can’t stop thinking about the idea of another pick up type restaurant across the street from The Beef, like a pizza place or somethin, and they’re basically nemesis’- whenever one’s busy, the others dead quiet and vice versa
there’s one girl that’s always working over there- the only employee that’s been there for more than a month. mikey finds himself staring at her through the big glass windows of the place when she’s answering a phone call or when it’s slow enough, dramatically singing along to the classic rock playing on the speakers.
her and richie yell at each other across the street sometimes. like it actually sounds like they despise each other and everyone on the street is concerned but they both know it’s mostly fake.
tina thinks she’s fucking crazy, once when she was finally going home, way later than usual after a super busy day, the loudest music (some type of metal- death, black, thrash, any at all) she’d ever heard starts blaring in the car next to her. she looks over, obviously, and this girl is screaming her head off and hitting the steering wheel.
fak comes in with a slice sometimes and always recommends it, talks about ‘that one really cool girl’. richie glares at him and mikey laughs it off, he thinks the same thing. he also thinks she’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
on one of mikey and richie’s adventurous nights the place across the street is the only one with lights on and they are plastered and starving. they stumble in the door, and there she sits, leaning against the counter. after she finished their pizza, they conned her into sitting down (she sat next to mikey, after taking a playful jab at richie) and listened to him tell his loud elaborate stories with a sweet smile and a glint in her eyes. it was the best fucking pizza they’d ever had.
soon, the yelling sounds like they’re actually joking and the rare times both of the restaurants are slow, mikey sneaks over and she lets him behind the counter. when the rest of The Beef realizes he’s missing, richie’s the one to declare him a traitor and point out the window to the pair across the street. they’re dancing around (well she is, he’s just holding her hips and grinning the way he does) n she’s singing some stupid song on the radio, falling back in his hold.
Honestly this except for me I was never ever asked any of that ever but I’m still 100 percent positive it has happened to others I went to school with because that’s just the HS vibe for real
I got more pressure to drink as an adult by my old co-workers than I ever did in highschool. Literally I would explain that I'm straight edge and any time they brought up drinking they'd say how I would need to go have one, just one little drink and I'd feel better 🙄
people who can't pass credit checks still need housing. people who don't have credit at all still need housing. people who can't pass criminal background checks still need housing. people who have been evicted before still need housing. people with past unpaid rent still need housing. people who can't take out loans still need housing. people who can't pay off their mountains of debt still need housing. people who don't or can't work still deserve housing. housing is not an "investment". housing is not the act of "borrowing" property from someone else.
housing is necessary for human survival, no matter how poor, disabled, addicted, insane, or bad with money someone is. every single person on this planet requires housing. everyone. money does not belong in the affairs of housing. housing does not wait for money to come. housing is a human right, that EVERY human deserves, regardless of how much money they make, if any.
NSFW warning for later installments. This first part is pretty much SFW.
...
“I’m just sayin I don’t think she needs a tutor.” Richie is sat on Frank’s couch and is already on the back foot.
“Well her teacher disagrees, Richie.” Tiff pauses, she’s choosing her next words carefully, “Eva’s been through so much upheaval..”
“Don’t fuckin guilt-trip me, Tiff.”
“She’s falling behind.” Tiff folds her arms, digs her nails into the skin of her forearms, “If it’s about the money, Frank and I will..”
“Shit..” Richie presses his fingers to his eyes and counts to five as slowly as he can manage, “It’s not about the money..”
“She’s got excellent credentials, she’s working towards her teaching degree, Eva really likes her..”
Richie’s exasperated, it feels like a foregone conclusion, “Eva’s met her already? That’s bullshi..”
Eva bounds into the room at the sound of her name and hops onto the couch, “You’re gonna really like Sirena, daddy, she’s smart..”
“Sirena? That her name?”
“It means mermaid, like her tattoo, it’s really pretty..” As she talks, Eva flips over and dangles her head off the couch so that her hair brushes the floor.
“A tattoo?” Richie dodges Eva’s flailing feet and fixes Tiff with a look, “That one of her credentials?”
“You have a tattoo dad..” Eva pipes up again, “but Sirena’s is on her arm not her ass.”
“Hey, language, missy.” Tiff and Richie speak in unison. It’s an inch of common ground.
Tiff smiles but it falters when she hears Frank’s keys in the door. Richie’s usually gone by now.
Richie hears it too, “C’mon sweetheart..” he pulls Eva up from where she is still dangling upside down, “Time to go. You got all your things?”
“Uh-huh.. I just need to find my sneakers.”
“They’re by the front door, hon.”
Eva darts into the hall. Tiff picks up Eva’s overnight bag and hands it to Richie, “The tutoring?”
“I already said I don’t like it,” Richie is itching to get out of the house without having to make small talk with Frank, “We’ll talk later, okay.”
Out in the hallway, Richie can hear Frank talking to Eva.
“Hi Princess, how was your day?”
“Ughh Fra-ank.. I told you I don’t like princesses anymore..”
“What do you like then?”
“Mermaids.”
...
Your refrigerator door is a patchwork of take out menus, receipts and photos. As you retrieve the leftovers you have earmarked for dinner, one item in particular catches your eye. Held fast with a Chicago Bulls magnet – a remnant of the previous tenant – the reading list for the coming semester is smudged with fingerprints. You’d crossed off each purchase neatly, but a little under half of it remains.
Textbooks. $50, $60 each. Teaching Theory. Culturally Responsive Teaching. A wave of adrenaline rolls cold across your body. You’re out of money. The tutoring gig is your last hope. Leftovers forgotten on the countertop, you pull out your phone to check your messages. Again. Just in case.
She’d seemed nice, the mom. And the little girl had been the sweetest. You smile remembering her small fingers tracing the tattoo on your arm, following the curls of the mermaid’s hair and the swoop of her tail. There’d been a hushed chat in the kitchen, something about divorce, moving house, her papá, and a lot of change. With all this going on, you learnt that the girl, Eva, had struggled at school and just needed a little help to catch up. That’s where you were to come in.
And honestly? You’d been expecting a call by now. Maybe the mom hadn’t been as positive about it as you had thought. Maybe you’d misread her.
...
Across town, Richie has, as usual, left it late to look through Eva’s school diary.
“Hey.. zabka? Says here you have spellings to do for tomorrow.”
Eva’s face falls, “Da-a-d..”
Richie shakes his head, “Don’t give me that.”
“I’ll do them in the morning,” Eva holds out her hand, pinky outstretched, “pinky promise.”
“Nuh-uh,” Richie takes her hand in his, “you and I both know that won’t happen.. now, sit. We’ll do them together.”
Eva sighs a heavy sigh and flops into the chair next to her dad. Stupid spellings.
“Okay.. first word, lemme see..” Richie peers at the worksheet, shit he really needs reading glasses, “‘thought’.”
By the time they’ve worked through ‘thought’, ‘might’, and ‘caught’ Eva is bristling with frustration, angry tears threatening to spill.
“Hey,” Richie smoothes her hair, “it’s alright, you’ll get there. I’ll tell your teacher how hard you tried, okay?”
Eva sniffs and nods.
“Now off to bed, young lady, I’ll be along in a minute.”
Richie watches Eva trail to bed and wonders, not for the first time in his life, if maybe Tiff was right and he was wrong.
He pulls out his phone and types out a message.
The tutoring. Trial period. 2 months.
He waits until he sees Tiff’s thumbs up, then goes to tuck Eva in.
...
It’s not until that later that evening when you’re tucked up on the couch, stress eating chips and piled under blankets – September had brought with it the first fall chill and the unreliability of your apartment’s heating is making itself known again – that your phone vibrates.
Rummaging through the couch cushions and chip crumbs, you dig out your phone and open the message apprehensively.
Your housemate watches as you read, “Well?” She prompts, “did you get the gig?”
“Uh-huh..” a smile of relief breaks across your face, “a two month trial anyway.”
“Congratulations,” she laughs, “You’ll be able to pay me back for those chips now.”
...
Richie’s on edge. He doesn’t get a lot of visitors and has spent the morning clearing the kitchen table of his life’s odds and ends – keys, almost empty cigarette packs, the single left-over smokes long gone stale, the endless take out menus he finds shoved in his mailbox, actual mail that he’s been allowing to pile up.
And it’s left him jangled. A little short-tempered with Eva, who sits watching cartoons on the rug in front of the TV. A pang of guilt rises in his chest and he resolves to fetch her some juice, to cuddle up with her for the next episode of whatever technicolour nightmare she’s watching. He’s in the kitchen fixing the juice when the buzzer sounds. A minute later you’re at his door.
...
The apartment block is.. fine. It’s fine. You ignore the catcalls from the two men smoking in the parking lot and head up the stairs. This would be your second proper session with Eva but the first time you had met.. merda.. what was his name again? Robert? No.. Richard. That was it.
You are still congratulating yourself on remembering his name when the door swings open.
“Hi,” you stick out your hand, “you must be Richard.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” He takes your hand in his with a businesslike shake. It’s a little stiff but his palm feels big and warm against yours.
“Pleasure to meet you, sweetheart.” Richie winces at the over familiarity even as he says it, “C’mon in..”
Sweetheart. The word knits your brows together and you follow him into the apartment with a frown still on your face. As you walk, you take a second to assess him. His t-shirt is stretched across his shoulders and a touch short at the waist. His sweatpants are bright blue. He’s wearing white tube socks. Something about that last detail relaxes your expression.
“Get set up at the table,” he gestures for you to sit, before sticking his head into the adjoining room, “Eva! Tutor’s here!”
Richie turns back to you, “Sorry, bout the ‘sweetheart’ thing just then. Just part of my Italian heritage,” he knows it’s a lame excuse, “old habits, y’know..”
You try not to let your incredulity show. The man stood before you is about as Italian as McDonald’s, you’d bet your last crumpled twenty on it. Still you decide to put him to the test, asking him innocently, “Anche tu sei Italiano?”
Richie freezes, “Uhh..”
You look at him expectantly and the silence stretches into awkwardness until Eva comes bouncing into the room and to his rescue, pencil case and notepad in hand.
“Sirena!” her wiry little arms encircle you in a hug, then she pulls her chair close to yours, “I did the spelling practice you asked me to.”
“Well done, piccolina.. let me see..”
Richie watches the two of you for a minute. Eva likes you. He can’t deny that. Can’t deny either the change from the week before as Eva proudly shows off her – mostly correct – work.
And the famous tattoo. He sees it curled around your upper arm, half hidden by the sleeve of your shirt. It’s kind of beautiful. He’s trying to fill in the rest of the image in his head when you meet his eye.
“I..” Richie clears his throat, ‘I was just fixin Eva some juice,” he nods toward the refrigerator, “can I get you somethin?”
“Juice sounds great, thanks.”
With his back turned, Richie tries to shore up his wavering resolve not to like you. It’s nothing personal. He just.. doesn’t want the intrusion. Doesn’t need a fuckin goddamn outsider to tell him that he’s getting it all wrong. Even though he’s trying so hard not to, he’s bound to fuck it up.
He fills two glasses with juice, schools his face into something approaching a scowl, and turns around.
...
Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think. Second installment coming in the next week or so <3
