Sweet Nothing by RICHARD LANGE Read Free Book Online

walk to the kitchen. One of the boys has cornered a mouse in there, back by the pantry, and pinned it to the floor with a broom. Everybody moves in close, chattering excitedly.
    “Step on it,” somebody says.
    “Drown it,” someone else suggests.
    “No! ¡No mate el pobrecito!” Josefina wails, trembling fingers raised to her lips. Don’t kill the poor little thing. She’s about to burst into tears.
    The boy with the broom glances at her, then tells one of the dishwashers to bring a bucket. He and the dishwasher turn the bucket upside down and manage to trap the mouse beneath it. They slide a scrap of cardboard across the opening and flip the bucket. The mouse cowers in the bottom, shitting all over itself. The boys free it on the construction site next door, and we get to work.
    I do okay until about eight, until the room starts spinning and I almost pass out in the middle of serving Dr. Alvarez his oatmeal. My stomach cramps, my mouth fills with spit, and I whisper to Irma to take my place on the line before I run to the bathroom and throw up.
    Maple, our supervisor, is waiting when I return to the cafeteria. She’s a twitchy black lady with a bad temper.
    “Go home,” she says.
    “I’m okay,” I reply. “I feel better.”
    “You hang around, you’re just going to infect everybody else. Go home.”
    It’s frustrating. I’ve only called in sick three times in my twenty-seven years here. Maple won’t budge, though. I take off my gloves and apron, get my purse from my locker.
    My stomach bucks again at the bus stop, and I vomit into the gutter. A bunch of kids driving by honk their horn and laugh at me. The ride home takes forever. The traffic signals are messed up for blocks, blinking red, and the buildings shimmer in the heat like I’m dreaming them.
      
    I STOP AT the store for bread and milk when I get off the bus. Not the Smart & Final, but the little tienda on the corner. The Sanchezes owned it forever, but now it’s Koreans. They’re okay. The old lady at the register always smiles and says “Gracias” when she gives me my change. Her son is out front, painting over fresh graffiti. Temple Street tags the place every night, and he cleans it up every day.
    A girl carrying a baby blocks my path. She holds out her hand and asks me in Spanish for money, her voice a raspy whisper. The baby is sick, she says, needs medicine. She’s not much older than Brianna and won’t look me in the eye.
    “Whatever you can spare,” she says. “Please.”
    “Where do you live?” I ask.
    She glances nervously over her shoulder. A boy a little older than her pokes his head out from behind a tree, watching us. Maria, from two blocks over, told me the other day how a girl with a baby came to her door, asking for money. The girl said she was going to faint, so Maria let her inside to rest on the couch while she went to the bathroom to get some Huggies her daughter had left behind. When she came back, the girl was gone, and so was Maria’s purse.
    My chest feels like a bird is loose inside it.
    “I don’t have anything,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
    “My baby is going to die,” the girl says. “Please, a dollar. Two.”
    I push past her and hurry away. When I reach the corner, I look back and see her and the boy staring at me with hard faces.
    The sidewalk on my street has buckled from all the tree roots pushing up underneath it. The slabs tilt at odd angles, and I go over them faster than I should while carrying groceries. If I’m not careful, I’m going to fall and break my neck. I’m going to get exactly what I deserve.
      
    BRIANNA’S EYES OPEN wide when I step through the door. A boy is lying on top of her on the couch. Puppet.
    “Get away from her!” I yell. I mean it to be a roar, but it comes out like an old woman’s dying gasp.
    He stands quickly, pulls up his pants, and grabs his shirt off the floor. Brianna yanks a blanket over her naked body. As he walks out, Puppet sneers at me. He’s