This is the opening scene to my second chapter. I would like to know if the characters are somewhat interesting and if the voice is consistent. Any other comments are welcome. Thank you in advance.
Amy
"Donna Jo, you need to vacuum the stairs better this week."
Momma and I barely get through the door before Mrs. Whitehead starts. Both of us is froze like statues. I'm holding a bucket of cleaning supplies, damn metal handle digging in my fingers. Gonna leave one of them black lines, I just know it.
"Uh, yes ma'am."
She's fussing at Momma, pointing her finger towards the staircase. I hate that old bag, but I love how that diamond ring catches sunlight light, sometimes showing rainbows.
"And the tub upstairs," Mrs. Whitehead continues. "the one in my room. Last week, I put a band-aid in the corner as a test. I wanted to see how well you were cleaning. It's still there."
****, I remember seeing that thing, all wet and soggy. Blood seeping under that plastic patch, turning brown. The way the top layer separates from the cotton under it. My legs feel like jello and my cheeks are tingling, a cold sweat is coming on. If I don't stop thinking, I'll be laid out on this marble floor.
"Just so we're on the same page, a lot of people need work these days, if you can't handle this much house, I'll find someone who can." Mrs. Whitehead continues.
Been cleaning for her two months now, and it seems like every week she gets crazier. Last week it was the stove. Week before that, it was the baseboards. Too dusty she says.
And her eyes are always watching me. She must know why I ain't in school, and thinks I might steal. With a smile, I've tried to reassure her I ain't ever thought of such things, and don't do no drugs. That I got dreams, and want a life like the one she's got, but she ain't buying it. Her evil eye makes me feel guilty, and I ain't even done nothing.
I seen houses like this on TV. Grand foyers, and staircases that turn, wooden floors and smooth ceilings. Them hollow doors in my trailer feel different than the wooden ones here. Tommy put his fist clear through the one to the bathroom, but that was before I came along. It's patched with tape so you can't see in. And the trailer has low tile ceilings like the ones they got in school. I think about the shag carpet and that fvcking stench lingering. I can't seem to get rid of it.
Momma clears her throat. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Whitehead. It won't happen again." Her apology echoes.
"Well, let's hope not, or you'll be looking for a new house to clean, and I guarantee no one else tips." Mrs. Whitehead folds her arms across her deflated chest, ain't got no tits, poor Mr. Whitehead. I giggle.
"Tips?" Momma asks.
"All those designer clothes I give you, consider that your tip." I think of Tommy calling them clothes granny ****. "So, if I were you, Donna Jo, I'd make sure this house is up to my standards before you leave today. Do you understand?"
I hate the way she's talking to Momma.
"I cleaned that bathroom." I confess.
"Did you see the," Momma pauses, knowing she better not say it.
"No ma’am, I didn't. I'm real sorry, Mrs. Whitehead, it was my fault, not Mommas. I'll pay more attention.
Mrs. Whitehead don't like knowing I'm the one who failed her test.
"You can hardly be blamed, can't pay enough attention to stay in school, much less keep a clean house. I suggest you get your act together if you hope to amount to anything."
"Yes, Ma am."
"She's going down to the community college in Plymouth. Gonna get her GED. Aren't you, Cheyenne?"
Now Momma was supportive of my plans.
"Yes, that's right."
"A GED is not the same as a diploma, colleges won't look at it the same. But I don't suppose that will be an issue for you."
At that moment, if there were any doubt, I knew Mrs. Whitehead was the devil.
"I'm going to college. I got goals."
“You HAVE goals. Now, Donna Jo, if you're going to have her helping out around here, you'll need to go behind and check everything."
"Yes, of course. I'll be sure to."
Mrs. Whitehead is satisfied with Momma's answer and leaves us to cleaning. I never feel much like cleaning, but today I really don't. Not after the way she treats us. I suppose we're white trash to her, never thought of myself that a way. But do you every really know if your trash? Sort a like, does a momma know if her baby is ugly. No. But I seen in Mrs. Whitehead's beady eyes, she thinks me and Momma are trash.


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