The things she tells me.

She tells me that she doesn't know how she's going to get the money to pay for next month's rent. She's been telling me that every other month for as long as I can remember, but somehow, this time, it seems more urgent.

She has been running around like a crazy woman because her shipment is held at a place in Oakland, its status unknown. There are $20,000 worth of products inside, she tells me. Food products. In this 90 degree Californian heat, she tells me she has nightmares that all the food will be spoiled when she finally gets her tow her shipment back.

If she tows her shipment back. Its status is unknown.

How is she going to pay them back if she loses $20,000 worth of her merchandise, she asks me? I don't know, so I say nothing and continue to spray sunscreen onto my arms.

She tells me she doesn't know how to pay for my prep classes. $760, she complains, I don't know where I'm going to get that money. Her voice continues. The smell of sunscreen chokes me, so I leave the bathroom, but her voice follows me outside.

And then there's that trip to Vegas in the summer, she tells me. Her tone turns bitter--panicked, almost. Another $300. At least.

And the Disneyland thing's going to cost, she tells me.

I'm going to have to miss a prep class and a tennis class for that, I mumble. The sunscreen feels oily.

How much are those tennis lessons?

$50, I think. My answer makes her tighten her lips.

For how many lessons?

I shrug. Dunno. Three? Four?

I don't want you to keep shopping, she tells me. Especially not with K. I know what it's like--that irresistible lure of shopping once you step into a store--so I can't blame you. But you can't go shopping anymore. Money's going to be tight for a few months. My shipment's status is unknown.

Finally, I turn to her, my lips twitching in irritation. I won't go to the prep classes, then. That'll save a lot of money.

No.

Brisk. Firm. No room for arguments.

Look, I don't have to take the SATs 'til junior year and-

You know yourself, M. You can't study on your own. You can't just turn into P overnight. So we'll just have to take lessons.

Inside, I boil. I'm so sick of this everlasting talk of poverty that the fear of it has turned to annoyance. If we don't have money, then why does she agree to the POTO show in Las Vegas? Why is she letting me go to Disneyland? Why is she signing me up for lessons? Why is she buying movie tickets, pumped to see the Da Vinci Code?

I know she's a good mother. She doesn't want it to seem like anything's wrong. She wants everything to run smoothly, and she'll somehow manage. She'll make ends meet. She'll rise above the continuous waves of financial problems. But I hate listening to her.

I spray on the sunscreen with more vigor than necessary.

I don't want you shopping anymore, she tells me.