The Noise Tax

I stared at the cake. There was a little rabbit piped in frosting on top, and the cream looked impossibly sweet. I wanted it more than anything, more than I had wanted anything in a long time.

I glanced at the number on the wall.

"I don't want any," I lied.

Aunt Lisa's eyes went red. She shot to her feet and pointed a finger straight at Dad's face.

"Gary, this is abuse. What do you think she is to you?"

Dad dabbed his mouth with his napkin, unhurried. "I'm teaching her how the real world works. Your kind of coddling is what ruins children."

He set the napkin down. "Now please leave. You've been over the limit for far too long. I'll send you the bill."

Aunt Lisa was shaking so hard that I thought she might grab something off the table and throw it at someone. Then she looked at me, at the fear on my face, and she stopped herself.

"Fine, Gary. Have it your way. However, what goes around comes around."

The door closed behind her and the house fell back into silence. 28 decibels. Dad nodded, satisfied.

The noodles had gone cold and soggy by then, but I ate every last bite without making a sound. I had traded a piece of birthday cake for this bowl and, in this house, that made it the most valuable thing on the table.

That night I lay in my small bed, clutching a coin in my fist. Aunt Lisa had pressed it into my pocket on her way out without saying a word, but later I found a note with it.

It read, "Jenny, keep this. In case you ever need to buy yourself a way out."

I did not know what buying a way out meant, but I knew that this one dollar was the only money I had that was truly mine, and the only thing in this world of price tags that I could call my own.

I woke up in the middle of the night, burning up.

My throat felt like I had swallowed coals and my head was so heavy I could barely lift it off the pillow. I pressed a hand to my forehead. It was scorching hot.

What I felt first was not pain. It was fear.

Being sick meant spending money for doctor's visits, prescriptions, and lab fees. Dad had said before that getting sick was the result of poor self-management, a personal failing, and that all costs would be the responsibility of the one who got sick.

I pulled the blanket tighter and lay there shaking.

I needed water, but getting to the kitchen meant passing Dad's bedroom, and every step of that journey would betray me. Footsteps on the floor, a creaking door, or even the tap running. If I woke him up, the fines would be enormous.

So I stayed where I was. My throat was so dry it burned with every breath I took. I tilted my head back and opened my mouth, trying to pull in some cool air, but even that felt hot going down.

"Mom," I mouthed into the dark, tears sliding silently into my ears. I did not make a sound.

If no one found out, it did not count as being sick. If I did not take any medicine, I would not have to spend any money.

I held onto that logic as I drifted back to sleep, into a string of feverish nightmares. The decibel meter grew teeth and came after me. Bills fell like snow and buried me alive.

When I woke again it was morning, and Dad was shaking my shoulder.

"Do you know what time it is? Get up."

I tried to push myself upright and could not. Everything went dark and I fell back against the pillow with a dull thud. I looked at the decibel meter out of habit. It was still under the limit.

Dad frowned and pressed his hand to my forehead, then pulled it back. "You're burning up."

He checked his watch, then pulled out his phone and opened the calculator.

"Round trip cab fare, 60 dollars. Office visit fee, 50. Blood work, 80. Medication, roughly 200. Half a day off work for me, 500 in lost wages. Total, 890 dollars."

He held the screen up in front of my face.

"Your account is already in the negative. So how exactly are we paying for this?"

I could barely see the numbers through the fever haze.

"Dad, I feel really sick," I managed.

"Feeling sick is not an excuse to avoid settling your debts," he said evenly. "Sign the paperwork and I'll take you right now. The interest is three times the standard bank rate. You can repay it with interest once you're old enough to work."

He pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase. It was densely lined with printed clauses, clearly prepared well in advance. He held out a pen.

My hands were trembling so badly I could not hold it. The pen slipped from my fingers and hit the floor.

Dad picked it up and placed it back in my hand.

Then Mom came running in. She must have heard the noise, because she took one look at my face and screamed. "Jenny!"

The decibel meter flashed red. Dad turned and looked at her. "What are you screaming for? That's a 50 dollar fine."

Mom ignored him. She crossed the room and pulled me into her arms, and I felt her tears land on my cheek, small and cool against my burning skin.

"Gary, have you lost your mind? She's burning up and you're making her sign paperwork? Take her to the hospital right now!"

It was the loudest I had ever heard Mom speak.

Dad's expression did not change. "Are you paying for it? Your paycheck goes through me. Every dollar you earn has already been allocated. This wasn't in the budget and someone has to cover it.”

"Either she signs or you sign. The moment one of you does, we leave."