“Hey. You’re up.” I sound positive, like my eyes aren’t snagging on the stained tee she’s been wearing for a week now and my nose can’t smell the sour sweat on her skin.
“I am up.” She doesn’t sound positive at all. Mom sounds like she knows what I’m thinking and it depresses her even more. I am an ass.
Mom nudges her chin toward the lasagna heating in the microwave. “Did Charlotte come by?”
“No, she sent Ben.”
“Good.” Mom rubs her eyes so hard I wince. I sit down at the table, brush my homework to the side so she’ll have a place to sit and eat. “I can’t deal with Char right now,” she continues.
Or ever. I deal with my aunt more than Mom does.
“She’s worried about you,” I say, and the words are lying between us before I realize I shouldn’t have said anything.
“Well, she doesn’t need to,” Mom snaps, her eyes going flat. “She doesn’t even know what’s going on unless you told her. Did you? Because people get tired, Griff. It happens especially when you work the kind of hours I do.”
I sigh. I shouldn’t because it only cranks her higher, but I can’t help it. “No, I didn’t tell her anything about you.”
“Then how would she know?”
“Because you haven’t shown up to work? She helped you get that job. You didn’t think someone would call her when they fired you?”
“I’m not fired!” Mom’s fist smacks into the Formica counter, making the dirty dishes rattle. “I’ll explain everything when I’m well enough to go in. It’ll be okay. I’m just tired. I’ll make them understand.”
This time, I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut. We glare at each other until she sags, bottom lip poking low.
“You’re supposed to be my bright spot in the day,” Mom says. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“Yes, you are. Christ, you’re so like him, you know that? You and your damn father. You’re just alike. You want that smiling mommy, don’t you? That’s the mommy you love not . . . not . . .”
Not the one I have. I focus on my sneakers, but it doesn’t stop me from hearing how she’s banging dishes around now, sniffling. She’s wrong . . . and she’s right.
I can’t take her when she’s like this. I used to be better, but then again, she used to be better too. Her episodes were further apart. Now that Dad’s left . . .
She wheels on me. “You know what? If you’re so worried about work maybe you should get a job.”
“I have a couple of jobs. You know that.”
“I mean a real job, not that part-time crap.”
“I’m not dropping out of school.”
“Then find some other way to pull your weight, because we’re behind again. They’re going to shut off the power.”
How—I shake my head. I don’t want to know what she did with the money, because I already know how I’ll fix it: Ben’s job. Forget the prepping. Forget the research. I’ll just force my way through.
Mom’s sniffling climbs into sobbing and I push away from the table, taking the cordless phone with me. Outside, I dial Ben’s cell and when he answers, I swallow hard, closing my eyes against the sound of glass shattering.
“Yeah?” my cousin answers.
“It’s me.” I put my back to the trailer door and watch the guy across my street settle into his lawn chair, twelve-pack next to him. He’ll be swinging at anyone who moves in two hours. The cops will be called in three.
I rub my temples, but the dull ache won’t go away. “Pick me up tomorrow. Let’s get this done.”
3
I spend lunch the next day sitting on someone’s truck tailgate, sketching how my Spanish teacher’s hand looked as she passed us homework assignments. Generally, I hate almost everything I draw, but this isn’t too bad. The shading’s pretty spot-on and the dips and bumps of her bones are my best yet. It might be worth keeping for my portfolio. I’m just about to start Mrs. Ramirez’s sleeve when I hear a scuff against the pavement.
I jerk, sliding off the tailgate, ready to run. If it’s Principal Matthews, I’m hosed. We’re not supposed to be out here between classes, and this will make the third time I’ve been caught. It’ll be in-school suspension for sure.
Four rows over, a head of sky-blue hair flashes between the cars.
I go still. It’s not Matthews. It’s Wick.
I’m not so lame that she slows down my world. This isn’t a shampoo commercial where Wick’s hair blows in the breeze and I trip over myself, but yeah, I’m totally straining for another look at her.
Where’s she going? I toss my pad and pencil into my bag. Now would be the time to hoof it inside the school but my feet are pasted to the pavement, which is, honestly, a bit of a habit when it comes to that girl.