Chapter 2

The day I was discharged, my dad dropped me off at a bus stop and left in a taxi.

His reason was simple.

"I've already paid 600 for you. I'm not wasting another 20 on a cab."

I clenched the last of my change and took the bus home. The ride took a full hour.

When I pushed the door open, my younger brother, Brian Jones, who was two years younger than me, was pacing around the living room in a brand new pair of limited-edition Adidas sneakers.

"Hey, bro, check these out. Aren't they awesome? Over 2,000 dollars!" he said, grinning with pride.

I looked at his shoes, then down at my own. My canvas sneakers were faded from too many washes, the soles worn so thin they were almost gone. I did not say a word.

My shoes were what I called a luxury. Twenty bucks, earned after three months of collecting recyclables.

My dad leaned out from the kitchen. The moment he saw me, his face darkened.

"You're back? Thought you dropped dead in the hospital. Hurry up. The dishes are piling up. Wash them, and I'll give you two bucks. Consider it part of your college fund."

As he spoke, he turned to Brian with a completely different expression, his eyes soft with affection. "Brian looks so handsome in those. Like a movie star. Come on, I'll take you out for KFC."

Brian whooped with excitement. As he passed me, he deliberately stepped on my foot.

"What are you staring at, loser?" he muttered under his breath.

I lowered my head and stared at the dirty footprint on my shoe. Slowly, I clenched my fists.

That was not new.

As far back as I could remember, that kind of contrast had always been there.

In third grade, a boy named Jim Rogers from the class next door got a brand new pair of jeans. I was so jealous that I could not stop thinking about them.

That night, I tugged at my dad's sleeve and begged him for hours.

He was watching TV and did not even glance at me. "You want them? Fine. They cost 80 dollars. Save it yourself."

I dug out my piggy bank, which was just an old cookie tin, and poured out all my coins. I counted them three times.

I only had 26 dollars and 50 cents.

Every cent I had came from running errands, picking up groceries, scrubbing toilets, and taking out the trash.

I earned it all, one penny at a time.

"Not enough," he said. "If you want it, sweep the floor. I'll give you 50 cents. Save up, and then you can buy it."

For that pair of jeans, I turned into a spinning top.

Every day after school, the first thing I did was rush to do chores.

In winter, the water from the tap felt like shards of ice. My hands swelled up with chilblains, red and cracked, with tiny cuts splitting open across my skin. Every drop of water stung.

When my dad saw that, he just tossed me a cheap tin of hand cream from the drawer.

"Put it on. Don't let it slow you down. Since you look so pitiful, I'll raise the dishwashing pay to 2 dollars and 50 cents tonight."

That extra 50 cents felt like a huge reward back then.

It took me four full months to finally save up 80 dollars.

When I held that pile of coins out to him, practically glowing with excitement, he counted them, then frowned.

"It's cold now. Those jeans are for summer. Buying them now would be a waste. I'll keep this money for you. We'll count it toward your textbook fees next semester."

That winter, I was still wearing my old padded jacket with frayed cuffs.

Meanwhile, Brian rolled around in the snow in his brand-new down coat.

I could not help asking, "Dad, why doesn't Brian have to do chores to get new clothes?"

He brushed the snow off Brian's shoulders, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"He's your younger brother. As the older one, shouldn't you give in to him? Brian's different from you. He's going to live a good life someday."

Back then, I did not understand what 'different' meant. I just thought I had not worked hard enough yet. That I had not saved enough to earn that kind of free privilege.

I finally understood.

In his world, my brother was family. An investment.

Me?

I was an outsider. A tool that worked to pay for its own survival.

I walked into the kitchen and looked at the mountain of greasy dishes. Then, I plunged my hands into the freezing water.

After I was done, I took out the small notebook I kept hidden in my pocket and carefully wrote down some details.

[Senior year. Fainted. Hospital debt: 600.]

[Goal: Get out of there.]

[Step one: Get into the farthest college possible.]