thirty-two

It’s twenty-two degrees out and Mom’s driving me home after my shift. It’s dark outside already and outside you can see your breath.

“Mom, do you believe in Jesus?”

“What, honey?”

“Do you believe in Jesus? Like he was the son of God and he did all those magic tricks and then flew up to Heaven in the three days or whatever.”

“I dunno, honey. Jury’s out.”

We drive on in sacrilege.

“But, one thing is for sure, Anika. What goes around comes around.”

Uh-oh. That is not a message I am trying to hear.

“How was work, honey?”

“Oh, you know . . .”

“Slow shift?”

“Mom, they fired Tiffany.”

“What?! Why?”

“For stealing.”

We’re almost home and none too soon. I hate the cold. Even inside the car your feet are freezing, your toes like mini icicles.

“But how do they—?”

“They had it on video.”

“Oh, that’s awful. Just awful.”

“I know. Mr. Baum obviously thinks it’s ’cause she’s black.”

“Hm.”

“Mom. It’s not ’cause she’s black, it’s ’cause she’s poor. I’d steal, too, if I was in her shoes.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Mom, a lot of people steal. A lot. People who aren’t even poor.”

Now we’re stopped in the driveway.

“Like who?”

“I dunno. Just people.”

“Well, what people?”

“Forget it.”

“Like you?”

“What? No.”

“Listen. I’m not saying you are, or you have. I’m not saying that. But if you are, or you have, you better stop, immediately, and I mean it. Hypothetically.”

“Mo-om.”

“You want someone to press charges? You wanna ruin your college transcripts? You wanna be stuck here for the rest of your life?”

“No.”

“Okay. Well, then, don’t even think about it. I mean it . . . Okay, honey? That’s not you. Okay? That’s not how I raised you.”

But she’s wrong. Even though she did everything a mom could do to make me peach pie, inside I’m still spider stew. I’ll always be spider stew. I’ll spend the rest of my life pretending I’m not and that I’m candy corn and candy cane and candy apple but inside, inside . . . well, you might as well just dip a tarantula in chocolate and call it a day.