Bill was right.
I was in trouble a lot.
Just about every weekend.
I’d be sent to my room for hours at a time, or the weekend—or for a string of weekends. Sometimes my mother would hit me with whatever hard thing was within reach, but mostly, she kept me inside when she thought I’d done something wrong.
Being on punishment meant I couldn’t visit Annmarie VanEpps, who my mother said was a bad influence. She said spending time with Annmarie made me act like I was better than anyone else.
I didn’t argue the point.
Annmarie did think she was better than most people, and I suppose some of that could have rubbed off. Plus, there was something about the way her mother made dinner with items from all four of the food groups that made me cocky.
A few days at Annmarie’s and I’d come home with a belly full of milk, feeling like I owned the sky, only to open the fridge at our house, suck my teeth, and complain about there never being anything to eat, and bam, just like that, I’d be punished for acting high and mighty.
“Just who do you think you are? Why don’t you go upstairs till you can stop acting like you’re better than the rest of us.”
Or I’d stride in wearing Annmarie’s clothes, walking just a little higher in red and white side-striped terry-cloth shorts with matching halter, only to get in trouble for borrowing.
My mother believed that people should not want what they could not afford, and since we couldn’t afford much, our wanting should have been easy to contain. But my wanting was large, and I was finding, as the days passed, that the things at home were no longer a match for it.