I was so sick of “subtly” hinting at needing some fucking money to do shit with my friends. I guess, the way that my parents’ finances were going, though, I should have felt lucky they didn’t try to force me to get a job and start giving them a cut of my earnings. And really, I wouldn’t put that kind of shit past them. They’re so fucking embarrassing with how poor they are. Always talking about how they don’t have enough. Which is why I should have known better than to bother asking them for some cash to go to Mexico during spring break. They tried to pull the excuse that I was too young, but they were doing far worse when they were sixteen. God knows the drugs were purer back then. But I know it has nothing to do with my age, and everything to do with them being cheap motherfuckers. Worse than cheap—broke. Which meant I couldn’t even steal the money from them if I wanted to.

I guess you could say I first started to notice the disparity between my socioeconomic class and my friends’ somewhere around the time I turned thirteen. That’s when, all of the sudden, it seemed like everyone had money for makeup, facial products and hair care, and I…well, I didn’t. My dad was the least understanding about it, telling me I looked “beautiful” just as I was. Yeah fucking right. I needed a glow-up and tout de fucking suite. So that’s how my parents basically made me start shoplifting. What choice did I have? In this life, you gotta be able to keep up with your fucking friends or you’re nothing. Friendless. Did my parents not understand that? Did they forget what it was like to be at the mercy of your peers? For even the slightest hint of poverty to make or break you in a social setting?

***

She made me want to puke. Always asking me the same fucking thing, day in, day out. Always another demand for more money. More this, more that. More, more, more. She was like a walking orifice constantly waiting to be filled. With money, okay? Not cum. Though the thought had crossed my mind to tell her she might consider making a bit more cash by selling her body. Then again, that would go against what I had just said about how she was too young to go to Mexico for spring break. I didn’t really feel that way. Honestly, I don’t much care what she does. I just want her to stop fucking harassing me about money. Like I don’t have enough shit to pay for without her hand open everywhere I turn. Goddamn, I wish I hadn’t gotten pregnant with that fucking shithead sixteen-ish years ago.

***

We both knew that the only reason we were still together is because we couldn’t hack it apart. Financially. While neither of us had much, we knew that our one asset—the house—is something that we weren’t going to fight over in a divorce. Mainly because we both knew it would be a fight to the death (The War of the Roses-style). And we weren’t ready to die…just yet. Though, with each passing day, I really was starting to feel more and more like maybe that would be the best alternative. Especially with that fucking daughter of ours constantly running her mouth about “needing” more money. When I was her age, it was enough to be clothed and fed with a roof over our heads. Now she needs a fuckin’ phone, a fuckin’ this, that, the other. What she needs is a fuckin’ hammer to come down on her forehead. Maybe then she’d be too docile to ask me for another dime.

***

I wasn’t oblivious (even if I made it seem that way by constantly being on my phone). I knew how they saw me. Like I’m such a burden. Shit, did I ask to be here? No. They’re the fucking fags who summoned me. Now here we all are. Miserable together. They could have just stayed miserable on their own, without dragging me into it, for fuck’s sake. Christ, it’s not like they lived in a time when abortion wasn’t an option. So why all this blame on me? It’s their goddamn fault. In every possible way. If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have shown up to this hell hole—it’s not even worth making a cameo. If it had been up to me, I would have remained in my state of blissful black nothingness. And when you think about it, every parent owes their child lifelong compensation for destroying that blissful black nothingness. Imagine if, in order to push one out, you had to sign a contract stating that you agreed to pay your “beloved” child a monthly stipend for the rest of its life. Think how much that would curb the birth rate. I think I’m gonna run for fucking president on that platform. Except that nobody wants to curb the birth rate. They think it’s guaranteed “big business” to have more mouths out there. But ain’t no fucking business to be had when most every child is born to a pair of broke asses like my parents.

***

Sometimes, I really do think about just driving away. Just throwing my hands up in the air and leaving it all behind. I feel nothing for either of them. Not my disgusting husband or my narcissistic daughter. I want nothing more than to leave. To run away and never look back. I think the only final push I’ll need is for Cuntface to ask me for money one more time.

***

I didn’t care how angry they got every time I asked one or both of them for cash. Especially not with spring break coming up. I need to go on this trip with my friends. Like, need, need, need. If I don’t go, I’ll be exiled from the group for good. In ways that will be undercutting and embarrassing. And it will be a gradual sort of exiling, which will make it feel even worse. Because there will be times when they lead me to believe that I’m still “in,” even though they and I will both know that I was permanently out from the moment my parents revealed the extent of how dire our financial circumstances are. No one wants to be friends with a poor. Unless they, too, are poor. Oh god, the last thing I want to be is an Andie Walsh type. A reference none of my friends would even get. Because their moms didn’t make them watch every John Hughes movie over and over again. So, if nothing else, at least my mom “gave me” that. What a legacy.

***

The missus is acting frigid. Or should I say…more frigid than usual. It’s making me feel very uneasy. Gives me a sense of foreboding that I’m really not equipped to deal with right now. I already have enough stress as it is, what with my boss at the warehouse putting more strain on our workloads without so much as a thank you, let alone the promise of a raise in exchange for all that extra grunt work. And of course when I mention this to Cherie, her reaction isn’t “wifely” at all. No offer to cook dinner, to give me a blow job. Nothing. No gratitude whatsoever. Now I see where her daughter gets it from.

***

It’s noon on a Tuesday and the world feels like my oyster. Like it’s finally ripe for the taking. I’m in the parking lot of the mall, where I’ve just indulged in the purchase of an Orange Julius. I didn’t even think those existed anymore. Didn’t think you could find them anymore, no matter what mall you went into. But today, I saw one. Like a beautiful mirage. Except that it wasn’t (or maybe it was). I took it as a sign. An omen. A reason to leave. There was symbolism in its presence. As though the universe was telling me, “Like this Orange Julius, opportunity is rare. And the time has come for you to take yours. Leave, bitch. Run.” So I’m going to. I’m going to take the final sip of this glorious beverage—that my daughter has probably never even heard of—and put the pedal to the metal. I’ll be halfway to New Mexico or some shit before they even realize I’m gone. Before they know what hit them.

***

It didn’t take us long to understand what was happening. Mom had been gone for hours and wasn’t answering her phone. It was going straight to voicemail. We knew immediately that she wasn’t kidnapped (it would only take a few minutes for any kidnapper to send her back), but that she had decided to abandon us. I couldn’t blame her. I’d thought about doing the same thing thousands of times. The difference was, I didn’t have a fucking bank account or credit card to run away with. Neither did my dad. Their “joint” bank account was in her name because his credit had been fucked a long time ago thanks to some identity theft bullshit that he was actually still dealing with in new and unexpected ways as the years went on.

***

Part of me always knew she would leave. A woman like that—so restless and dissatisfied—was bound to. Even though she gave me that vibe from the moment we met, I still married the squirrelly slag. Knowing full well that I would be the one most likely to be damaged in any fallout. And the fallout, now, was being trapped alone with this teenage monster.  

***

With Mom gone, it became clearer to me than ever that the parentals couldn’t be counted on for shit, let alone money. So I did what my mother had probably always wanted me to do: I started an OnlyFans account. I was skeptical about it at first. Thought there might actually be some gatekeeping to preventing minors from joining, but no, it was super easy. All I had to do was lie about my age and I was on my way. The other thing I was skeptical about—actually making money from it—turned out to be misguided as well. I found myself making plenty right from the outset, and just in time to give my share of the money to the friend’s parent who was booking the accommodation in Mexico. Dad has no idea, of course. And even if he did, I don’t think he would care. Some part of me thinks he does know—that I’m lying when I tell him that a friend’s parents decided to pay for everyone’s way. He can’t be that naïve. It’s more like that saying about what you don’t know not hurting you.

***

When I think about the last time we were all together—all really together—in a way that didn’t involve my husband side-eyeing me with contempt or my daughter demanding an absurd monetary value for some inane purchase, it was so long ago. Ally had probably just turned thirteen and, therefore, was only barely starting to show flickers of the demon she was about to become. But the demon shined through brightly enough as she started talking about how she wanted to visit Marseille one day. The city had gotten onto her radar because some video of someone dancing in front of the port there had gone viral, spreading all over her feed. A feed I wanted to know nothing about. It was bad enough I had willingly given her the drugs, so to speak. As Ally went on about the city, she said she would be afraid to go. I told her its reputation for being dangerous was overblown, that, once upon a time, her father and I had actually gone there and it was a beautiful place. She just looked at me like I had grown a second head and said matter-of-factly, “Yeah, but no one would be interested in doing anything to you.” As though to remind me, lest I had forgotten, that I was some old bag of bones that no one would want anything to do with, let alone bother to sell into white slavery or rape/rob (I wanted to tell her that I was at greater risk of the latter since people presumed that women who looked like me had money). That was probably the moment I really knew. That she was becoming a cunt. An inherently, unavoidably mean-spirited asshole with no filter on her meanness whatsoever. I tried to think back to that time in my life, to remember if I was as cruel. I wanted to believe that I was, because it would make it so much easier to have empathy for Ally. But I didn’t. And I don’t. Not even after what happened in Mexico. It probably wouldn’t have happened in Marseille.

***

I had to be the one to identify her. Of course Cherie would leave me with that last coup de grâce. I guess if I wanted to see the silver lining, it forced me to take a trip. Though I wasn’t counting on that expense. Leave it to Ally to force my hand on splurging, one last time. When I found out that she had been murdered by a man who was following her on OnlyFans (and then in real life), it was the first time I learned she was doing that. It made me even sadder. Guiltier. Like I had driven her to do it. Had given her no choice because she couldn’t get the money she needed from us, from me. Apparently, she had taken a risk on giving the guy more information than she should have, in exchange for him giving her more money. What she told him (the neighborhood where she was staying) was enough for him to home in on her. To stalk her and then, soon after, rape and kill her. I blame myself. Even more than Cherie.

Now that she’s gone, I miss her asking for money all the time. It wasn’t even one iota as bad as her not being around at all to demand it anymore.