Shacking Up

Once my father married whore-mother, he moved her to another department—because God forbid there was a conflict of interest happening. Not only is her paygrade exceptionally higher than before, she was also given a sweet promotion which means my father wants me to work under her. I scrub a palm over my face. I’m not sure if I feel more like crying or vomiting again. It’s a real toss-up.

I must groan, or make some kind of noise, because Yvette speaks again. If her chipper voice had a face I’d want to punch it. “I apologize for the delay in communication.”

“It would’ve been good to have this information months ago.” Not that it would’ve helped that much. The rent still would’ve been a stretch to pay, let alone affording anything beyond the ramen noodles I’ve been eating for the past three weeks. I could’ve started my new meal plan that much sooner, I suppose.

“Would you like me to put you through to your father? I’m not sure when his meeting will be done, but you can leave him a message, or I can take one down and give it to him as soon as he comes available.” She sounds nervous now.

Talking to my father isn’t going to solve this problem. It’s likely only going to make things worse. “No. No, thank you Yvette. I need to go. Thank you for your time.” I end the call before she can say anything else.

Amie’s staring at me with wide eyes and her mouth agape. “Why aren’t you going to talk to your father? He can fix this.”

“I need to think.” I rub my temples. “I have to call my landlord.” So I do. Not that it helps. Turns out my apartment is already rented and I still owe three months of overdue rent. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t even notice I’d missed it. I imagine it’s my father who would’ve gotten the notification instead of me, because he’s the one who’s been paying the rent.

“You have to call your dad and ask him to fix this.”

“He can’t fix this now.”

“He can at least help you out with the rent.”

“And then what? I’m still not going to have a place to live.”

About six months ago, just after I scored my last role, my father and I had had a heated conversation about my career path. He’s made his disapproval clear, but he tolerated my choices because of my mother’s influence, and her guilt trip. His money still came with a price tag, and in this case it was shame. He’d said I’d finished my program, so I should be employable. If I couldn’t manage on my own, I’d be coming home to work for him.

I’ve heard that lecture so many times I can recite it in my sleep. Until now I thought he was blowing smoke up my rear end. It was after that conversation that I opened my own bank account, secured my own Visa, and the small line of credit. When my paycheck stopped coming in, I opted to raise my credit limit by a few thousand dollars instead of going to him.

If I call him now, I’ll have to admit defeat. And I feel as though he may be setting me up for this to happen. It’s as if he wants me to fail. If he finds out what’s happened, and how I have no other options, he’ll definitely send someone for me. Well, he might not send someone. He’s more likely to put me on a plane because driving that far isn’t on his priority list.

Home is not where I want to be. Home is Rhode Island. Home means I’ve failed. Home means my dream is dead and my dad was right all along: I’m not good enough for a career on Broadway. Or Off-Broadway. Or anywhere near Broadway.

Admitting failure isn’t the worst part. Going home means working for my father’s pharmaceutical empire where he deals in penis-hardening drugs. He’ll turn me into a corporate drone. I’ll have to sit behind a desk and type letters and stamp things and make sure meetings are scheduled in the right rooms. All my creativity will end up in the shredder bin, along with my dignity.

I know there are people out there struggling for a job, any job, and I should be grateful. And while the idea of working at my father’s company is not my idea of fun, it’s not the end of the world. Working under his new wife would be it’s own special kind of hell. I completely disagree with my father that it would be a good way for us to get to know each other and bond. I told him it’s a good way for me to end up in prison for murder. He did not appreciate my humor.

“He’s the reason you don’t have a place to live, you don’t think he’ll feel bad and try and make it right?”

“You heard my landlord, the place is already rented. You know as well as I do he’s been waiting for this to happen. He wants me to fail.”

“He doesn’t want you to fail.” I give her a look and she sighs again. “What about your line of credit? Can you pay off some of the rent with that?”

I pull up my account details on my phone. Even if I could raise it by a few more thousand, I can’t cover three missed months. I shake my head.

“What about a cash advance on your credit card?”

“There’s not a lot of room.” I have maybe three hundred dollars left before I hit my max. It’s a low max, but adding to my credit card debt seems like a bad idea, especially considering my current circumstances.

“Oh God.”

“Yeah.”

“I could lend you—”

“Nope. No way.” I cut her off before she can finish. “I won’t borrow money from you.”

“You have to let me do something. I’m not going to let you be homeless. You won’t do well in an alley. Cardboard boxes aren’t your thing.”

She’s trying to be funny, but the reality of my situation finally slaps me in the face like a three-day-old dead fish. Amie’s right. Unless I can find a new place to live and a decent job that can cover more than just rent I’m going to end up homeless or forced to move back home. Worse, I’ll have to live in my dad’s house with his horrible slutty wife who’s four years older than I am and probably screwing the gardener. Or the pool boy. Or both.

Moving to Alaska, where my mother currently lives, is an absolute no-go. New York winters are long enough. Besides, her cabin in the woods and little to no contact with the outside world is a bit on the extreme side for me. I’m fine to live in a crappy apartment in Harlem, but subzero temperatures and no neighbors is far outside of my comfort zone.

“I’ll get a part-time job.”

Amie gives me one of her mothering looks. “Okay, sure, but what about a place to live? You’re still going to need to save up at least first and last month, right? And pay back what you owe here. That’s a lot of money to come up with on your own.”

She makes another good point. “I don’t have an alternative, Amie. Not unless I want to move back to Rhode Island, which is the absolute last thing I want.”

“I can’t believe your dad did this. There has to be a way to make this work. What if you stay with me?”

I give Amie a look. “Where would I sleep? Your couch isn’t even a pullout.”

Amie purses her lips, considering this. I have a point. Her place is small. Her bedroom is tiny, her queen taking up a good portion of the room. Her living room can’t accommodate a full-sized couch because it, too, is small.

“I’ll call Armstrong. I’m sure I can stay with him, and then you can have my place while you sort things out.” She calls her fiancé and holds up a finger to silence me before I can argue against this plan. “Hi, Armstrong, I have a bit of a favor to ask—” She pauses for a few seconds before she continues. “Do you think it would be possible for me to stay with you for a little while . . . a week or two?” She gives me a questioning look. I shrug and then nod. I doubt two weeks will be enough, but it’s better than nothing. “But I—it would just be for . . . right . . . but—” She rolls her eyes and taps her foot.