Page 53 of Cakes for the Grump

It’s triple the size of my own, but the differences don’t end there. If my place is a dilapidated shack, Janice occupies a mansion fit for an empress. It feels as if it fills the whole floor of the building. Gleaming appliances, flat screen television, leather couches, a fully equipped home gym, sleek clocks…and there’s that smell. Lemony pine. Everything is neat, clinically so, like a collector’s showcase.

Janice supervises me, as I thoroughly clean an already very clean apartment.

The next day, laundry is assigned.

I meet Mrs. Milla by the washing machines downstairs.

“Her apartment is so big and has all these expensive things in it,” I say. “How much must the owners pay her for building management to afford all that?”

Mrs. Milla pulls out her clothes from the dryer and starts folding them. Seeing how her fingers tremble, I take over the task, not allowing for any argument.

“All those nice things,” says Mrs. Milla in a whisper, “are bought from the money she’s supposed to use for upgrades to maintain the whole building. It’s not hers to use.”

My mouth drops open. “But—what? How does she get away withthat?”

Mrs. Milla shrugs, sitting down on a crooked chair whose seat can’t be very comfortable. “Blind trust, but also Ms. Baghdadi heard she sends pictures of so-called upgrades to the owners here and there of where themoney goes. Most of it is a lie, cosmetic upgrades hiding the bad plumbing, and the cracks in the walls, and the mold. Like putting paint on a pig. Plus, she’s collected us as renters. People who can’t complain to anyone.”

“How is that fair? If we got together to report her?—”

Mrs. Milla shakes her head so hard her white curls bounce. “No, we can’t, Rita. If it somehow comes back onto us, we’ll have nowhere else to go. But you—you need to find a way out, dear.” Her expression softens, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You are too young and far too kind for this kind of hardship.”

“I’m not always nice,” I joke with a quiet smile. Mrs. Milla’s clothes are all folded, so now all I have to do is wait for Janice’s laundry to be finished. Technically, I should use this time to go back upstairs and prep some dinner for Janice, but I find herself lingering. My muscles ache so much.

“How is working for that man going?” asks Mrs. Milla. “The nice one who gifted you those fancy dinners?”

“He’s not nice.”

“What happened?”

“I—” My tongue catches. Even though it’s Mrs. Milla, I can’t admit how he kicked me out of his office. Depression presses against my sternum. The thought of it all being over, how I have no idea what I’ll do to survive next?—

My throat clogs up. “Nothing.”

Mrs. Milla stands up and comes over. “You are pushing yourself too hard.” She touches my forehead. “And gosh, you’re heating up too! You need to get some rest right away!”

“I will. I’ll finish this for Janice, and then a few more things, but promise I’ll sleep early after that.”

“Youbetter. I’m going to make you some dinner and drop it off later.”

I grip the edge of the washing machine, my head feeling heavy. “No, I couldn’t?—”

“Don’t fight with me, I’m older!”

“Okay.” I eke out a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Milla.”

The next morning, I can’t get out of bed. Despite desperately needing the money, it’s bad enough that I’ve got no choice but to cancel my chores for Janice. I have to apologize many times, lie that my holidays from work have ended early, and tell her that very soon I can pick up more chores. Janice rewards me by shutting off my apartment’s electricity for a fewhours.

It’s because of him, I think bitterly.His germs got into me, and I breathed them in, and now my immune system is too weak to carry on.

I’ve got Luke sickness and going in and out of feverish consciousness, I dream of paperwork and yellinga-hato him in court, calling him out for all his rudeness in front of the jury, some of them dressed in chicken costumes for some reason.

Then the scene changes and I’m young. Uncle is cajoling Dad to give up drinking. Dad mutely agrees, and the detox starts. A clock chimes loudly in the background, and as if the frame rate of a reel is sped up, scenes blur together.

Uncle is bathing my dad. I’m going inside his room to get rid of the bottles. Me washing his bedsheets. Doing schoolwork. The warm meals and first sounds of laughter when you think it’s working, and let yourself kindle a small flame of hope.

When the mirage cracks, Dad cries at night. More bottles.

“He’s happier when he’s drinking,” I say, trying to make Uncle feel better. “And it’s not a lot he’s taking. I’ll make sure of it.”