Beth’s freshly curled head poked up from the stove, a beer and cigarette in one hand and a spatula in the other. That answered Lark’s questions on the smells, and it was an accurate portrayal of her mother, who she refused to call “Mom.” Throughout Lark’s life, Beth had never felt like one, not when she’d forgotten to pick Lark and her sisters up from school or when she’d left them sleeping in the backseat of her car while she went inside the bar.
“Made it just in time. Supper’s ready.” Beth’s raspy voice boomed against the thin walls.
“What is it?” Lark maneuvered herself across the cluttered living room to get to the kitchen, passing the ratty recliner and useless junk. Months-old newspapers and magazines that never got thrown away—because Beth claimed she hadn’t read them yet—covered the coffee table and patches of the stained carpet.
“We’re embracing you girls’ culture tonight. I made enchiladas.” Beth said the last word with a terrible Hispanic accent.
“You are aware Dad’s heritage was from Spain, and enchiladas are more Mexican?” Lark peered over Beth’s shoulder and stared at the glass container with burnt enchiladas drenched in queso dip, resting on top of the stove. “Also, I don’t think the people of Mexico drench their enchiladas in chile con queso, but I could be wrong.”
Beth swung her beer to her mouth and nursed it for a long minute before slowly dragging it back down, pursing her thin lips. “Are you being a smartass? After I just slaved around in the kitchen for you and your sister.”
Lark didn’t understand why Beth was even trying to embrace Dad’s “heritage?” They never married, and he hadn’t been around to help raise Lark and her sisters—too concerned about hanging out at the bar and picking up hookers.
She figured misery did love her dad’s company as he’d driven home drunk one night and hit another drunk driver. In the end, they’d both died. If it would’ve been an innocent family, maybe Lark would’ve been more sympathetic. Scumbag Syndrome. Her dad had left them with Beth, and she was still angry about that, but living with him could’ve potentially been worse.
“Thanks, Beth. I love ash with my enchiladas,” Lark said, rolling her eyes.
Beth tapped the cigarette in a glass ashtray on top of the counter. “I lit the cigarette after I pulled the food out.”
Lark’s gaze zoomed-in onto the cooking utensil where Beth’s fingers gripped it tightly. “But you have a spatula in your hand and are digging them out with a lit cigarette in the other.”
Beth shook the cooking gear in the air as if she were a nun and wanted to slam it down on Lark’s fingers like a ruler. “You’re about to get none, missy.”
Could I only hope for such a miraculous thing? she thought.
Turning on her heels, Lark shuffled back through the living room and picked up the bags to bring them into her room. She might’ve been acting like a twat to Beth, but even with her being Lark’s birth mother and raising them all these years, Beth had checked out a long time ago. Then last month, Beth came around and acted like she could slither her way back in and win Mom of the Year. It would take a lot longer than that. Beth may not have been Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest going crazy with a coat hanger, but sometimes no mom at all was worse.
When she opened the door to her room, her sister, Paloma, was there, browsing through Lark’s drawers as if her life depended on it.
“What are you doing in here?” Lark asked, tossing the two bags on the floor beside her twin mattress. She hurried and shut the door, so the smoke wouldn’t drift in from Beth’s cigarette.
She and her other sister, Robin, had shared a bed, but that got taken with Robin when she left for college. Thanks to a scholarship, she made it out of this shithole—Lark didn’t think she was going to be as lucky. Since then, Lark only had a mattress on the floor. Not that she minded—it made her feel closer to the earth anyway, even though the trailer sat above ground level. After learning more about Jimbo’s Native American ways, she respected the world a bit more than she had before working at the oddity store.
“I was looking for those loop earrings with the silver crosses hanging that Imani gave you,” Paloma said, not looking at Lark as she continued to sift through the dresser drawer of underwear. She wasn’t sure why Paloma would think there would be earrings in there.
Lark’s Siamese cat, Lucy, made a soft purr as her sky-blue eyes fixed on her. Softly, she rubbed the little heathen’s head. Lucy was the one individual in the trailer who seemed to actually truly care about her.
“Are you practicing religion now?” Lark asked, taking off her backpack and headphones, then setting them on the mattress across from Lucy.
Paloma’s head whipped over her shoulder. “No, I’m practicing Madonna.”
“Attempting carbon copyism?”
Paloma practically slept in the Madonna-esque white lace gloves—she was wearing them now, paired with a loose green tank top, pink skirt, and black leggings.
“Is that even a word or something you made up again?” Paloma stared at Lark’s black jacket. “It’s better than training to be Morticia from The Munsters.”
With a loud snort, Lark’s grin spread across her cheeks. “Do you mean Morticia from The Addams Family or Lily from The Munsters?”
As usual, Paloma hid her lazy eye behind a lock of hair. She should show off that thing—it was awesome. “You’re seriously a jackass.”
“I’ve been called smartass and jackass within the past five minutes,” Lark started. “I’m not sure which word I prefer. However, I do like donkeys.”
Paloma rolled her dark brown eyes, shut the drawer, and caught sight of the trash bag from Imani on the floor. “What’s in there?” she asked, rushing headlong to the bag and peeling back the plastic. Why did she even bother asking? She was already searching through the clothes.
Paloma was her twin sister, fraternal twin to be exact. Lark couldn’t say that they had any secret bond or twin-dar. Her sister looked more like their dad with jet-black hair and brown complexion, while Lark was paler with crazy curls and light brown eyes. Her sister’s hair was naturally straight, but she had a perm and used way too much hairspray. She was sure Paloma would have it dyed blonde soon to match her idol—Madonna. Lark and Paloma were not friends in the slightest, but they definitely understood each other.
A collection of bracelets rattled on Paloma’s wrist as she picked through the garbage bag. If her sister went back to her babysitting gig, then she’d be able to afford more things.
“You can take a few pieces out of there, but leave all the black stuff,” Lark said and took a seat on the mattress. Lucy curled up on her lap as Lark stroked her soft fur.
Her sister’s eyes shifted to the yellow heels in the bag, and Lark quickly crushed the pop-up memory of the music store catastrophe.
“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. These are rad.” Paloma held them up, her eyes glowing with want.
“Sorry, those are off limits.” Lark leaned sideways and snatched them from Paloma’s hands before she ran off with them. The shoes already had a nostalgic moment attached to them with Auden—a shitty one—and she wanted them. “And those earrings you’re looking for are in the second drawer of my dresser, inside the shoe box.”