Chapter 4

Independence, I learn, tastes like day-old coffee and blisters.

The vintage store is on Newbury Street, squeezed between a Starbucks and an overpriced boutique. Vintage Vogue. The sign is peeling.

Greta, the owner, is German. Maybe sixty. Gray hair in a tight bun. She looks me up and down when I walk in.

"Kit sent you?"

"Yes."

"You work before?"

"Target. Two years."

She nods. "Twelve dollars an hour. You sort, you steam, you sell. No phones. No sitting. You start Monday."

That's it. I have a job.

Monday comes. I show up at nine. Greta hands me an apron and points to a mountain of clothes in the back room.

"Sort by decade. Then steam. Then tag. Then floor."

The clothes smell like mothballs and old perfume. Someone else's life, packed into garbage bags.

I sort. Eighties. Nineties. Some stuff from the seventies that might be worth something.

My feet hurt after the first hour. By lunch, they're killing me. By closing, I can barely walk.

Greta watches me from the register. "You complain?"

"No."

"Good. Come back tomorrow."

I do.

Every day. Eight hours. Sometimes ten when someone calls in sick. Weekends, I do double shifts.

The work is mindless. Sort. Steam. Tag. Smile at customers. Pretend I care about vintage Levi's and eighties band tees.

My hands get burned by the steamer. Twice. Greta gives me burn cream and tells me to be more careful.

But I don't quit.

Every night, I count my money. Spread the bills on Kit's coffee table. Write the total in a notebook.

Week one: two hundred eighty-three dollars.

Week two: four hundred twelve.

Week three: three hundred ninety-five.

Mom taught me to keep track. Write everything down. Know where every dollar goes.

I hate that she taught me this.

I hate that she was right.

Kit comes home around nine most nights. Goes straight to her room. Sometimes she asks, "You okay?"

I always say, "Fine."

We're like roommates. Not family. She doesn't push. I don't talk.

It works.

One night, I hear her on the phone. Her bedroom door is closed, but the walls are thin.

"I know," she says. "I wish I could tell her. But you made me promise."

Silence.

"No, I haven't said anything. She doesn't ask."

More silence.

"Okay. I'll keep you updated."

She hangs up.

I sit on the couch, staring at the wall.

Who was she talking to? About me?

But I don't ask. Because I don't want to know.

The months blur together.

September. October. November.

I don't contact Mom. She doesn't contact me. The flip phone sits in my backpack, untouched.

Sometimes I check Instagram. See posts from Clearwater friends. Casey at her dorm. Imani at a party. Someone tagged the Starbucks near my house.

Was my house.

Not anymore.

I scroll past quickly.

December comes. Boston gets cold. Really cold. I buy a secondhand coat from the store. Greta gives me a discount.

By February, I have eight thousand dollars saved.

It's not enough.

NYU costs sixty thousand a year. Even with the scholarship covering tuition, there's housing. Food. Books. I'd need at least fifteen thousand.

I do the math. At this rate, I'd need another year. Maybe two.

March. An email from NYU.

"We're excited to welcome you to campus this fall! Please confirm your enrollment by April 15th."

I stare at my bank account.

Eight thousand five hundred twelve dollars.

Not enough.

I click "Contact Admissions."

Type: "I need to defer my enrollment for one year. Personal circumstances."

Hit send before I can change my mind.

They respond in two days. "Approved. See you next fall."

That night, I lie on Kit's couch and cry into the pillow.

I'm nineteen years old. I should be packing for college. Picking a dorm. Meeting my roommate.

Instead, I'm steaming vintage dresses in Boston, living on someone's couch, saving money that will never be enough.

This isn't how it was supposed to go.

May comes. The weather warms up. Tourists flood Newbury Street. We get busy. Greta hires another girl, but she quits after a week.

"You're still here," Greta says, almost impressed.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

I don't know how to explain it. That I have nowhere else to go. That this is all I have.

So I say, "I need the money."

She nods like she understands.

Summer is brutal. The store has no AC. Just fans that push hot air around. I sweat through my shirts. Go home and shower. Do it again the next day.

Kit leaves town for a week in July. Work conference. I have the apartment to myself.

It's too quiet.

I almost call Casey. Almost text Imani.

But what would I say? That I'm fine? That I'm surviving?

I'm not fine. I'm just existing.

By August, I have enough to start thinking about school again. Maybe if I work part-time during the year. Maybe if I take out loans.

I don't want loans. I don't want to owe anyone anything.

But I also don't want to spend another year in this store.

September. A year since I left.

I sit at Kit's kitchen table with my laptop. FAFSA. Financial aid application. I've put it off long enough.

I type in my information. Social Security number. Birthday. Address—Kit's address, not Clearwater.

Then it asks for parent information.

I pause.

Does Nora even count as my parent anymore? She kicked me out. Told me to leave. We haven't spoken in a year.

But technically, she's still my mother.

I type in her name. Her Social Security number from memory. The Clearwater address.

Submit.

Two weeks later, a letter arrives.

I expect a simple aid package. Maybe a few thousand in grants.

Instead, the letter says:

"Your FAFSA application has been flagged for review. Please contact the financial aid office immediately regarding account irregularities."

I read it three times.

Account irregularities?