Grim

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High school is hard enough without having a psychic for a mom.

And no, I don’t mean she has that uniquely Mom-like sixth sense. I mean she’s literally a psychic. Reading your palms, telling you your future, all for the bargain price of fifty bucks a session (a hundred if you want a full hour, but no one ever does).

Momma runs her business out of our trailer. I know there are people who say that trailers can be nice, fancy even.

Those people had never been to our trailer.

It isn’t even a double-wide, which would have at least given us enough space for more than one ratty couch. I think the couch had belonged to my nana at some point. I knew whoever had had it before us had smoked on it, though. It carried the scent of thousands of cigarettes, millions even, deep inside every cabbage rose on its stained and burned cushions.

Momma’s “studio,” as she liked to call it, was in the second bedroom. When she wasn’t reading people’s fortunes, I slept on an air mattress on the floor in there. It was either that or share with Momma, which no, thank you. And like I said, the couch stunk—and was haunted besides—so I made do with the air mattress, no matter how big a pain in the ass it was to pump it up every single night, only to roll it back flat every morning.

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