the knee-length skirt fits better than it did in the thrift store, and the boots are more comfortable than they were before.The knee-length skirt fits better today than it did yesterday, and the ballerina flats... Forget about it. I have no control over the cracked soles and rips in the toes. They are my lone pair of shoes. I exit the bathroom and creep through the kitchen, combing my hair with unsteady fingers. Wet strands brush up against my back and soak my shirt. Is my bra visible through the moist fabric? I should've worn my hair up or dried it, but I'm out of time, which makes my stomach even worse. I shouldn't be this worried, Jesus. It is merely the first day of class. This is something I've done several times. However, this is my senior year. This is the year that will shape the rest of my life. One blunder, a less-than-perfect GPA, a dress code violation, the smallest infringement will shift the emphasis away from my skill and onto the poor girl from Treme. Every step I take in the harsh, marble hallways of Le Montaigne Academy is an effort to show that I'm more than simply that girl. Le Montaigne is a nationally famous, exclusive, and expensive performing arts high school. It's frightening. It's terrifying. It makes no difference if I'm the best pianist in New Orleans. Since my freshman year, the academy has been hunting for a cause to expel me, to replace me with a kid who possesses both talent and financial resources. The odour of old smoke grounds me in my daily existence. I turn on the kitchen light, illuminating heaps of smashed beer cans and empty pizza boxes. Crusty dishes pile up in the sink, cigarette butts clutter the floor, and what is that? I look at the charred residue in the bowl of a spoon as I bend over the counter. Motherfucker. My brother cooked coke with our nicest utensils? With a burst of rage, I toss it in the trash. Jeremy claims he can't pay his debts, but the jobless bastard is always flush with cash. Not only that, but the kitchen was pristine when I went to bed, despite the mold growing on the walls and the laminate peeling away from the worktops. Goddammit, this is our home. That's all we have left. He and Mom have no idea what I've gone through to keep us on track with our mortgage payments. I pray they never find out for their own sake. My ankle is brushed by soft fur, pulling my attention to the floor. Huge golden eyes peer up from an orange tabby face, and my shoulders instantly relax. Arnheim brushes his whiskers against my knee and tilts his scruffy chin, his tail quivering in the air. He is always aware of my need for affection. I think he's the only love left in this house at times. "I have to go, darling guy," I say quietly as I reach down to scratch his ears. "Will you please be a good kitty?" I take the final slice of banana bread from the back of the pantry, happy that Jeremy hasn't discovered it. I wrap it in a paper towel and make as stealthy an exit as possible to the front door. Our dilapidated house is only one room broad and five rooms long. There are no hallways. I could stand on the back porch, shoot a shotgun at the front door, and not hit any walls since the rooms were laid up one in front of the other and all the doors were lined up. But I might punch Jeremy. Deliberately. He's a f*****g burden and a waste of life. He's also nine years older, 150 pounds heavier, and the only sibling I have. I pull in a breath as the hundred-year-old wood boards groan beneath my feet, waiting for Jeremy's drunken shout. Silence. Thank you very much, Jesus. I enter Mom's room first, holding the wrapped bread to my chest. I came in thirty minutes ago, half-asleep and stumbling towards the bathroom in the dark. However, with the kitchen light shining through the doorway, the bulge in her bed appears to be human. I stagger in amazement, trying to recall the last time I saw her. Two...three weeks? There's a flutter behind my breastbone. Perhaps she came home to wish me good luck on my first day? Three silent strides get me to bed. The rectangular rooms are tight and narrow, yet the ceilings are at least twelve feet high. Daddy used to remark that the pitched roof and lengthy front-to-back configuration were designed to allow all of his love to flow through.