Since that night, my brother's been hustling to make money. I hardly see him anymore. "Ryan, you're always working. Maybe we could ask mom to go to the beach on Sunday?"

He shakes his head in the negative, "Sorry, sis. Gotta keep my nose close to the grindstone."

He's been painting houses and working hard at odd jobs. We've both been staying out of our father's way. Lately, I've come to realize I need to start copying my brother's work ethic and start saving my own money. It's the fastest way out of this crazy house. Dressed in old jeans and a white t shirt, he's happier than I've ever seen him.

"Do me a favor?" My brother flashes me one of his winning smiles.

"What is it?"

"Could you get me a soda and a sandwich from the 7-11. Bring it over to Mr. Johnson's house. I'm late." He hands me some money. "Get something for yourself, too."

"I'd rather keep the change, if that's alright. Do you want a roast beef sandwich?"

"Yeah, that sounds good. A Philly cheesesteak would be even better if they have it."

"Ok."

A few hours later, I bike over to the Johnson's house, the takeout food carefully packed in my knapsack. I made sure to double bag the sandwich, and pack extra napkins since the fragrant cheesesteak's a dripping mess. My brother's job site is three blocks from our house. Rounding the corner, I see Ryan. He's up on a ladder, painting the peak of a two story gray cape. Working fast, stripped of his shirt, I see his shoulder muscles working, the bruises barely visible under his dark tan. I can see the job's nearly done.

As I park my ten speed in the driveway, Mr. Johnson emerges from the house. He's a heavy faced, gray haired man in his late fifties. With his lame jokes and large beer belly, he reminds me of the dorky comic, Rodney Dangerfield.  He doesn't say hello, instead he looks at the takeout bag in my hand. "What's this, Ryan? You takin a lunch break already?" He walks over and stands in front of the empty paint cans for a minute, then kneels down to examine the last of the paint. I'm startled when he stands up as if he's received an electric shock. Ryan!" He holds up a dripping paint stick. "This paint's been watered down."

My brother looks down from his perch, tight curls sticking out from under his painting cap. He frowns, shocked by the accusation, "No it's not." I bought it from the hardware store, Mr. Johnson."

"It's not where you bought the paint, it's what you did to it. I gave you good money to buy ten cans of premium paint. You bought less and watered it down. Didn't, you, you little prick!"

"No I didn't! I bought ten cans. The paint's in the same condition as when I bought it. I didn't tamper with it." Ryan indignantly comes down off the ladder. "I gave you the receipt, Mr. Johnson, remember?"

"Liar!" Mr. Johnson waves his hands in my brother's face, yelling at the top of his voice. "You never gave me any receipt." He sounds as if he's trying to drive off a stray dog. Get out of here!"

"I'm not leaving 'til you pay me." Ryan's green eyes flash with anger.

"You won't leave without your money, huh? Greedy bastard. Alright, here you go." He pulls a wad of cash out of his pants pocket. "Take it or leave it." He throws the money down onto the lawn at my brother's feet. "That's all you deserve."

I feel humiliated as my brother reaches down to picks up the crumpled bills. "This is only two hundred dollars," he says tightly. The paint by itself was more than two hundred. You still owe me six hundred dollars for the labor, Mr. Johnson."

"Get out of here, before I call the police." Spittle, flies out of the old man's mouth. As my brother turns to leave, I see a hateful gleam enter Mr. Johnson's eyes. "Hey, Ryan," My brother reluctantly looks back at him, "There's something I've been meaning to ask you." He lowers his voice, but I can still hear him. "Just between us, your dad's not a nigger is he? I always thought you were tanned, but with your shirt off I see how dark you really are." He glances my way, then gestures at me. "At least your sister looks kinda white." His face twists into a smirk, "Stay outta the sun, sweetie."

"Shut up about my sister, you bastard!" Disgusted, my brother turns to me. "Come on Evie, let's go."

Ryan angrily collects his brushes and tools, picks my bike up and deposits it into the back of the station wagon. "Evie, get in the car." As we leave, I hear Mr. Johnson mutter something about dealing with lazy niggers.

On the ride home, Ryan's grips the steering wheel as if it's Mr. Johnson's neck. "What are you going to do about the money he owes you?"

"There's nothing I can do." He looks so discouraged and troubled I don't know what to say.

"That guy's a perv. Did you hear him talking about our skin?" I feel sick to my stomach, remembering the disdainful way he looked at us.

"Forget him! He's stupid as shit. And an asshole. I should never have taken that job."

When we arrive home, my mother's in the kitchen prepping a roast for dinner.
It's so hot she looks like a wrung out dishrag in her skirt and short sleeve blouse.

"What's wrong? Why are you back so early, Ryan?" They look alike, my mother and Ryan. She has blue eyes, while his are green, but they both have long straight noses. They are gregarious, kindred spirits, always in denial about our family's problems, laughing through their pain and embarrassment.

"Mr. Johnson stiffed me on the job."

"What!" She's incredulous from the news.

"The job was done, but he only paid me for half my work. He said I watered down the paint."

"The man's an idiot!" My mother angrily wrings the fabric of her apron as if it's Mr. Johnson's neck.

"Not really, he figured out how to cheat me out the rest of the money."

That night, we eat outside in the backyard. Something we never do when my father's home. I can see how angry my mother is about what Mr. Johnson did to Ryan, but she keeps laughing and talking as if the incident never happened. Neither of us tell her about the things Mr. Johnson said about the color of our skin.

Sunday, my mom gets us both up early. "Wake up, sleepyheads." I was already up since I sleep well when my father's not home.

"I have an idea how you can make up for that six hundred dollars, Ryan. We're going to the dump."

"Why are you both going to the dump?" I've never been there, but I don't have any desire to go to a smelly landfill.

My mother ignores my question. She's on a mission. "We'll pick up a pizza on the way back for dinner. This may take a while," she says to me as she throws on some jeans. "Ryan get some buckets and the shovels out of the basement. And put on some old clothes.

"Wait, I'm coming, too!" I rush to get dressed.

"Of course you are, sweetheart." I'm surprised when my mom laughs. She hasn't laughed in a long time. It sounds good.