duni9.cc 
Matt and Mike did ask for things a lot, but even though my mother would tell them, No, boys,
we just can't afford that, I took this to mean, No, boys,
you don't deserve that, or, No, boys, you don't really need that. It wasn't until Bryce called
our home a complete dive that I started really seeing
things.
It wasn't just the yard. It was my dad's truck, my mother's car, the family bike that was more
rust than steel, and the fact that when we did buy
something new, it always seemed to come from a second-time-around store. Plus, we never
went on vacation. Ever.
Why was that? My father was the hardest-working man in the world, and my mother worked
for TempService doing secretarial jobs whenever she
could. What was all that hard work about if this is where it got you?
Asking my parents whether we were poor seemed incredibly impolite. But as the days went
by, I knew I had to ask. Just had to. Every day I'd ride
home from school on our rusty bike, pull past the broken fence and patchy yard, and think,
Tonight. I'll ask them tonight.
But then I wouldn't ask them. I just didn't know how.
Then one day I had an idea. A way to talk to them about it and maybe help out a little, too.
And since my brothers were working at the music store
that night, and nobody was saying much of anything at the table, I took a deep breath and
said, “I was thinking, you know, that it wouldn't be hard to
fix up the front yard if I could get some nails and a hammer and maybe some paint? And how
much does grass seed cost? It can't be that much,
right? I could plant a lawn, and maybe even some flowers?”
My parents stopped eating and stared at me.
----------------------- Page 45-----------------------
“I know how to use a saw and a hammer—it could be, you know, a project.”
My mother quit looking at me and stared at my father, instead.
My father sighed and said, “The yard is not our responsibility, Julianna.”
“It's … it's not?”
He shook his head and said, “It's Mr. Finnegan's.”
“Who's Mr. Finnegan?”
“The man who owns this house.”
I couldn't believe my ears. “What?”
My father cleared his throat and said, “The landlord.”
“You mean we don't own this house?”
They looked at each other, having some private wordless conversation I couldn't decipher.
Finally my father said, “I didn't realize you didn't know
that.”
“But … but that doesn't make sense! Aren't landlords supposed to come and do things? Like
fix the roof when it leaks and clear the drains when
they're plugged? You always do that stuff, Dad. Why do you do it when he's supposed to?”
“Because,” he sighed, “it's easier than asking him for help.”
“But if—”
“And,” my father interrupted me, “it keeps him from raising the rent.”
“But …”
My mother reached over and took my hand. “Sweetheart, I'm sorry if this is a shock. I guess
we always thought you knew.”
“But what about the yard? Why keep up the inside but not the outside?”
My father frowned and said, “When we signed the lease, he assured us he would fix the
