I stay home for two more days and hardly leave my room. Nate’s called twice, but I don’t answer and I don’t return his calls.
When I finally pull myself from the confines of my bed, I do laundry because I’m down to my last clean pair of anything. Dad keeps his distance, and that’s fine by me.
I tell myself I can work out of this. I’ll try again.
I leave the house with fifteen dollars in my purse.
And I go back.
When I go in, I feel different. I feel dirty.
There’s a waiting list for the low-stakes table. I add my name, seventh on the list, and walk around. I walk slowly because I can’t shake the feeling of dread.
I sit down at a slot machine, not to play, just to sit. I look down the row of bright machines all chanting their own enticing lures.
“Wheeeel of Fortune!!!” Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding! Lights flashing, the machines sit patiently, just waiting to be fed.
At the end of the row an elderly man sits down, pulls some crinkled cash from his back pocket, smoothes a bill, and feeds the machine.
He plays, intensely, leaning close to the machine to get the best view. He pushes the button. Over and over and over again, and nothing lights up . . . no bells ring.
He stops and leans back in his chair.
He pulls another bill from his crinkled wad, smoothes it over his leg, then feeds the machine again.
I can’t watch.
I get up and leave.
I’m almost to the exit door when Nate gently grabs my elbow and turns me toward him.
He’s working; I can tell by his suit jacket.
“Hey, where ya been lately? I’ve been trying to call,” he says.
I squint from the sunshine coming from the window and fake a quick smile. “Oh, sorry. I’ve been sick.”
“Blood sugar again?”
What is he talking about?
“No . . . I think it was a sinus infection or something like that. Just stuffy head and a little achy.” Then I remember about the whole blood sugar thing.
“Oh. Well, I’ve been missing you.”
I look at him for a longer-than-usual moment. “Look, I don’t want to get you sick. I’ll just call you when I start feeling better, okay?”
“Are you sure you’re okay? Is something going on?”
I stand, speechless. And for one second I want to tell him everything. Start to finish. I want to say it all. I want to tell him that my mom left when I was only six. I want to tell him that I haven’t been taken care of since. That I go to high school where everyone has stuff and cars and parents who hold down good-paying jobs with insurance. I want to tell him that my name is not Chandra, and I live in a house the size of a walk-in closet. That I pawned a gun to play poker. I want to tell him that soon I’ll be evicted. I want to let him know that when I play poker I’m a million miles away and I love the way that makes me feel.
But I don’t.
I don’t tell him anything. I barely smile, shrug my shoulder, and shake my head to say, “No.”
I walk into the bright sunshine.
And I don’t go back.