Fifty cents each. Three a month at most, and even those had to be reported in advance.
Empty refills couldn't be thrown away. They had to be returned and logged.
If one went missing, next week's meal money got docked.
That was the truth behind my $5,000 a month.
While I sat there in a daze, four voice messages from my mother had already slammed in, one after another.
"I'm talking to you! Why aren't you answering, you money pit!"
The next second, the phone rang.
I took a deep breath and picked up.
"Queenie." Her voice was savage.
"Where's yesterday's pen refill?"
I froze. "What?"
"Don't 'what' me!" She let out a sharp laugh.
"I'm asking where you put the empty refill from the gel pen you used up yesterday. I went through your desk and couldn't find it. You filled seven pages of draft paper last night. There's no way you didn't go through a refill."
My throat went dry. "I was doing so many practice problems, I tossed it without thinking. I forgot."
"Tossed it?"
Her voice shot up a full octave.
"Tossed it? A fifty-cent refill, and you just toss it? Queenie, I swear, you're exactly like your deadbeat father. Wasteful down to the bone!"