Chapter 5: Fighting for Every Dollar

When I got to the site, the workers avoided me—after all, everyone had seen the drama the other day.

Nobody wanted to get caught in the middle of family trouble. They kept their heads down, pretending not to notice me as I made my way across the lot.

Someone must have tipped off the foreman, because before I reached his office, he came out.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a scowl carved deep into his face.

His frown looked like it could kill a fly.

He didn’t even bother to hide his annoyance. I could almost hear him thinking, "Not this kid again."

"What are you doing back here?"

His voice was sharp, barely masking his irritation.

I pointed at the finance office. "I’m here to get my wages."

I kept my tone steady, refusing to be intimidated.

"What wages? Didn’t we already pay you?"

He raised an eyebrow, daring me to argue.

"But I haven’t received a penny."

I stood my ground, locking eyes with him.

Seeing how stubborn I was, the foreman figured I was just a kid and couldn’t cause trouble, so he put on his hard hat and walked off without a backward glance.

He shrugged, as if the problem would go away if he just ignored it long enough.

His back seemed to say I was just a nuisance.

It was a familiar feeling—being dismissed, written off, made invisible.

But that’s fine—I have reason on my side, so why should I be afraid?

I reminded myself that for once, the law was on my side. I wasn’t going to back down.

I went to the finance window and knocked.

The glass rattled under my fist. I could see the finance lady inside, scrolling through her phone.

The finance lady immediately opened the window and snapped at me.

She barely glanced at me, her voice sharp and dismissive.

"Are you crazy? What money do you want? If you want money, ask your relatives—they already took it!"

She spat the words out, like she’d had this conversation a hundred times.

"Ma’am, shouldn’t the wages go to the person who did the work?"

My voice was tight, frustration leaking in despite my best efforts.

"I don’t know. Stop bothering me."

She rolled her eyes, clearly done with me already.

She slammed the window shut.

The sound echoed, leaving me alone in the hot, sticky silence.

I gritted my teeth, nodded, and pulled out my phone to call the Department of Labor.

My hands shook a little as I dialed. But I pressed the numbers anyway, letting the determination settle in my bones.

"Hello, I’d like to report a wage theft."

I spoke clearly, making sure they understood just how serious I was.

...

After I made the call, the finance lady still didn’t care.

She sat back down, chatting with the guy next to her like I wasn’t even there.

She and the man across from her kept chatting, glancing at me now and then.

Every so often, she’d shoot me a look of annoyance, as if I was ruining her day.

I wasn’t in a hurry, just waited outside.

I leaned against the trailer, feeling sweat trickle down my back, watching the clouds drift by. I’d waited longer for less.

Ten minutes later, the county labor officials arrived.

Their white sedan pulled up, government seal on the door. Suddenly, the mood around the trailer shifted. People started paying attention.

The finance lady pursed her lips and came out.

She tried to look innocent, but I could see her bracing herself for a fight.

She told the officials my wages had already been paid, saying I was just making trouble.

Her words were all sugar and spite, painting me as a troublemaker.

After she finished badmouthing me, I spoke up.

I took a deep breath, making sure my words were steady and clear.

"I don’t care who you gave the money to, but I never received it."

I looked each official in the eye, refusing to be intimidated.

"That’s your uncle—go ask him. I think you’re just crazy."

She sneered, picking her nails, not even bothering to hide her contempt.

She cracked sunflower seeds and spat.

The shells hit the ground one after another, a tiny, irritating chorus.

I immediately retorted, "How do you know he’s my uncle? Did he show you his ID?"

She hesitated, caught off guard by my question.

"I just know. You’re just a brat who doesn’t respect his elders."

She leaned in, voice dripping with condescension.

She rolled her eyes at me and turned away.

It was clear she thought she’d already won.

I said to the officials, "The money never got to me, and I didn’t sign anything. I know nothing about the whole process, and now my uncle won’t admit it or give me the money. What should I do?"

I could see the wheels turning in their heads as they realized this was bigger than a simple family dispute.

The officials caught the key point and asked the finance lady for the payroll and signature sheet.

They spoke quietly, but I could tell they were taking it seriously.

Only now did she get a little nervous, explaining:

Her hands shook as she shuffled through the paperwork.

"Officers, his uncle signed for him—that’s how we always do it."

She tried to sound casual, but her voice wobbled at the end.

The officials looked incredulous.

One of them raised an eyebrow, looking at her like she’d grown a second head.

"You just let someone else sign and hand over the money? What if a stranger sneaks in and signs for someone? You can just say ‘we paid’ and wash your hands of it?"

Their voices were sharp, disbelief plain as day.

The finance lady was stunned and nodded awkwardly.

She fiddled with her necklace, clearly wishing she could disappear.

Then she said she couldn’t decide and called the foreman over.

She picked up the phone, voice low and nervous as she explained the situation.

When the foreman saw the Department of Labor officials, he scolded the finance lady.

He tried to act surprised, but I could tell he was just covering his own ass.

People in construction don’t lack money, especially not a few hundred bucks. But they don’t want the authorities breathing down their necks over this.

It was less about the money and more about not getting a black mark on their record.

So now he acted all angry.

He stomped around, raising his voice, making a show for the officials.

But earlier, when he put on his hard hat and left, he didn’t care about me at all.

I remembered the way he’d shrugged me off, like I was a fly buzzing around his ear.

Some people just won’t do the right thing unless you force them.

It was a sad truth, but one I’d learned all too well growing up.

...

In the end, with the officials mediating, the foreman gritted his teeth and paid me my wages.

He slapped the bills onto the table, muttering under his breath about “troublemakers.” But I didn’t care—I finally had what I’d earned.

I immediately used the money to buy supplies for the SATs and saved the rest.

I hit the local Walmart, picking up notebooks, pens, a calculator—everything I’d need for the big day. I even grabbed a pack of instant noodles, just in case.

I didn’t go home that night—going back would just be asking for trouble.

Instead, I wandered through the downtown streets, my backpack heavy with school supplies and hope. The sky was a deep navy, stars hidden behind the city lights.

My dad called me, and as soon as I answered, he demanded, "Where did you go?"

His voice was already sharp, as if I’d ruined his evening by standing up for myself.

"I ran away from home, Dad."

I tried to keep my voice steady, refusing to let him hear any fear.

"Ran away? You little punk, did you go to the site for your money?"

He sounded incredulous, as if I’d committed some unforgivable sin.

"They found your uncle, made him pay it back, and now your uncle’s coming after me."

He was more upset about the family’s reputation than anything else. Typical.

"Not my problem. He took it in the first place."

I could almost hear him grinding his teeth on the other end of the line.

"Go find whoever you want—as long as I get my money."

I didn’t care about their arguments, their schemes, or their grudges anymore. I was done playing the scapegoat.

My dad roared, telling me to return the money immediately.

He launched into a tirade, voice booming through the phone.

He said my brother’s tuition depended on loans, and as a family member, I had to contribute.

His sense of entitlement was staggering. I wondered if he even realized how selfish he sounded.

Yeah, right. I’ll contribute my own damn leg.

I snorted, rolling my eyes, and hung up before he could finish cursing.

When he called again, I didn’t answer.

I turned off my phone, letting the silence settle over me like a comforter. For the first time, I felt a sliver of peace.

...

I didn’t have much money, so to save, I planned to sleep in the park.

The grass was damp, the air thick with the scent of pine and distant barbecue smoke. I curled up on a bench, using my backpack as a pillow.

But I was worried bad sleep would affect the SATs in a few days. After some hesitation, I gritted my teeth and found a cheap motel.

The neon sign buzzed overhead, flickering in the muggy air. I walked up to the front desk, heart pounding, ready to spend the last of my cash for a good night’s sleep.

But when I tried to check in, the front desk told me my state ID had been reported lost and was already invalid.

I stared at the clerk, my stomach dropping. It was just one more obstacle thrown in my path—but this time, I wasn’t giving up. Not now, not ever.