“Yeah. He says there’s a generic version available now. But don’t worry, it’s still the same medication.”
Autumn is a good actress, but my shoulders still tense because Ma has a bullshit detector like no one I’ve ever met. It’s a measure of how rough the last few months have been that she only blinks in surprise once, then smiles gratefully.
“Well, that’s the best news I’ve had in a while.” She pulls an amber bottle from the pharmacy bag and unscrews the top, peering into it like she can’t believe it’s the same medication. It must meet her approval, because she crosses to the cabinet next to the refrigerator and pulls out a glass, filling it with water from the sink.
Autumn and I both watch her like a hawk until she actually swallows the pill. She’s been skipping doses for weeks, trying to stretch the latest bottle much further than it’s meant to go, because our finances suck right now.
Which brings me to Punch #2: my mother used to own her own business, a bowling alley called Spare Me that was a Carlton institution. Ma, Autumn, and I all worked there, and it was fun as hell. Until six months ago, when some kid slipped on an overwaxed lane and got hurt to the point that his parents went full lawsuit. By the time the dust settled, Spare Me was bankrupt and my mother was desperate to sell. Carlton developer extraordinaire James Shepard scooped it up for nothing.
I shouldn’t be mad about that. It’s business, not personal, Ma keeps telling me. I’m glad it was James. He’ll develop a good property. And yeah, he probably will. He’s shown Ma plans for a bowling alley–slash–entertainment complex that’s a lot glitzier than Spare Me, but not stupidly out of proportion for the town, and he asked her to take on a consulting role when it’s closer to final. There might even be a cushy corporate job for her down the line. Way down.
But the thing is: James’s daughter, Ivy, and I used to be friends. And even though it’s been a while, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t suck to hear about James’s plans from him instead of her. Because I know Ivy has the inside track. She hears about this stuff way before anyone else. She could’ve given me a heads-up, but she didn’t.
I don’t know why I care. It’s not like it would’ve changed anything. And it’s not like I hang out with her anymore. But when James Shepard came to our house with his rose-gold laptop and his blueprints, so goddamn nice and charming and respectful while he laid out how his company was going to rebuild from the ashes of my mother’s dream, all I could think was: You could’ve fucking told me, Ivy.
“Earth. To. Mateo.” Ma’s in front of me, snapping her fingers in my face. I didn’t even notice her move, so I must’ve been lost in thought for a while. Crap. That kind of zoning out worries my mother—who, sure enough, is peering at me like she’s trying to see inside my brain. Sometimes I think she’d yank it right out of my skull if she could. “You sure I can’t convince you to come to the Bronx for the day? Aunt Rose would love to see you.”
“I have school,” I remind her.
“I know,” Ma sighs. “But you’re never absent, and I feel like you could use a day off.” She turns toward Autumn. “Both of you could. You’ve been working so hard.”
She’s right. A day off would be incredible—if it didn’t involve at least seven hours round trip in a car with her college friend Christy. Christy offered to play chauffeur as soon as Ma said she wanted to visit Aunt Rose on her ninetieth birthday, which was great of her, since Ma can’t easily drive long distances anymore. But Christy never stops talking. Ever. And eventually, every conversation turns toward stuff she and Ma did during college that I’d rather live the rest of my life without knowing.
“Wish I could,” I lie. “But Garrett’s is short-staffed tonight.”
“Mr. Sorrento needs me, too,” Autumn says quickly. She doesn’t enjoy Christy’s monologues any more than I do. “You know how it is. Those knives won’t sharpen themselves. We’ll call Aunt Rose and wish her a happy birthday, though.”
Before Ma can answer, a familiar roar fills my ears and sets my teeth on edge. I cross to the front door and pull it open, stepping onto the porch. Sure enough, Gabe’s red Camaro is in our driveway, engine revving while he dangles one arm out of the driver’s-side window and pretends not to notice me. He’s slouched low in his seat, but not low enough that I can’t make out his slicked-back hair and mirrored sunglasses. Would I hate Gabe less if he didn’t look like such a massive sleaze all the time? The world will never know.
I lift my hands and start a slow clap as Autumn joins me outside, staring between me and the car with a puzzled expression. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“Giving it up for Gabe’s engine,” I say, clapping hard enough to make my palms sting. “Seems important to him that people notice it.”
Autumn shoves at my arm, disrupting the applause. “Don’t be a dick.”