Sugar Daddy (Travis Family #1)(45)

"Yes," I managed to whisper, sudden excitement clutching at my throat.

"It turns out that another place in our scholarship program has just become available for the fall term. I can give you a full financial aid package. If you would like, I can put all your registration materials in the mail, or you can stop by the office to pick them up."

I shut my eyes tightly, gripping the phone so tightly I was surprised it didn't crack from the pressure. I felt Carrington's fingers investigating my face, playing with my eyelashes. "Thank you. Thank you. I'll come by tomorrow. Thank you."

I heard the director chuckle. "You're welcome, Liberty. We're pleased to have you in our program."

After I hung up, I hugged Carrington and squealed. "I'm in! I'm in!" She squirmed and

shrieked happily, sharing my excitement even though she didn't understand the reason for it. "I'm going to school, I'm going to be a hairstylist. Not a Happy Helper. I don't believe it. Oh. baby, we were due for some good luck."

I didn't expect it was going to be easy. But hard work is a lot easier to tolerate when it's something you want to do instead of something you have no choice about.

Rednecks have a saying, "Always skin your own deer." The deer I had to skin was school. I had never felt as smart as Mama had thought I was, but I figured if I wanted something badly enough. I would find a way to wrap my brain around it.

I'm sure a lot of people think it's easy going to beauty school, that there isn't much to it. But there's a lot to learn before you ever get near a pair of scissors.

The curriculum had descriptions of courses like "Sterilization Bacteriology," which required lab work and theory courses..."Chemical Rearranging." which would teach us about the procedures, materials, and implements used for permanents and relaxers...and "Hair Coloring." which included lessons on anatomy, physiology, chemistry, procedures, special effects, and problem solving. And that was just the beginning. Looking over the booklet. I understood why it would take nine months to get a degree.

I ended up taking the part-time job at the pawnshop, working evenings and weekends and leaving Carrington in day care. Carrington and I lived on next to nothing, surviving on peanut butter and white bread, microwaveable burritos. Oodles of Noodles soup, and discount vegetables and fruit from dented cans. We shopped at consignment stores for clothes and shoes. Since Carrington was under five, we were still eligible for the WIC program, which helped with vaccinations. But we had no health insurance, which meant we couldn't afford to get sick. I watered down Carrington's fruit juice and brushed her teeth like a maniac because we couldn't afford cavities. Every strange new rattle of our car warned of some expensive problem lurking beneath the battered hood. Every utility bill had to be scrutinized, every mysterious extra fee from the phone company had to be questioned.

There is no peace in poverty.

The Reyes family helped a lot, however. They let me bring Carrington to the shop, where she sat in the back with her coloring books and plastic animals and sewing cards while I worked. We were often invited to dinner, and Lucy's mom always insisted on giving us the leftovers. I adored Mrs. Reyes, who had a Portuguese saying for just about everything, like "Beauty doesn't feed the pigs." (Her criticism of Lucy's handsome but shiftless boyfriend. Matt.)

I didn't see much of Lucy, who was going to junior college and dating a boy she had met in a botany class. Every now and then Lucy would come into the shop with Matt, and we would talk across the counter for a few minutes before they left to go out to eat. I can't say I didn't have a few moments of envy. Lucy had a loving family, a boyfriend, money, a normal life with a good future. Whereas I had no family, I was tired all the time, I had to count every penny, and even if I were looking for a boyfriend, it would have been impossible to attract one while I was pushing a stroller everywhere. Men in their twenties are not turned on by the sight of diaper bags.

But none of that mattered when I was with Carrington. Whenever I picked her up from day care or Miss Marva's, and she came running toward me with her arms outstretched, life couldn't have been sweeter. She had begun to acquire words faster than a TV preacher sells blessings, and she and I talked all the time. We still slept together every night, our legs tangled together as Carrington chattered. She would tell me about her day-care friends, and complain about the one whose artwork was "just scribble-scrabble," and report on who got to be the mother when they played house at recess.

"Your legs are scratchy," she complained one night. "I like 'em smooth."

That struck me as funny. I was exhausted, worried about an exam the next day, I had about ten dollars in my checking account, and now I had to deal with a toddler criticizing my grooming habits. "Carrington. one of the benefits of not having a boyfriend is that I can go a few days without shaving my legs."

"What does that mean?"

"It means deal with it." I told her.

"Okay." She snuggled deeper into her pillow. "Liberty?"

"What?"

"When are you gonna get a boyfriend?"

"I don't know, baby. It might be a while."

"Maybe if you shave your legs, you'd get one."

A huff of laughter escaped me. "Good point. Go to sleep."

In the winter Carrington had a cold that wouldn't go away, and it turned into a hacking cough that seemed to rattle her bones. We went through a whole bottle of over-the-counter medicine, but it seemed to have little effect. One night I woke up from what sounded like dog barks, and I realized Carrington's throat had swollen until she could only breathe in shallow pants. In a terror worse than anything I had ever known. I drove her to the hospital, where they admitted us without insurance.