Is Crazy Contagious?

A couple of years back, when she was lucid and taking her meds regularly, Joanie opened a savings account for me at the bank. Since I was a minor, her name was on the account too, but I got to keep the passbook. Joanie was not parting with any money so the fifty dollars required to open the account was birthday money from my sister Liv's boyfriend at the time. He was the only one who remembered to get me something. No other deposits were made and the fifty bucks was all that was in there besides the chump change in interest it had accrued. That is, until I came up with a plan.

Sixteen, pregnant, and broke, I had to think of somehow to get that social security Joanie had been collecting for me all those years. She was on disability collecting SSI, and I was her dependent. Which meant she had been receiving over $600 monthly for Liv and I, a piece, in addition to her $1300. And to think, I didn't even get lunch money. Back then, $2500 was enough to maintain a small household. I would never have guessed an eviction was looming. All I knew was that I needed to save up to move out. There was no way I'd raise a baby with Joanie as its grandmother; she was too unpredictable.

Most pressingly, the refrigerator was almost empty, and all I had was enough for carfare one-way. It was my last school token since I hadn't been to school in a couple of days and missed picking up my weekly pack. School would have to wait; I decided to head to the Social Security office on Woodland Avenue the next morning. I could ride there on public transportation and then walk back after I handled business. They took walk-ins, so I had to arrive early because it was always crowded when I went there with Joanie to iron out any issues she had with collecting all that money I never saw.

At first, I was nervous because I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to risk getting put into social services for saying the wrong thing. I knew of kids that got placed in the system by DHS workers and were worse off because of it. So, I told Ms. Johnson, "I want to have the social security my mother Joan Valencia Whitmore receives for me placed in my savings account."

"Where's your mother?"

"She's in Misericordia Hospital." I handed her the documentation that I had found the night before. She began tapping the keys on her keyboard until she found Joanie's information in the system. I rubbed my stomach and made a slight sound. It was probably gas. She noticed. The sound, not the gas.

"Are you pregnant..." she glanced at the screen, "Madison?"

"Yes."

"When are you due?"

"I'm not sure. I think in June." I was lying. I hadn't even seen a baby doctor.

"Well, you know this money is set up to be directly deposited into an account already."

"I just wanted the portion that's in my name to go into my account."

"Janice? She's going to be a mother and... how old are you honey?"

"Sixteen, but I'm turning seventeen soon."

"She's almost seventeen. She should be eligible for emancipation right?"

I didn't hear the woman respond, but she must have confirmed what Ms. Johnson was saying because she said, "that's what I thought."

"Ok Miss Whitmore. You'll need to review the information on this affidavit, sign and date it."

"That's it?"

"No. Do you have the bank information for the account you wish to have your money deposited into?"

"Yes. Here you go." More keys tapping. Ms. Johnson headed to the copier. She handed me a printout and a copy of what I had signed.

"Now, you're done." And with that, I thanked the lady that helped me get some money so I could continue living in the hell I was used to just long enough to save up and move out.

Smiling so hard my eyes were nearly squinted shut. I hadn't noticed the car riding alongside me as I walked down the street. A guy I knew from around granmom Faye's way was trying to get my attention. Robby or Bobby-- I knew him enough to bum a ride, so I got in. It beat walking. His music was blaring, which was fine by me because we didn't have to chit-chat. Bobby, Robby-- whatever his name was-- was sleazy and the smell of weed seeped through his pores. Pregnant or not, I would have blown chunks if the ride was any longer. I held my face out the window. The wind was cutting off my breath, but the city air was more bearable than the pollution inside the car.

As he pulled into the parking lot, stopping behind my building, he reached over and started caressing my thigh. Knowing he dipped his stick in anything that moved, I told him I was pregnant thinking that would turn him off. Wrong.

He said, "It ain't mine. I didn't even get to hit that yet."

I started to say, "And your slimy tail never will", but instead told him I thought I had crabs, and he quickly withdrew his hand, telling me to get my nasty ass out of his car. I started scratching my crotch as I exited the vehicle. He sped off, with his tires peeling and the bass from his stereo woofers vibrating the tinted windows. I skipped home to a quiet, Joanie-free apartment.