A Not-So-Simple Life (13 page)

Really, shouldn’t I be out in the backyard tossing a football around with my dad and siblings? Waiting for Mom to finish roasting the turkey? Whipping that cream to top the
pumpkin pie? Like I’d even want to eat such things. On the other hand, and this is the honest truth, I would probably exchange my vegan lifestyle to be part of a traditional American family. Not that I think they exist. It’s probably just an old fairy tale. Or something that people pretend to live up to.

To the tune of two hundred dollars, I met with a lawyer today. Her name is Jeannette Williams, and she advised me on my emancipation. According to her, I have a pretty good case.

“Here are the basic criteria,” she told me. “You must be at least fourteen.”

“Check.”

“You must have a good reason not to live with your parents.”

“Check.”

“You must be in school until graduation.”

So I explained about my GED certificate.

“That will work.” She nodded and returned to her list. “And you must have a legal way to make your own money.”

“Check.”

“You must know how to handle your own money and budget.”

“Check.” This was actually not new to me. I’d read this much online. I was beginning to wonder if paying for legal
advice was a waste. But Ms. Montgomery had recommended Jeannette to me, and I was trying to do this thing right.

“Emancipation would improve your life,” she said.

I considered this. It could be a matter of perspective. “Well, it’s fairly miserable living with my mom. I mean, there are times when it seems okay, but her addiction is pretty upsetting, not to mention unpredictable. And then she doesn’t pay the bills on time. And I feel like I’m on my own anyway, except that I’m living with a loose cannon.”

“I think you have a convincing case in that regard, Maya.” She smiled. “And then, of course, your parents must be okay with the emancipation. If they don’t sign off, you could end up with a long, drawn-out case. And I don’t think you can afford that…not and have the funds you need to convince the court you can live independently from them. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

So then she told me I didn’t have to hire an attorney to do this, although I sensed she wasn’t convinced I could really do it without a lawyer. “You can present your case yourself and ask a judge to declare you emancipated.”

“And that’s it?” I asked hopefully.

“Not quite. You must also give your parents notice that you are seeking emancipation. In writing.”

“I can do that.”

She gave me the name of a government Web site with the forms and petitions I would need to fill out, writing down the numbers of the forms I should download as well as the court fees and costs.

“Although you might do a waiver.” Then she told me which form to use for that. “And you need to build your case.”

Build my case? Okay, I was already feeling fairly confused, and I began to wonder if she wasn’t purposely throwing too much at me, hoping I’d retain her for legal advice after all. Still, I continued to take notes, and she started rattling off another list. Things I would need to present to the judge, including a letter stating why I want emancipation, a letter from me stating that I know what emancipation is and that I asked about it of my own free will.

“My assistant will prepare a list and send it to you.”

“Is that everything?” I asked, resisting the urge to wipe my brow and say, “Whew.”

“You also need a letter from your employer stating where you work, what you make, how long you’ve worked there. And a pay stub. And since you’re not renting yet, you should take something that proves you have a suitable place lined up. Also your bank statement.”

“Okay…” I paused from my note taking to look up, and I’m sure I looked fairly overwhelmed just then.

“It’s really not all that complicated,” she finally said, “and you seem like a very smart girl. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. But feel free to call my assistant if you have any more questions. And that Web site should be very helpful too.”

“Thanks.”

“And really, Maya, I’m sure you can handle it just fine.” She shook my hand. “Normally, I wouldn’t encourage a teen to take this action, but in your case I think it’s appropriate. Just keep in mind that being emancipated does not give you all the same rights as an adult.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you still have to abide by the law as it applies to minors. No drinking, you can’t vote—things like that.”

I smiled. “No problem.”

“Good luck.”

So I went home, and after carefully going over my notes again and checking out the Web sites until I had a fair grasp on all these details, I spent the rest of the day attempting to get my ducks in a row. And like Jeannette assured me, it’s not really that complicated. Just a little overwhelming at first. And then time consuming. Perhaps the hardest thing was to write the letter to my parents. After several drafts that I scrapped, I finally decided to keep it unemotional and businesslike. It might be best not to rock their boats too hard. Well, unless they decide to rock back. Then I will let them have it!

This is the darkest day of my life. And that is not an exaggeration. No one died. Well, except for me. In many ways I feel that I am dead now. And I’m even considering how this might be accomplished in actuality. If Shannon’s car were here, which it’s not, I would go into the garage, close all the doors, open all the windows of the car, turn on the ignition, and just go to sleep. In fact, I might even sneak into a neighbor’s garage. Who knows?

The day started out normal enough. I went to a photo shoot and subjected myself to the usual humiliation of being primped and fussed over, even getting my boobs taped into place, and then sweltering under the lights, I attempted to look cool and calm. Aloof was what the director was going for. I think I pleased him. What I won’t do for the almighty dollar.

Then I went by the agency to pick up my check, my personal justification that compromising myself for money is marginally acceptable. After that, I went straight to the bank, just like I always do on Fridays. I waited in line, signed my check, pulled out my passbook, and made my deposit. But then the teller handed me my deposit slip, and just like always, I looked at the total. And then I blinked and looked again.

“Something is wrong,” I told the teller, holding out the slip as if that should explain everything.

“What’s that?”

“The amount.” I pointed to the number on the bottom. “That’s way off.”

“Let me see.” She took back my passbook and punched the numbers into her computer. “No, that’s right, Maya. With what you just put in today, you now have a total of $985.65. Not bad.”

“But I just put in $900!”

“Yes. That, along with the existing $85.65, makes it—”

“I had more than $10,000 in that account!” I was shouting, and I’m pretty sure everyone was staring at me.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Perhaps you’d like to speak to the manager. There are other customers waiting.”

I nodded firmly. “I definitely want to speak to the manager.”

I had to wait for what felt like an hour but was probably just minutes. The whole time I was fuming to think that the bank had somehow made a stupid mistake and had somehow misplaced all my money. But I had all my deposit receipts in the back of my passbook. And all my deposits were meticulously recorded. No big deal. I had what I needed to make them understand the situation.

“Can I help you?” asked a middle-aged woman in a navy blue suit.

I held up my passbook and quickly explained my dilemma. She asked me to come over to her desk, where she began to
punch in numbers on her computer. She looked at the screen and nodded as if it all made perfect sense.

“Yes, Maya, you did have quite a bit more money in this account. But it seems that a rather large withdrawal was made only yesterday…a total of—”

“I wasn’t even in the bank yesterday. It’s a mistake. My money should all still be here.”

“You are aware that your parents are cosigners on this particular account, aren’t you?”

I considered this. “Well, my dad set it up for me when I was little. I guess that means he’s a cosigner. But he wouldn’t take my money.”

“And your mother is a cosigner as well.”

“My mom?” A chill followed by a wave of sickness washed over me, like I might throw up all over her desk.

“Apparently your mother made a withdrawal.”

“And you let her?” My voice was so loud that the bank got quiet once again.

“It’s a shared account, Maya.”

“Not shared by me!” Tears of fury burned in my eyes. “Why did you let her take my money?”

The woman seemed very uncomfortable now. She lowered her voice. “It’s not that we let her take your money. As a cosigner she had every right to withdraw the funds. Usually it’s the parents who make most of the deposits in
these accounts anyway, and we certainly can’t stop them from—”

“I made every single deposit in that account!”

She stood and took me firmly by the arm as if she planned to lead me out. I even noticed her nod toward a security guard, who quickly joined us by the door.

“Need some help here?” he asked.

“I’m sure that you and your mother can sort this out at home,” said the manager in a stern tone. “Perhaps your mother has simply transferred the funds into another account, perhaps a tax-deferred account or a college fund that could draw more interest. You really shouldn’t be so—”

“No! You don’t understand!” I raced out of the bank and ran all the way home. But when I got here, Shannon, of course, was gone. She’d been gone last night, and she was still gone. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was up to.

So I went to her so-called office, which she rarely uses except as a place to dump the things she refuses to deal with. And I began to dig through the piles of junk mail and bills heaped on top of her desk. Some of the items were months old. There were a couple of bank statements for her, and not surprisingly, her account was overdrawn. Then I noticed a similar envelope in the garbage. My bank statement, which according to the postmark, had been sent out earlier this week. Shannon must’ve seen that I had mail from
the bank, opened the envelope, discovered my money, and decided it was okay to steal it from me.

Then I noticed something else on her desk. A copy of my emancipation letter! I had planned to give it to her right after I filed with the court—next Monday. Shannon had obviously been snooping in my room. And she obviously knew about my plan! She probably went through the materials I’d put together to present to the judge.

And that’s when I knew it was ruined. In one quick trip to the bank, Shannon had spoiled my perfect plan. I wanted to kill her. Seriously, if she had been in the room with me, if I’d had a gun, I would’ve shot her. I really think I would’ve. Not that I’m proud to admit this, but it’s the truth.

Feeling desperate and hopeless and even dangerous, I called my dad and insisted on speaking to him. “It’s an emergency!” I screamed at the person who was fielding his calls. “This is his daughter, and I have to talk to him! Now!”

When he finally came to the phone, I was sobbing like a baby, so hysterical that I could hardly speak. “Calm down,” he kept telling me. “Take a deep breath, and tell me what’s going on. Are you okay?”

I finally calmed down enough to speak. Between sobs, I told him everything. I told him the truth about Shannon’s messed-up rehab and her return to using. I told him about the
savings account and how Shannon had robbed me. I told him that I had planned to be emancipated and that she had found out and sabotaged me. And finally I told him that I was probably going to kill myself before the day was over. And then I hung up.

And even now…I’m not so sure that I won’t kill myself. I can’t think of one good reason to go on living. Not one. Life is not only unfair; it’s too hard. And it just goes from bad to worse to impossible. I want to give up.

W
ell, as it turns out, I am still alive. But only because my dad flew out here to the rescue. Because he had a concert on Saturday night, he couldn’t come sooner. He offered to have someone else come to help me, but I told him I could manage. However, that was a lie. Anyway, I suppose it was good that he got here when he did. Otherwise I’d probably be locked up for murder right now.

Shannon got home Sunday afternoon (that was yesterday, two days after my darkest day). By then I had found her gun, which wasn’t very well hidden, in the bottom drawer of her nightstand. At first I considered using it on myself, but then I decided that I’d wait for her to come home, and we could check out together. Yes, I know I was insane…and maybe I just wanted to scare her. Fortunately for both of us, the gun was hidden away in my room when she showed up in the middle of the day, catching me totally off guard.

“Hey, baby, what’s up?”

I jumped up from the sofa where I’d been lying for hours, just staring at the ceiling. “Where’s my money?” I demanded.

“What?” She gave me a fakey innocent look.

“My money!” I shrieked. “You stole it, and you know it.”

“Oh, don’t you mean
our
money, Maya?”

“Our money?” My face was so close to hers I could smell her bad breath. I was staring straight into her eyes, and if looks could kill, she would’ve been toast. “That was not our money, Shannon! That was my money!”

“Well, it was obviously money that Nick sent…so I would consider it as ours.” She put on her little pouty face now. “And I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me like that, Maya.”

“That was not money from Nick! That was money I earned myself! Every single cent you stole from me was money I had worked for. And you deserve to go to jail for taking it. You are not only the world’s worst mother, Shannon. You are a lying, cheating, crackhead thief!” Then I began to swear at her. And normally I don’t use that kind of language, because I sound so much like her when I do, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was in a rage—a total out-of-control rage.