** TW: This book is a dark, potentially disturbing story that deals with triggering topics such as mental illness, drug use, SH, and death. Avoid this book if any of these topics are triggering to you. Thank you. -Max **
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Israel Gallego...
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My jaw slips out of my hand and I catch myself before my face can hit the counter I'm sitting at. I didn't get much sleep last night. It's hard to sleep. Between the two jobs I work, I'm nursing my long-term relationship with my girlfriend back to health, making sure my mom eats, and paying every bill for the house.
At least when Israel was here we were scraping up just enough not to drown. Currently, it's a wonder how there's not any water in my lungs.
God. He knows that Record Scratch is in danger of closing down for good, too, and he still went on tour with Little Fears. I'm torn, though. It's my fault he's even there in the first place. If I hadn't encouraged him to enter the stupid contest he would still be here, wasting away with the rest of us, not gaining any life experience, wondering with me whether or not mom is really a lost cause.
I kick myself. The stress I'm under is turning me into a bad sister. If there was a cooking contest that would whisk me away if I won, Israel would be screaming for me to take a chance. Of course I'm happy for him. Of course he deserves this. He's an amazing photographer. He's going to be in museums someday.
I just have to keep reminding myself that this tour isn't forever. Soon enough he'll be back home and we can continue game planning how we're going to get out of here. How we're going to fix mom. What to do about Mr. Guy and Record Scratch.
"Shift's almost over, Kid," Mr. Guy says. He's carrying a milk carton of vinyls to the backroom. "You can head out a little early. I'm sure the restaurant needs you more than this place does."
"Maybe." I smile. I've watched him clear two whole tables of merchandise today, and I'm filled with dread at the realization that there's probably nothing I can do to save this place.
The orange walls. The brown carpet. The beaded curtain hanging over the doorway that leads to the family bathroom. There were rows and rows of music in all forms, CDs, vinyl records, cassette tapes. The number of shelves is dwindling everyday and it looks, today, like the pulse of this store is just about flat.
With my paycheck from the restaurant I work at I'm paying the bills and putting a little bit away to invest into this store. I can't put more than ten dollars away per check, but if I could just have a little more time . . .
Who knows what could happen? Maybe I could remodel this place and give it a new life. Mr. Guy could stay in town with us like we need him to. We wouldn't have to lose another dad.
All these thoughts together bring pinpricks of tears to my eyes, but I have to swallow them down for Mr. Guy's sake. I don't want him feeling worse than he already does. I know he doesn't want to leave Israel and me.
"What's wrong, Killer?" Mr. Guy asks. I breathe in sharply through my nose. I've been caught, but before I can deny anything he says, "Don't you say it's nothing."
