I pull into our home. It was pretty much a mansion guarded by a gate. The house is too big for my mom and me. My father passed away when I was only seven. It was hard. I felt like we were the perfect family. When he was alive, everything wasn't about dance. We went on family trips, and I dreamt of being a doctor or whatever I wanted, and it was acceptable.
I know mom threw herself into her dance company to distract her from the pain she felt when dad passed away. They were high school sweethearts and madly in love.
I always wanted a love like that. At this rate, I find it impossible. I park my convertible Mustang in the garage. It was pink with ballet slippers painted on the side. It was a sixteen birthday gift.
I feel like Malibu Barbie driving in the car. Getting out of the car, I hear my stomach growl. I quickly entered the house through the garage door, luckily which leads right into the kitchen. The smell of lavender hits my face; mom's scented relaxing candles.
My hands open the refrigerator, and I am not shocked to only see fruits and vegetables within its walls. My mom is always a health nut. I haven't even eaten pizza in years.
With the lettuce, cucumbers, and peppers in my hand, I plan on making myself a salad. I grab a bowl for the cabinet and put all the ingredients inside. Moving back towards the refrigerator, I grab the bottle of ranch.
It was a challenge to get my mom to purchase the ranch, one battle I am lucky that I won. She thinks ranch dressing adds extra calories to a healthy meal. I roll my eyes, hearing her voice in my head.
I hear my mom enter the house. I don't feel excited. Why should I? All we talk about is dance or the dance studio.
"I should smell more vegetables than I do ranch," she says, walking into the kitchen.
"Vegetables hardly have a smell." I roll my eyes.
"They would if they weren't covered in a dressing," she says.
"Whatever."
She laughs. Sometimes I think she tries to get under my skin.
"I'm glad we got a new janitor," she tells me.
"Yeah, we needed one for a while."
My mom moves around me to grab vegetables from the fridge. "That boy is a thief and a criminal, don't be too friendly."
"What did he do?"
"He stole food from the grocery store," she tells me in a snotty voice.
"Why?" I eyed her, hoping she had the answers.
"Does the why matter? It's never okay to steal."
"That's easy for you to say you live in a million-dollar mansion."
She rolls her eyes. "Welp, if his mother wasn't a crackhead."
I feel my mouth jump open. She has no compassion for anyone. Since when did my mother become so cool-hearted?
Moments later, I find myself in my bedroom. I feel disgusted about my mom's comment. I feel sympathy for Corey, and I hardly know him. I need to look at his file.
I knew my mom kept all the paperwork in her briefcase. All the participants in the program's information is supposed to be kept confidential. She tells me little basic details, probably more than she should, but I want to know everything.
I move towards the kitchen. I notice her briefcase is on the table and she is on the deck blabbing on the phone. She is going to be there for a while.
I walk towards the briefcase and look inside. I see papers, and I pull them out.
They read.
Corey Hadly age: 18
Charged with theft/ shopping lifting 4th offense
Corey will work in community service at Anderson Dance Academy. Four days a week, eight hours shirts.
Special notes: Corey may have reasonable call-off days. He is the primary caregiver of his sister and may need days off when school is not in session.
I feel a tear sliding down my face. This 18-year-old has so much responsibility. Was he stealing to feed his sister? It breaks my heart.