Fatty Patty (A James Bay Novel) Read Online Free Page A

And brand new goggles, too. I tried them out today after school, as well as Sam’s theory. One lap at a time . Who would have thought it would actually work? I managed ten laps before I finally gave up and quit.
    I prop my elbows on the worn kitchen table, watching as Priscilla stacks the plates and silverware and squirts pink dish soap into the sink. Doing dishes is a tiresome chore and one I’m sick of. “I wonder how much a dishwasher costs?”
    “More than we can afford.”
    “They can’t be that expensive.” I wrap my toes around the thin rungs of the chair that’s been my seat since childhood. The wood is smooth under my feet, worn from years of constant use and Priscilla’s dust rag. But the chair legs wobble if I push too hard and the back rung is loose. I need to get some super glue. Or maybe a new chair.
    Better yet, a new life.
    The chair squeaks in protest as I shove it aside and join her at the sink.
    “What’s wrong, Patty?” Her hands swish efficiently through the hot, soapy water as she washes the glasses, then moves on to the plates. “You don’t seem yourself tonight.”
    “I’m okay.” I grab a dish towel and start drying. No use moping about it, and Priscilla doesn’t deserve to get stuck doing all the work herself. “Just a little moody, I guess.”
    But moody isn’t the word for it. I’m sick of doing dishes by hand, of living paycheck to paycheck, of scrimping to get by. If things don’t improve in the next few months, I might even have to suck it up and take on a second job during summer vacation.
    I grab another glass, swipe it dry. “Sometimes it doesn’t seem fair. Why us? I mean, other people can afford dishwashers. They don’t have to live this way.”
    Her hands stop midstream in soap suds. “What’s wrong with the way we live?”
    “For God’s sake, Priscilla, do you have to ask? Open your eyes and take a look.” I snap my dishtowel at the high-ceilinged kitchen. The cupboards, so old they’re back in vogue, could probably get by with a new coat of paint… but the rest of the room, with worn linoleum floors and old countertops with permanent stains, is in desperate need of a make-over.
    Just like the rest of the house.
    Just like me.
    “This place is falling apart,” I mutter.
    “That’s not true,” she shoots back. “Don’t forget the new roof we put on last year.”
    “Don’t remind me. I feel sick whenever I think about how much it cost.” I never should have touched the home equity loan line of credit we took out after Mama got sick. Priscilla and the bank talked me into it, assuring me it would take care of Mama’s mounting medical bills… and eventually, the funeral expenses, too. Then, after that nearly-a-tornado-storm blew though last summer, Priscilla convinced me to use it again. I didn’t want to, but with the roof full of leaks and minus lots of shingles, I didn’t see where we had a choice. Now we’re deep in debt. The monthly sum we owe the bank is higher than a mortgage payment.
    “It still needs a new furnace, plus some paint, inside and out—”
    “So, we’ll buy some paint.” Priscilla goes back to washing dishes, and for a moment the muffled clink of submerged knives and forks is the only sound between us. “Paint’s not that expensive. Although we might have a problem trying to match the color.”
    God help us, if that’s what she’s thinking. There is no way in hell I’m letting Priscilla re-paint the house in that hideous shade of Barbie-doll pink Mama picked out years ago. When it comes to house paint, pretty-in-pink does not apply.
    “I’m not just talking about the paint.” I grab some silverware, give it a hasty swipe. “We need new windows, too. That tiny one in my bathroom is almost rotted away. It needs to be replaced, just like every other window in this house.”
    “Then we’ll buy new windows. We can go to Home Depot on Saturday.”
    But I don’t want to go to Home Depot. I don’t want to buy new