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alive.” She narrowed her gaze, her expression fierce. “You need an education if you’re ever going to get out of this dump. You quit school and you’ll end up just like your daddy. You want that?”
    Victor clenched his hands into fists. “That really sucks, Mom. I’m nothing like him, and you know it.”
    â€œThen prove it,” she countered. “Stay in school.”
    He flexed his fingers, frustrated. “I’m big enough to pass for sixteen. I could quit school and get a full-time job. We need the money.”
    â€œWe don’t need the money. We’re doing fine.”
    â€œRight.”
    At his sarcasm, she flushed, obviously angry. “What’s that supposed to mean? Huh?” She poked her index finger into his shoulder. “What do you want that you don’t have?”
    He said nothing, just stared at his feet and the remnants of their meal, an ugly mess on the pieces of white butcher paper. Like this whole, fucking situation. Anger and helpless frustration balled in his chest until he thought he might explode with it.
    â€œWhat?” she asked, poking him again, this time harder. “You want some high-priced stereo system? Or maybe you need some of those fancy, name-brand jeans or a color TV in your room?”
    He lifted his head and met her eyes, the blood pumping furiously in his head, “Maybe what I want, maybe what I need, is a mother who doesn’t have to turn tricks every time she has to buy her son a new pair of shoes or take him to the doctor.”
    She took an involuntary step back, as if he had slapped her, her face going white under her foundation and blush.
    He held a hand out to her, contrite. “I shouldn’t have said that, Mom. I’m sorry.”
    â€œDon’t.” She took another step back from him, working to get control of herself. “How did you know about the…tricks?”
    Santos dragged his hands through his hair, frustrated, wishing he had never started this. “Give me a break, Mom. I mean, I’m not blind. Or dumb. I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve known for a long time.”
    â€œI see.” She gazed at him another moment, then turned and crossed slowly to the one window in the small room. She stared out at the street below, her view partially obstructed by the small air conditioner. The seconds ticked past, seeming more like minutes. Still, she said nothing.
    He took a step toward her, then stopped, cursing himself. Why hadn’t he held his tongue? Why hadn’t he just let her believe he didn’t know her little secret? He couldn’t take his words back now, and her silence hurt him more than one of his daddy’s blows.
    â€œWhat did you expect?” he said, softly now. “Every time I needed something, you came home with a friend. He would stay an hour or two, then leave. Of course, we’d never see him again.”
    She bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”
    A catch in his chest, he crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her. He pressed his face to her sweet-smelling hair. Tonight when she returned from work, it would reek of cigarettes and the dirty old men who had pawed at her. “Sorry for what?” he asked, choked.
    â€œFor being a…whore. You must think—”
    â€œYou’re not! I think you’re the greatest. I’m not…” His voice thickened, and he struggled for a moment to clear it. “I’m not ashamed of you. It’s just that I know how much you hate it. You’re always so quiet after. You always look so sad.”
    He breathed deeply through his nose. “And I hate that you do it for me. I hate that I’m the reason why you let those guys…” His words trailed off.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said again, her voice small and broken. “I didn’t want you to know about the tricks. I thought…” She shook her head. “This isn’t the kind of life