Loose Change

Published by Thimble Literary Magazine on June 27, 2026

I was 11 years old. I sat on the shag rug, elbows on the low wooden coffee table that took up most of the living room. I pushed aside the two heavy ashtrays, making room for the coins that I spilled from my pink piggy bank with its rubber stopper. I made stacks of ten, my eyes level with the rows and rows of pennies spread on the polished surface. I never had enough quarters, dimes, or nickels, but pennies were plentiful. My fingers smelled metallic. I bit a nail anyway.

Once I got to five stacks, I’d combine them in the 50-cent paper roller that I got from the junk drawer. I’d push my index finger into the folded brown-and-red paper to create the cylindrical tube and hold the index finger of my other hand to catch the pennies so they remained flat as they slid down. Then I tucked up both ends of the now-heavy tube and started on another roll.

My mom said I could save up this way for a parakeet because I couldn’t have a dog. I needed $16.

I screeched on the day I reached my goal. My mom was sitting nearby at the poker table playing cards with her friends.

“Give me some,” Susie said, and she handed me a few crumpled dollars. Litsia did the same. My mom exchanged with me, too. I stuffed the bills and the remaining coins into the pockets of my light blue shorts. “I’m going to the pet store,” I said.

“It’s too hot to walk all the way there,” my mom said.

I went anyway.

When I got to the shop, I pointed to the parakeet I wanted, asked for pet food, and selected the pink cage. The man rang everything up and said $16. “I know,” I said. But when I reached into my pockets for my money, there was nothing there. I had lost it all.

I turned the pockets of my shorts inside out and saw the holes, sticking my fingers all the way through. I looked at the man in disbelief. “I’ll hold it for you,” he said as I left quickly. My face was already sweaty from the long, humid walk, and when the hot tears toppled out of my eyes, I could hardly see. I sobbed all the way home. I never thought to look for my lost money.

“Ma,” I said when I swung the front door open. She came to me, wiped my tears with her manicured hand. When I showed her the holes in my pockets, she understood immediately.

“Rochy,” my mom said, darling in Arabic. “Let’s go back right now.”

She grabbed her keys and told her friends she would only be a moment. Riding beside her in her car, I felt my body jerk occasionally from a stifled sob.

At the store, she handed over the money like it was nothing, like all my penny-counting and the rows and rows I had made were in vain.

On the way home, I cooed at my new bird, tears gone, my face dry and salty. “What will you name it,” she asked.

“Rosco,” I said without thinking.

At home, I showed Rosco to my sister, Debi. “That was the name of our parakeet when I was little, before you were born,” she said.

“I know,” I said, feeling stupid that I hadn’t come up with an original name.

I showed Rosco to my brother, Dorian. “Wow,” he said and went back to brushing his long, wavy hair. “But isn’t it mean to keep Rosco in a cage?”

The next day, when I came home from school, the little door to Rosco’s cage was open and Rosco wasn’t inside. I called for him, and then I saw that my window was ajar.

“Rosco!” I screamed as I ran around the house. “He’s gone!”

“I set him free,” Dorian said. I know I was mad, but I probably cried instead. When my father came home from work, he gave me the change in his pocket. Debi did, too. No one bought me another bird. I’m not sure I even wanted one.

Later, I attempted to sew the holes in my shorts pockets, but I only pricked my finger. After that I made a few rows of pennies with my chin on the table, losing myself in the task, my fingers deft and assured. I tried to think of other things to save up for.