Part 3 (1/2)
31.
back, back to Lincoln Grove and my bedroom and the sound of tire wheels squeaking on the smooth concrete of the garage floor. My dad is home. I feel my whole body tense up as I wait for him to enter the kitchen, as I wait for the greeting I know won't come, and as I wait for the inevitable clink of ice cubes.
The door slams, footsteps. Then I hear the cupboard bang shut, a gla.s.s slams onto the countertop, the refrigerator opens and closes, the freezer door swings open ... pause, clink, clink, clink, and close. Then footsteps into the den, and silence. My fingernails have been digging into my palms.
When I was in middle school, B.T.A., my dad would come home, race up the stairs -- the thudding of his footsteps like a happy waltz -- and he'd knock, saying, ”Shave and a haircut,” to which I'd answer with a shouted ”Two bits!”
”Hey, Rabbit, how's the homework coming? I know I'm old, but need any help?” he would ask. It was like a dance that we'd performed over and over, so many times for all thirteen years of my life. Till now.
I leave the pencils and paper and map behind, pull my textbooks and notebooks from my backpack and, sliding onto the bed, begin to do my homework.
Geometry, with its postulates and proofs, theorems and corollaries, will be hard. American history might not be too bad, but biology will surely be. For English cla.s.s, I'm going to have to read a ton, but honestly, I'm kind of looking forward to reading some of the books, like The Odyssey, Wuthering
32.
Heights, Romeo and Juliet, and Invisible Man. And then there is art cla.s.s. Ms. Calico explained that we will start with sketching still lifes, then painting them, and then we'll each have to find an independent project to focus on. I wonder if I could make something of my map drawings. How much freedom to explore will Ms. Calico allow us? Just thinking about it starts a tingle of excitement in my stomach. Or my gut. Even if I have to face Damian Archer, there is a glimmer of promise yet.
The door to the garage suddenly crashes shut, and my mother's voice rings out. ”Daniel, Cora, I'm home! Cora, are you here?” she calls shrilly.
I run down the stairs and meet her in the kitchen. ”Here, let me help,” I say, bending to a.s.sist her in hauling in and putting away the bags of groceries that now cover every inch of floor s.p.a.ce between the stove and dishwasher.
”How was school, Cor?” my mother asks, eyeing me keenly and ignoring the fact that my dad still has not answered her call.
”Fine,” I reply.
”Fine? Just fine? How were your cla.s.ses? Are you in many with Rachel?” she peppers me with questions. I'm not in the mood to be grilled, but it looks like it will be unavoidable.
”My cla.s.ses were fine. I only have homeroom with Rachel, and we had lunch together today.”
”I see,” Mom says, sighing, looking tired and downcast.
33.
My mom used to look pretty young -- younger than most of the other kids' mothers, at any rate -- for her age with her short, light-brown hair and once-bright hazel eyes. But the dark, puffy circles beneath them cast a shadow over her face. Now she looks old and tired beyond her years.
”Art cla.s.s seems cool,” I add, feeling sorry for her. If only there was something I could say that would make her feel better, less worried about me falling into an abyss, which would pull her back from her own black hole. There's no way I'm telling her about Damian.
”That's nice,” she murmurs, her voice, her gaze far away. Where does she go when she grows distant like this? Is she thinking of Nate? Of how our family used to be? Is she traveling through time? Or does she get caught in some quicksand pit of despair?
”Well, what's for dinner?” I ask, trying to stir her, bring her back to the present.
”Meat loaf,” my mom replies absently, then she sort of shakes herself and sets about making the preparations.
”Can I help?” I offer.
”No, it's okay. Go do your homework.”
”Um, Mom, could I ask you something?” I begin.
”Sure, what is it?” she answers, coming back to me.
”There's this thing, the LGH Bonfire. They have it every year. It's an official school thing, like a pep rally, only it's at night. Could I go? Mom? I'd go with Rachel, and it'd be really
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safe.” I know I am talking way too fast, but I don't know how else to ask this. Just bringing it up feels like an act of contrition. If I seem normal, maybe she'll feel better.
”Oh. I -- I don't know.”
”Please, Mom? You can't -- I -- It's a school thing. Teachers will be there, and tons of kids. It'll be safe. I promise.” I think about how I don't even want to go, but as I speak, I realize this is a battle I have to win. For both our sakes.
”But you'll be roaming around at night, and I know how these things are -- I remember --” Her voice breaks. But she clears her throat and presses on. ”There will be drinking there. And I don't want you out on the roads at night.”
”Mom, I can't drive, remember? Can't I go if you drive me? Or Rachel's mom?” I can see that she is considering this.
”Well...” She drifts away again.
”Mom?” I try. ”Mom!”
”All right.” She snaps back to life. ”You can go. But I'll drive you there, and pick you up at nine thirty, no later.”