America My Home: Chapter 3
America My Home: Chapter 3 poor stories

mollycat13 #Self-Lover
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
Alexis be doing little sneaky sneak here.

America My Home: Chapter 3

“So, what is this master plan of yours?” Asks Chelsea. “Do you have a sewing kit?” I ask. “Of course! I’m her nanny!”

“Do you have a bunch of random cloth?” “Yeah…” She says, unsure. “Then make us clothes to look like poor people!” I say. Chelsea revolts.

“Trust me, I’ve done, and seen this happen all the time! This is the only way this will work?” I say. “What will work?” she asks. “How long have you been working here?”

“Seven years. Why?” “And you said you make ten- thousand dollars a year. So you only have seventy- thousand dollars?” “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah, enough to rent a tiny apartment,” I say. She sighs. “The only way to make a living in America is to save every penny.” Chelsea takes a long deep sigh. “Fine. But as long as you help me get a job in the U.S.A.”

“Deal,” I say. We shake hands and start to head out the bedroom door. I grab my bags. That’s when I hear her car pull up. We take a quick glance at each other and then run out of my bedroom door and look at the flight of stairs.

“Get on!” I whisper. I didn’t want my new Mom to hear. “Okay. I’ve told you all of my secrets and agreed to your deal. But this, this is—”

I didn’t let her finish. I grab her wrist and heave her onto the railing. We start to slide down and Chelsea’s screaming. “Be quiet,” I hiss. She puts a hand over her mouth. Once we get down Chelsea is smiling.

“What?” I ask. “That was awesome!” She says. “Well, it’s not going to be awesome when we get caught.” We silently run down the hallway and into her room and close the door.

“Find your sewing kit!” I yell. She pulls out a sewing kit and enough fabric to make a blanket to fit a king bed. “You ready?” She asks.

I nod. She opens her window and brakes through her screen. I jump out the window and fall onto the only open spot in her flower garden. She hands me her sewing stuff and she jumps out the window just as we hear the door open. We make a run for it. Hurdling over the fence and sprinting toward the city. Our feet splashing in the sidewalk puddles.

“Where should we make clothes?” I ask. “I don’t know,” She says. That’s when I see it. I little barrel shop that looks like there’s no one there except for the owner. I start to run across the road and head for the barrel shop.

I don’t care if I am jaywalking. I just want to get out of this American hating country. She shouts after me but I keep running. She runs after me and then she sees the shop. “Is this the place?” She asks.

“Looks pretty abandoned,” I say. We walk in and the owner looks pretty confused. “This is not a camping ground,” He says. The place looks old and smells of sawdust.

“Oh,” I say, “We just have to go to the bathroom before we head onto a plane ride.” “Well the bathroom’s right around the corner,” He says.

“Can we take our stuff in there? We don’t want it to get stolen,” Chelsea asks. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks!” I say as we head into the bathroom. It is nicer then the whole place combined. There’s a table with a fake plant on it, it smells like mango shampoo, and it’s just like a bathroom at home.

Chelsea gets out her sewing kit and starts making a shirt and pants. She uses the thin fabric for the base of the shirt and the thick fabric for the patches. I put it on and it fits perfectly. That’s when I realize something.

“Can you make us a sweater- coat type thing so we don’t freeze?” I ask. She doesn’t say anything but gets to work. Using the thickest cloth, and one patch of thin cloth. Once she gets done with all of the clothes we put on our sweater type things and head for the door.

Luckily the owner is working on a new barrel so we can slip out easily. Once we get out of the store the fresh almost winter air presses against my face making me shiver. Chelsea hails a taxi and we work some of our poor clothes magic. “To the airport please,” She says. “How much will it be?”

He takes one look at our clothes, and says, “Nothing.” “Oh, you can charge us,” I say. “No, because… London has the best taxi service so we get all of our money that way,” He stammers.

“Oh, okay,” Chelsea replies. He starts the engine and we start to head to the airport. A sigh of relief flows through me. This time I’m in a car getting ready to get out of London, not getting ready to live in it.

I look at Chelsea. Her body is facing the window and she looks depressed. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “I just have this funny feeling like someone is going to die on this trip,” She mutters.

“You are probably just nervous. I’ve been on so many planes rides that I lost count, and I’m still alive!” I say. “Yeah, but… usually, whenever I feel something it comes true.”

“You are just nervous. Trust me. Look, I was terrified when I figured out that people in London hated Americans. Did I throw up, cry, or think the lady was going to kill me? No. Because with every bad thing, there’s a good thing.”

“Oh, so if one of us dies it’s gonna be it’s going to be okay and the world will come together and sing Hallelujah?” “No. What I mean is the bad thing has already happened. You and I had to run for our lives and hope that these clothes work! Just so we can maybe get a tiny apartment. And guess what. It worked!”

“But it worked. Isn’t that the good thing?” “Well yeah, but we’re having this conversation which is bad.” “So if we end this conversation someone’s gonna die?” “Your thoughts are bad alright!”

I am nervous though too. What if she came running after the taxi, what if the clothes don’t work and we had to pay for the tickets. Some people don’t understand.

The taxi stops, and we get out. Our old clothes in Chelsea’s sewing kit, my three suitcases, and one duffel bag are dragging behind me. Chelsea leads me to the airport. It was weird, being in an airport two times in one day. I roll all of the luggage as we try to find which gate is taking a straight flight to America.

We stop at one of those computer things and Chelsea starts looking. “Gate 8B,” she says. “Kay,” I say being drowned by my own bags. “You got to be respectful,” Chelsea whispers.

“I am!” I say. “Yeah, if you are an American.” “I am,” I say again. “Okay, if you are in America, but this is London, one disrespectful word will get us thrown out of here,” she says.

We head to gate 8B. We make it just in time, they are loading right now. “Your tickets please?” The lady at the ticket scanner thing says. She is looking down at all of her tickets. When she looks up, she sees our clothes, and says, “On second thought, you don’t need tickets.”

“Oh, we can buy them,” I say. “Oh no, we are the best airline in the world, so we get our money that way.” “Oh, okay,” Chelsea says. We board the plane. This time I am happy to be on the plane, everything was going just as planned.

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