CAMILITA

The rain had been falling since dawn, dripping through the small holes in the roof of the Johnson family's rented house in a forgotten corner of Cleveland, Ohio. Inside, seventeen-year-old Camilita Johnson stood on a wooden chair, holding an old cooking pot beneath a leak in the ceiling. Another drop of water landed on her forehead, and she sighed, wiping it away with the back of her hand. "Mom, the roof is leaking again." From the kitchen came her mother's tired voice. "Then move the pot closer to the wall, Camilita. We can't afford to fix it right now." Camilita did as she was told. She was used to hearing those words. We can't afford it. They couldn't afford new shoes when the soles of hers began to separate. They couldn't afford the school supplies she needed, and they certainly couldn't afford the small things other girls her age took for granted. Sometimes, she wondered what it would feel like to live in a house where the refrigerator was always full and the electricity never went out without warning. But wondering didn't change anything. Their house was small, with peeling paint, worn-out furniture, and a heater that worked only when it felt like cooperating. The front window had a crack covered with transparent tape, and the curtains had faded from years of sunlight. Still, Camilita tried to keep the place clean. It was one of the few things she could control. She climbed down from the chair and returned to the kitchen, where her mother, Margaret Johnson, stood beside an almost-empty refrigerator. Margaret was a tired woman in her early forties. Life had placed so many burdens on her shoulders that even her smiles seemed to require effort. She wore an old sweater with a loose thread hanging from one sleeve, and her eyes looked heavy with worry. "Is there anything left for breakfast?" Camilita asked softly. Her mother opened a cupboard and stared inside. "There's bread. You can have the last two slices." "What about you?" "I'm not hungry." Camilita knew that wasn't true. Her mother often said she wasn't hungry whenever there wasn't enough food for everyone. She took one slice and placed the other on a plate. "Let's share." Margaret looked at her daughter for a moment before accepting the bread. "You've always been a good girl," she murmured. Camilita smiled faintly. She wished being a good girl could solve their problems. Across the room, her father, Richard Johnson, sat at the kitchen table with a pile of unopened envelopes beside him. He had returned late the previous night from another unsuccessful search for work. At forty-eight, he had become a bitter man who blamed the world for everything he had lost. He picked up an envelope, examined the red letters printed across it, and slammed it onto the table. "Another bill!" he snapped. "Every single day, somebody wants money from me. The landlord wants rent, the electric company wants payment, and the bank keeps calling about a loan I can't repay!" Margaret lowered her eyes. "Please, Richard. Not in front of her." "Not in front of her?" He laughed without humor. "When exactly am I supposed to talk about it? When they throw us out onto the street?" Camilita stood motionless beside the counter. She hated when her parents argued, especially when her father raised his voice. Whenever it happened, she made herself as quiet as possible, hoping he would forget she was in the room. Richard noticed her watching him. "And you," he said sharply. "What are you standing there for?" "Nothing, Dad." "Then go clean your room." "Okay." She left without another word. Her bedroom was barely large enough for a narrow bed, a small dresser, and a wooden desk she had found beside a dumpster two years earlier. A few schoolbooks sat in a cardboard box beneath the bed. On the wall hung a photograph of Camilita at twelve, standing between her parents on a summer afternoon. They had looked happier then. Her father had been working at a warehouse, and her mother had still laughed at his jokes. Camilita stared at the photograph. She missed those days. She missed the father who used to carry her on his shoulders and promise that she could become anything she wanted. Somewhere along the way, those promises had disappeared. She sat at her desk and opened a notebook. On the first page, she had written a list of things she hoped to do someday. Finish school. Find a good job. Get her own apartment. Buy her mother a beautiful house. And, perhaps one day, travel somewhere far away from Cleveland. She ran her fingers over the words. They were simple dreams, but they belonged to her. A sudden knock at the front door interrupted her thoughts. She heard her mother answer it. Then came a man's voice. "Good morning, Mrs. Johnson. I hope I'm not disturbing you." "No, of course not. Please, come in." Camilita frowned. She didn't recognize the voice. Curiosity pulled her toward the bedroom door. She opened it slightly and listened. "We weren't expecting you until tomorrow," her father said. "I decided to come early," the stranger replied. "I understand your situation has become rather difficult." There was a brief silence. "Very difficult," Richard admitted. Camilita heard the sound of a leather bag being placed on the table. "I believe we can reach an arrangement that benefits everyone involved," the stranger said calmly. "But I need to know whether you've made your decision." Her stomach tightened. What decision? Margaret spoke next, her voice barely above a whisper. "We've discussed it. We understand what's at stake." "Good," the man replied. "Then we should settle the matter soon." Camilita pressed her hand against the door. Something about the conversation frightened her, although she couldn't explain why. She wanted to walk into the living room and ask who the visitor was and what he wanted from her parents. Instead, she remained where she was, listening. Richard cleared his throat. "There's just one thing. Camilita doesn't know anything about this yet." "Then perhaps it's time you told her," the stranger answered. "The sooner she understands, the better." A cold feeling crept through Camilita's chest. Her name. They were talking about her. She stepped away from the door just as footsteps approached the hallway. "Camilita?" her mother called. She hurried back to her desk and pretended to be reading. A moment later, Margaret appeared in the doorway. Her expression was strange, caught somewhere between fear and determination. "Come to the living room, sweetheart. Your father and I need to talk to you." Camilita slowly closed her notebook. "What?