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to steady myself as my feet shift with the moving garments. White and colored shirts are tangled with jeans and shorts. Pairs of socks and boxer briefs are strewn out, with bright pink shirts and flannel dotting the piles.
    I sit down on a large pile with a sigh and close my eyes. I need to look for another job. I’m not equipped to help Mercedes, and this is becoming draining for me not only with all of her attitude and demands, but with less time to work on homework and the commute time to get out here each day. Plus, I’ve been missing my Comparative Art History class every Wednesday because I would only be able to attend for a few minutes before having to catch the bus out here. The combining effects of not getting along with Kenzie, the school stress, and now the added strain of my job makes me question so many things about this year.
    I drop a final shirt onto the mass of clothes that I’ve spent the last hour separating, and look around. I don’t know where to start. At home we run anywhere from eight to ten loads of laundry a day. It’s not like I’m not used to having mass amounts of dirty clothes, but this is unreal. I gather a pile of Mercedes’ laundry and shove it into the washer while making a mental game of guessing how many loads are down here. Opening the cabinets that line the washer and dryer, I find the first clean and empty spaces in the house, and shake my head with the unveiling of a whole new issue: there’s no detergent.
    My neck drops back so I’m staring at the bright lights overhead. “What did I ever do to you?” My words are intended to be rhetorical, said to no one in particular, except perhaps fate so she’ll give me a small break.
    “Give up yet?”
    My head feels like it weighs too much as I look at the doorway and see Mercedes wearing a gloating expression that instantly becomes the singular look I hope to never again see on her face. If we were on the farm, I’d probably throw her in the lake.
    “I’m too stubborn and stupid to give up. Ask my roommate.”
    “My dad doesn’t care about cleaning. He says life’s too short to worry about having everything perfect. Fun is what matters.”
    “But you also have to appreciate what you have. Throwing all your stuff on the floor and not taking care of it isn’t appreciating stuff, or having fun.”
    “Why are you so uptight?”
    I clench my teeth to keep angry words from spilling out, and her eyes turn back to the familiar narrowed glare she’s fit for me.
    “Go ahead, Lauren. Do you have something to say?”
    I need this job. I hate that I need this job, but I need this job. Twenty dollars an hour is twice what I make at the restaurant. “You need to learn to appreciate things, otherwise, you’re never going to have fun because you’re never going to realize what you have.”
    “I don’t have anything.” She turns with a final glare, and her feet stomp back up the stairs.
     

     
    “I F IT doesn’t work out, we’ll find a place for you here, Macita.”
    I wrap my arms around Estella and squeeze. Leaving the restaurant is relieving for the fact that I will no longer have to work closing hours, and horrifying because it means I’m fully committing myself to being Mercedes’ nanny.
    “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
    “At least I know you’ll be returning to finish my mural,” she says, stroking my hair in a motherly fashion that makes my body itch with the need to move.
    “That and you have me addicted to your pollo asada. I swear you’re lacing that stuff with something that’s not legal.”
    “Yeah, my love,” Estella retorts, leaving me in a fit of laughter.
    “We have to do a going away party!” Mia announces.
    “We’re not having a party.” Estella shakes her head. “We only have parties when we’re glad they’re leaving. Lo’s coming back to visit. Weekly.”

 
    M ERCEDES’ COMMENT about having nothing is still haunting me three days later as I make the twenty-minute trek on foot