It was a Camry. Lipstick red. Lacquered shine.
They were in an old building in the part of town where all the warehouses were, lights hazing from the dark ceiling, everything either too dark or too yellow, so that the Camry was bright yet hard to see. For Shevaunne it was like a list she counted off on her fingertips: Camry, red, four-door, got it. But then: wait, red?
She tried to feel something toward it, some sort of connection, a tether that would keep her holding on even when others dropped out. The best she could do was remember that her stylish older cousin had a red car when Shevaunne was a child, that the girl had once taken her for a ride to the Burger Barn for shakes and fries. “Got any little boyfriends?” her cousin had asked on the drive over, the wind making tentacles of her hair. Shevaunne had felt horror at the idea and her cousin laughed. A man showed up at the Burger Barn just as they were fixing to leave. “Carla, what a surprise,” he’d said, but he didn’t seem all that surprised. Shevaunne had waited in the car, which was actually a flat orangey-red now that she remembered it, not the bloody, sex-colored red of the Camry, while Carla and the man had a “conversation,” which seemed to mean they stood crotch-to-crotch, palming each other’s butts and whispering into each other’s faces. He looked like somebody’s principal, with his hiked-up, belted pants and his broom mustache. Poor Carla, she’d thought. Now, as an adult, Shevaunne knew looks were only the half of it, that attraction was sometimes a mystery to outsiders. She’d gotten hot with a variety of men she later shuddered to think of. Oh, well. Shevaunne was here, now. Wiser, probably. Camry, red, four-door, got it. She was hoping to be near a side mirror, something with purchase. Let these other schmos have to keep their hands flat against a window or a door.
“All right everybody,” boomed the DJ. “We’re thirty seconds from start!” He played a quick blast of music, something drummy and piercing. Shevaunne wiggled her butt, dipped her knees. Show ‘em she had energy to spare. The DJwinked in the contestants’ general direction and Shevaunne pretended it was just for her. He was not her type, with his skinny wrists and the alarming bloom of his gut and the way he kept moving the bulb of his headphone aside to dig a pinky into his ear, but he was the third most popular radio personality in the county, so Shevaunne shook it for him. She needed this win more than she would ever admit aloud. The prize for keeping a hand on the car the longest—such a simple thing!—was fifty thousand dollars. More money than Shevaunne had ever had, cumulative, in her whole broke life. A shimmy of adrenaline moved through her. She turned and found her son, Caleb, in the crowd, perched on her brother Jared’s shoulders, waving with both hands. Small sweet face, a precious delicacy. She winked and waved back.
Most everyone she knew was there: two-thirds of ShearCutz, the salon where she swept and folded and occasionally plucked, Henrietta, Sharon and Mikkal (his driver’s license said Michael, but who was Shevaunne to judge?),— her brother, and tons of people she knew from high school who were now struggling saggy parents like her. Hell, even her mailman, Travis, had shown up, was sitting criss-cross applesauce in the front. Lazy ass, Shevaunne thought, remembering how her mail was always damp on rainy days. He gave her a thumbs up and even that seemed half-hearted.
She knew the other contestants too, had to remind herself that the crowd had gathered for them as much as for her. They were all in a line, waiting for the go: there was Jacob, a stringy teenager, and Maria, who owned a cleaning business and surely couldn’t need the prize money, plus Shevaunne’s old geography teacher, Mr. Platte, who couldn’t be younger than 70, and finally, fidgeting and stretching and laughing at nothing, Billy. There he was at the end, those curled-up lashes and full lips and stubbled Adam’s apple, gorgeous and maddening and loose-limbed like he’d already won. Billy, who was her son’s father, and also a total dipshit. Hearing that he’d signed up for this contest was what finally convinced Shevaunne to do the same. He’d win the $50k and spend it all at the casino, which was a $40 bus ride each way instead of on clothes or ball games or college for Caleb. That money was hers, and thus it was Caleb’s; if it was Billy’s it’d be Billy’s alone. The cash would change something for her, it didn’t matter what, and that’s all she needed to know. There were rumors the car came along, too, but so far the DJ had only mentioned the cash, and there had been nothing about the car in the forms she’d had to fill out. Shevaunne wanted to ask about it, but it felt greedy, somehow, just another example of how she couldn’t be happy with what she had, which so far was a whole lot of wishing and patience and disappointment. Hold your horses, girl! Billy was always saying,when what he meant was, Quit asking me for what you need. The whole world hissing that at her, at all single mothers, hold your horses.
Billy puckered his lips and blew her one. Shevaunne flinched like it was a loogie.
“Contestants, assume the position!” the DJ boomed. All the men in the room chuckled. Shevaunne and Maria cut eyes at each other, but no, Shevaunne couldn’t allow any sort of solidarity to form. As they ran to the Camry, Shevaunne ponged an arm out, cutting Maria off so she could get to the side mirror first. A warm foam of shame soaked her toes-up, but there was triumph too, until she looked across and saw that Billy had scored the opposite side mirror.
“Sorry in advance, Shiv,” he said. Good lord, those dimples and blond curls and wide blue eyes, nothing sagging, though the tide on that hairline was definitely going out, just not fast enough. Shevaunne had to be careful, pick her way through, or she’d be weakened, leaving her right back where she was when he left, sure that what was wrong with her was everything.
“Eat my shorts,” Shevaunne said, because she was mic’d and she couldn’t risk Caleb hearing anything fouler than that. Billy rolled his tongue at her, blew another kiss, the Billy classic.
“Go, Billy!” a female voice shrieked. Shevaunne saw that it was Louann, a sweetheart but a real dummy, who worked at the Orange Julius at the mall and probably would until she died. Her boobs were like the halves of a globe, Billy’s exact type. And, what, Shevaunne thought to herself, her back already beginning to ache, ShearCutz was better than the Julius? Who was it that spent hundreds of dollars over the years on bras that promised to tame breasts, make them at least breast-shaped, and not the wild lumpy fat puddles some women are left with after having a child? Me, that’s who. Louanne had fallen for Billy, same as Shevaunne. They had that in common. Maybe she wasn’t even all that dumb, no dumber than Shevaunne anyway. The difference was, Shevaunne was beyond him now. Shevaunne had plans, bleary though they were (go back to school? Move to a big city? Invest? Invest in what, exactly? She’d heard of something called “Futures” but wasn’t a hundred percent clear on if that was a joke or not), and the money made them come into focus, the way the eye doctor at the Walmart flipped a lens and blammo, she could see that it was F D L K S at the very bottom, not F A T E S.
Mr. Platte cleared his throat. Despite the atmospheric din of the warehouse—the very air felt heavy with noise, even during song changes—Shevaunne could hear him. He worked and worked like he had rocks stuck in his gullet. He’d palmed the roof next to her, Maria was back by the trunk, which was as good as if not better than a side mirror, and Jacob was next to Billy.
The DJblew an air horn. The contest had officially begun. All the contestants giggled, including Shevaunne, the crowd clapping and hollering and then getting lost under a song Shevaunne remembered grinding to with a boy at her tenth grade homecoming. Her face ached and she felt her smile fall off, puddled and forgotten at her feet, a relief not unsimilar to when she shed those bras each night.
The horn honked again, the record scratched. “Hey, hey, hey!” the DJ yelled. “We’ve got our first disqualification, folks!” The crowd gasped; people put hands to their mouths. Shevaunne’s face got hot; sweat slicked her hairline. It felt like an hour before she realized her hand was still where she’d left it, relaxed but firm on the side mirror. Mr. Platte started up again, like a garbage disposal with a fork stuck in it.
“Sorry, young man, but you’re out!”
It was Jacob. “He scratched his nose. I saw it!” Maria said, pursing her lips like she was about to ask for a manager.
“Oh, the poor thing,” Mr. Platte murmured. Jacob was looking at the other contestants, his eyes darting from face to face. He had the same look Caleb had when she got after him for doing something he shouldn’t. Just last week he’d spilled a packet of nails onto his feet. A thousand times she had told him not to go into the toolbox. She had run over, ready to scold him. But he had that look, the look Jacob had now. Like, What did I do? Can I ever be forgiven? Shevaunne felt for the young man; he had acne that swelled his cheeks and a painful-looking Adam’s apple. She sent a quick prayer up that some girl would take pity on him, would put her hands on him in the backseat of a car, and soon.
She was always that girl. She was always the one to reach over or pull in or grab or touch or, she couldn’t deny it, lick, and where had that gotten her? She sucked the prayer back from the air and shook her head to clear it. A prayer for girls like us instead, she thought. Bless all the hopeful sluts.
A man big as a couch hefted himself onto the stage. He wore showy aviators and a shirt that read SECURITY. Jacob went to him like he was under a spell, allowed his elbow to be encircled by the large man’s swollen hand and dragged into the crowd.
“That’s a little much, don’t you think?” Shevaunne said. She wondered if Jacob’s momma was in the audience. If it had been Caleb being dragged away, she would’ve had something to say. One of his teachers had once told her he was hyperactive and by the end of the conversation, both the teacher and Shevaunne were crying. It was a mother’s solemn duty to know her child, to be the one person in the entire world to know him through and through. Hyperactive! Maybe if you challenged him! Maybe if you didn’t ask him to play with the toy kitchen day in and day out! With its plastic, faded banana bunch and its toy pan with no handle! Do your job! Shevaunne felt badly for Mrs. Castle, but being a mother was a litany of hard chores just like that. Things you don’t want to do, followed by more things you don’t want to do.
Billy cupped his other hand to his ear and said “What’s that, darlin? You quitting?” He grinned wide enough to show his missing molar way in the back.
“No, but you will be soon!” she yelled back. A lame answer, but enough to get her the last word, a big step for her. Billy had come and gone as he pleased, that was always the deal. When she told him she was pregnant he’d said, “Well, good for you, darlin!” and she’d been stunned silent. When he decided to show up he asked Caleb questions —“That your favorite color?”, “Your mom got any new friends?” “That teacher of yours got a crush on you?” There was that time at Caleb’s fourth birthday when he met her eyes across the table over the cake and it looked like something had a hold of him, something like the love she felt for Caleb, that feeling like she had to watch her step or she’d slip under. There were the times when he thought to bring food or beer over to share and the plans he made with Caleb that got him all excited but never came to pass. All of those little bits of nothing gave her a desperate gratitude. That’s all Billy ever had to give. Too often she had convinced herself it was enough. She looked across at him now, his eyes glinting like always and his shoulders grooving to the music. Lately she had the suspicion that was all there was to him, like he was no more than an attractive Halloween mask.
“And then there were four!” the DJ said. A song about sex came on, only the singer never said sex, he just sang about how sex could make you feel if you had it with him. She cut her eyes over to Maria again, but the woman had her eyes closed and was mouthing something that looked like “I can. I can’t. I can. I cannot.”
The DJ cycled through the same 30-minute set. Shevaunne lost count how many times, had no idea where in the day they were, but judging by the DJ’s commentary (“We’re keeping you alive on your drive!”) it was evidently time for the commute home for most listeners. Her feet and lower back singed with ache. In each set, the DJ played the sex song to start it off and a song about summertime to finish it, Shevaunne’s entire adolescence drifting in and out of the warehouse, back when she felt all burned up with desire, but she didn’t know what for. She kissed a boy, she let another touch her, she kissed some other guy, she herself touched him, but nothing did the trick. She still burned.
Shevaunne had started clenching her buttcheeks along with the drums, had started wondering if she were truly hearing these songs again or if they had become part of her, part of the inner hum of her brain, her heartbeat. She turned to ask Mr. Platte if he felt as deranged as she did, or to just ask him to tell her a story to pass the time. He met her eyes with a calm, sweet smile—he had always been liked when she was in school, or at the very least ignored, which was a blessing for a teacher—and then took his hand off the car and shook it out, like the car was hot as a stovetop.
“The whole thing’s a bit silly, wouldn’t you say?” he said. His face still looked formed out of wax—just on the edge of too shiny.
Shevaunne felt like he’d caught her passing a note or scratching herself or something equally private that she didn’t want him to see. He was off the stage and walking stiffly into the crowd, rubbing his lower back, before she thought to answer, “But I really need the money,” her words swallowed up in the noise, so it felt like something she had only said to herself. Extra pitiful.
Billy let forth a “Yeehaw!” Caleb hollered the same, the joy on his little face like a burst of fireworks in that dark space. Lord did Shevaunne hate the color red, hated four-doors, hated the polite, tooty smell of the new interior, hated Maria’s seeming ability to remain still within herself (as if the woman had never been brokenhearted or down and out or just plain embarrassed, as Shevaunne always was, talking to herself in the grocery or asking Caleb what she should wear today and feeling hurt when he shrugged), hated the ache of her own hand (how did she expect to one day become a stylist when her hand hurt after being still for a workday’s worth of hours?), hated most of all that if Billy walked over and took her by the hips the way he used to, nuzzled his face in between her chin and her collarbone, that she’d take her hand off the Camry to grab him up and not think twice, that it was worth losing $50k to touch him again. To be touched by him.
“This shit is mine,” Shevaunne shouted, right into her mic, right over to Billy, right out into the crowd and through Caleb’s tiny perfect ears and up into the sky where God could see she was serious this time, and she wouldn’t be fucking it up. The words felt barbed, dangerous; they scorched her as they were uttered and they were a relief to set free, even the swear.
“Ma’am, please don’t use any salty language,” the DJ said, “or we’ll have to disqualify you.” He looked genuinely put out, even disgusted, by her boldness, just another tick mark in Billy’s corner because he always looked delighted when Shevaunne let fly, like the time she pressed her boobs to the window of the West Second Credit Union after they told her she couldn’t have her money because she was in the negative and had been for days. Shevaunne had been the reckless one, once, but somewhere in there they’d switched. It was probably during one of those nights when she’d been up with Caleb, bouncing him and crying, the window in his bedroom stubborn with night and her breasts aching like they were ill and the headlights passing,washing the baby’s small red face white but never, ever bringing Billy home.
“And then there were tres,” Billy said, winking at Maria.
“I’m not Hispanic,” she said, and closed her eyes again.
There had been that one early morning when the sky navy instead of black. Helen from two doors over had returned from her night shift at the hospital, always a harbinger of hope for Shevaunne, who had come to view Helen as some kind of angel in teddy bear scrubs, a savior that brought daylight and made everything feel possible again. And there Billy was, suddenly, walking in from the carport holding a waxy bag of donuts and a tepid cup of coffee and taking Caleb into his arms and spinning him around as if he were a bigger boy with a working neck. Shevaunne hated his guts—where had he been? She didn’t want to know, the possibilities making her throat feel scorched—even as she felt relief so strong that it burst from her eyes in hot tears, relief that someone else was holding the baby, relief that she wasn’t alone for those few brief moments before Billy kissed her brow and said he had to get to work.
She had thanked him. “Thank you for coming,” she’d called, watching him from the doorway, her arms full of baby again. Thanking him as if he were the colleague who’d brought a hot meal and held the baby while she showered, and not the baby’s fucking father whose duty it was to, bare minimum, figure out how to hold his own child right. “Come back soon, okay?”
It hung on her, how it had felt like begging. It hung on her still, with the air thick like breath and Billy bobbing on his toes like he had all the energy in the world,her shoulders being pulled toward the floor by her heavy breasts and belly, remnants of Caleb and the depression she’d never shook after his arrival—all those Klondike bars and bottles of wine and, her favorite, noodles in a pool of butter—and the way her boy was cheering so hard for both of them, his mommy and his daddy, because she was his constant and Billy was his wish.
“I’ll give you ten thousand from my winnings if you walk away right now,” she shouted across to Maria. The mic shrieked on right now and it was too late to take it back but that was fine, it was worth it. It was going to be worth it.
Maria opened her eyes, fully alert now. Shevaunne saw that she had been beautiful once, was pretty still, with her full cheeks and lips and her dainty shoulders and wrists. Did she do any of the cleaning, anymore? Or was that all in her past now that she was the boss? Fuck stylist, Shevaunne thought. Shoot higher.
Billy looked from Shevaunne to Maria and back again, a smile dangling from his face like it was held up by a loose thumbtack.
“I’ll give you twenty,” he said, keeping his eyes on Shevaunne.
“Half,” Shevaunne choked. “You can have half.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the DJ said, his voice both smooth and pebbled, a pleasing texture. “Is this even…?” He looked around, craning his neck. Who would come forward to grant permission? A producer, the sponsor, God himself?
“Mommy?” Shevaunne heard Caleb say. He was back on her brother’s shoulders, gripping handfuls of Jared’s hair in his little fists, a look of worry pleating his face. The people around him—not very many, the crowd thinned to family members and loved ones—turned to look up at him, to pity him, this poor little one whose momma was up on that stage doing something silly for a little bit of money.
“It’s okay, butterbean,” she said to him. “Mommy’s okay.” The money meant something to her, it meant she was special, she was strong, stronger than the whole town, stronger than Billy and stronger than who she was before this moment.
The DJ was listening and nodding, pushing one of his headphones onto his ear. A pop-country song from a decade ago blared from the speakers. The DJ nodded once more, then reached over and pushed a button to fade the song out. “Folks,” he said, “there’s no rule that says you can’t share your winnings, so we’re going to let it be. For those of you just tuning in, one of our contestants—what’s your name again, honey?—okay, Shevaunne here has offered to share half her winnings if another contestant drops out. Whatever floats your boat, darlin’!” He pushed a button and a fart exploded from the speakers and everyone laughed, even Billy.
Shevaunne looked across at Maria. Woman to woman, she was thinking. And, please. She’d heard that Maria had five children from two different men; she wondered if these men were like Billy, always slipping away like they were coated in Dawn dish soap, or if Maria was the one who wriggled free. Five times Maria had had to coax a baby through the night. She must have been made of armor, something harder than the shell of this Camry, something crash-proof.
“You know they take taxes,” Maria said, her voice flat. “They say fifty-k but they don’t talk about the taxes.”
“Well, now—” the DJ cut in, but he didn’t actually have anything to say. He made a show of straightening the items on his table, shuffling his sandaled feet underneath.
“I know,” Shevaunne said, but she hadn’t known. She could tell by the way Billy ran his free hand through his hair and swallowed that he didn’t know either. “I know that,” she said again, because now she did know.
“I want fifty-five percent,” Maria said. She looked at Billy, then over at Shevaunne, whose whole body felt hot, whose back felt filmed with sweat, whose poor child must be ready for a snack and a book and bedtime. She looked over at Jared, wanting him to just take Caleb on home and tuck him into his pilly airplane sheets and drink a beer in front of the TV until she got back, but she couldn’t say it. She wanted Caleb to see her win, wanted to see pride on his face. She was a selfish mother, Caleb’s cross to bear.
Shevaunne met Maria’s eyes. Something passed between them. “I can’t offer that,” Billy said, coughing into his hand. It occurred to Shevaunne that she hadn’t seen Louann in some time, that she must have left, that Caleb was the only face in the crowd pulling for Billy. She felt her throat fill; children were so forgiving, so ready to believe that things were simple. “I can,” Shevaunne said, and Maria nodded across the Camry at her.
“I accept,” Maria said, and held both hands up in the air like she was being held at gunpoint. She turned in a slow circle. “You are all witnesses. Fifty-five percent.”
Billy laughed, rearing his head back and shaking that hair of his. “Now it’s too easy,” he said, breaking into giggles again. “Caleb, if there’s one thing I know about your momma it’s that she ain’t gonna make it to the end. Give it about an hour or two.” He looked over at Shevaunne, his eyes sparkling, his face like the cover of a magazine. “Sorry, Shiv, but you know it’s true.”
It had been true. She’d quit hair school when she got pregnant; she’d quit breastfeeding because her nipples bled and her breasts turned bright red and still her child wailed from hunger; she’d quit her night shift at the 24-hour pharmacy and her mid-shift as an aide at the nursing home and she’d only had her job at ShearCutz for six months. She’d even quit Billy, in a way, because she couldn’t find it within her to reach for him in the old way, to moan and thrust and kiss, maybe because she was worn thin as paper from motherhood or maybe because she saw that he wasn’t reaching back, he was just taking. But he knew the Shevaunne she had been, the one who quit the world to wait for him. He didn’t know the Shevaunne she was now. And he hadn’t seen the look she and Maria had exchanged.
“Oops,” Maria said, in that same flat way, and pretended to lose her footing. She grabbed Billy’s shoulder with one hand and his wrist with the other, pulling him free from the car and off the stage, both of them off balance now, Billy falling to his knees and a burly man rushing forward to catch Maria. It felt like an eternity; Shevaunne felt like she could see every small detail in Billy’s worn work boots as they flew out from under him—the caked mud at the toe, the frayed red stitching at the heel. She felt like she was seeing it all from Maria’s eyes, from inside Maria’s head, where there was a righteousness and a blazing commitment to follow-through. It was done. Shevaunne felt like she’d been boiled in the microwave. She practically throbbed with heat. Maria had given something to her, and she had taken it, and it was the cleanest transaction Shevaunne had ever undertaken in her shabby little life.
The crowd bleated and gasped and there were even some shocked giggles here and there. Shevaunne couldn’t bring herself to look at Caleb, knew he might be crying with fear for his daddy. Mommas make tough choices—who had told her that? She couldn’t remember. She wondered if she’d plucked it from Maria’s brain while she was in there.
Billy scrambled back onto the stage and slapped his hand on the car, heaving and snorting like he’d been running for his life.
“Oh,” the DJ boomed, feigned sorrow dripping from his voice, “I’m sorry, bud, but you’re out!”
“No, man,” Billy called over, trying to sound calm, no big deal, just a misunderstanding. “The old bitch tripped and took me with her. I did not remove my hand of my own accord.” Of my own accord. He could pull phrases like that from his ear, phrases that attempted to make him look respectable, normal.
“The rules are, don’t take your hand off the car,” the DJ said, “for any reason. You’re out! And we have a winner! Everybody give it up for the beautiful,” he looked down at his notes, and Shevaunne could feel it coming, feel that he wouldn’t know how to say her name, knew she wouldn’t correct him because her name was a bit much and she was tired of apologizing for it all the time, “Chevron!”
Jared ran for the stage, pulling Caleb along with him. He squeezed her shoulders and clapped her too hard on the back, shouting a beery “Hell yeah, Vaunne!” into her face. Caleb pressed himself to her, mashing his face into her hip, peeking one eye out to catch sight of Billy. It had been months since he’d come around to take Caleb out—the last time had been for ice cream, but when Caleb returned he confessed that “ice cream” was actually popsicles at the 7-11, that they’d sat on the trunk of the car in the parking lot and Billy had pointed out which ladies were worth his time and which weren’t, and then took him right back home once he was done eating—and still the boy burned for his daddy. She put her free hand on the top of his head; you are mine, that hand said, even if he didn’t know it. She wanted to kneel to hug him properly but she was afraid to take her hand off the car. The rules to the whole thing felt tenuous and malleable. She’d keep her hand on until they cut the check and pressed it into her palm if need be.
“Ain’t this something!” she said to Caleb. It was just something to say, which felt like her responsibility, to show that she was in control despite the noise, despite her frenzied heart, beating so hard she was sure Caleb could feel it through her hand. She had to take it all in, assess it. Billy’s haggard face, the way he looked at her across the car as if he was supposed to know her but didn’t. Caleb’s buzzed hair under her hand. Did anyone know anyone? Camry, red, four-door. Her cousin Carla had totaled that orangey-red car not too long after their little outing. Mangled her ankle and walked with a limp even now, all these years later. “You remember that,” Shevaunne’s mother had told her, the spatula screaming across the pan. Remember what? No one had ever said what Carla was doing when she crashed, or who she was with, or who she was going to or who she was leaving. She’d asked Carla what happened one evening when she was babysitting. Shevaunne was too old for a babysitter but Carla needed the money; her t-shirts were getting thinner and everything about her seemed yellowed, like she was drying up and about to flutter off whenever a gentle breeze blew. ”Bad luck,” was how Carla answered, and laughed, dragging on her Camel straight to the filter.
Everyone was always so worried about Carla. She worked nights at the 7-11 but she got by just fine. She wasn’t rich and if she had two pennies to pinch together she’d spend them on cigarettes but she made her own decisions and was that so bad?
“Bad luck,” Shevaunne called across the hood to Billy.
“Me and my attorney will see you in court,” he said, stabbing a finger at her. He left without saying goodbye to Caleb, hitching his pants in the doorway and then walking faster, nearly running, bursting out the door and letting it slam behind him. Jared was off talking to the DJ.The warehouse was emptying. Maria had the elbow of the burly man who’d caught her. Her son? They seemed to be waiting on Shevaunne.
Caleb pulled on her arm. “Is this car ours, too?” he asked, squinting up into the lights.
Shevaunne’s hand felt glued to the Camry. Once she let go there was so much to do. Talk to the DJ on air. Figure out Maria’s take. Get Caleb home, dinnered, bathed, and then the long negotiations that led to sleep. She knew moms who dosed their kids with NyQuil to make the whole thing go easier. She had never. Would never. But she understood, how could she not? She felt heavy with something that felt like grief. Something like, well, the contest is over. And now there is tomorrow. And the next day, and the next. This would be the thing people told about her for years to come, and maybe even after she died. Shevaunne won fifty-k once and she did it in a dirty way. Watch out for that one. She didn’t even get the whole fifty. Shh, there she goes. Poor thing. Dumb thing. Nasty thing. She could see it all, clear as crystal, could see how the money would be sucked dry by the bills in a blink. “No, baby,” she said to Caleb, even though she didn’t know the answer. “It belongs to someone else.” Best he learned sooner rather than later not to ask too many questions, not to ask for what he needed if what he needed was as big as a car. Could he even see her face, squinting up into the lights like that? She took in a ragged breath. She did that so she wouldn’t say, to her own child, Quit looking for me when I’m right here. She wanted to say it, to release something mean so it’d stop burning her to ash inside, but she didn’t, winner’s luck.