I didn’t fully appreciate how small our house is until it had to contain my mother’s fury.
She’d never been yell-till-her-face-turns-red mad before—not at Autumn and me, anyway—until she got back from the Bronx late Tuesday night. But even that wasn’t the worst part. It’s the disappointment that really hurts, and the way she looks at us now. Like she doesn’t know who we are anymore.
I understand the feeling. Sometimes I don’t know, either.
Two and a half weeks after the Shittiest Day Ever, we’re still trying to figure out what normal looks like. It’s too early to tell what’s going to happen to Autumn, but she’s been cooperating with police and Christy’s doing a great job as her lawyer, so we’re cautiously optimistic that she’ll end up with probation and community service. Which she’s already started, at a shelter specializing in treating substance abuse.
Or I should say, we’ve already started.
“You’re doing the exact same thing she does,” Ma said angrily, and I wasn’t about to argue. It could’ve been a lot worse; Charlie St. Clair’s parents shipped him off to military school in New Hampshire.
Autumn and I volunteer at the shelter three afternoons a week, and if the goal was to get us to feel like absolute shit for being part of the opioid crisis—mission accomplished. I knew, in abstract, that Autumn, Charlie, and Boney selling a prescription drug to privileged Carlton kids was part of a bigger problem. But seeing it in real time is a whole other thing, especially since part of my job is coordinating activities for kids who live at the shelter. There’s no way I’ll go near anything stronger than aspirin again after playing basketball with an eight-year-old who, between free throws, told me about his mom’s third relapse.
Autumn and I are both drained when our shifts at the shelter end Friday afternoon, and it’s a relief to come home to a quiet house. Today Ma’s meeting with James Shepard, like she has almost every day this week, so she’s not around to give us the Glare of Doom.
“You working tonight?” Autumn asks, kicking off her sneakers before collapsing into a corner of the couch. Our house is back to normal; once we started cleaning up, I was relieved to see that most of the furniture was undamaged. We had to replace a few things, and a lot of kitchen stuff, but insurance took care of all that. Turns out Ma has much better coverage on our house than she did on her business.
I sink into the opposite end of the couch. “Yeah, but not till seven,” I say. I don’t have to tell her where. We’re down to one job each now that we know there’s going to be some kind of settlement from what Ivy did at Spare Me. I held on to Garrett’s, even though it’s the farthest away, and Autumn still drives the murder van. Mr. Sorrento has been really understanding about her whole situation. “You?”
“No,” she yawns, rubbing her eyes. “I have the night off.”
“What are you gonna do?” I ask.
Autumn snorts. “Oh, I have big plans. Netflix, ice cream, cutting Gabe out of all my pictures and burning his head. It’s gonna be a whole thing.”
“Sounds great. Let me know if you need help with the last part.” My cousin dumped Gabe as soon as she learned he’d given my name to Coach Kendall. She might’ve stuck with him when he was outed as the Weasel, considering how guilty she feels about her own part in Coach Kendall’s operation, but Gabe using my name sealed his fate. The silver lining to this disaster, I guess, is that we’re finally free of Loser Gabe.
“How are you getting to Garrett’s?” Autumn asks.
I suppress a sigh. “Dad’s driving me.”
True to his word—for once—Dad’s back in Carlton, working at White & West Music Emporium and inserting himself into my life like the overgrown best friend I never asked for. Harsh, I know. Though it’s hard not to resent the guy when his sudden attention, which is just kind of pointless and intrusive now, could’ve changed everything a few months ago.
But I go wherever he wants to take me, because Ma insists on it, and it’s not like I’m about to cross her on anything right now.
“It’s just—” I start, but I’m interrupted by the door opening. Ma comes in, and we instantly go silent. I try to gauge her expression as she walks toward us and sinks into an armchair. Does she look a little less grim than usual? Maybe?
“Were you two at the shelter earlier?” she asks, and we both nod like puppets. “Good.” She massages one of her knees, but more absently than like it’s really hurting her. Taking her medication regularly seems to be helping a lot with the pain. “It’s time for the three of us to have a little talk.”
Autumn and I exchange glances. “Okay,” I say cautiously.
Ma gives us a tight-lipped smile. “I have been beyond angry with the two of you,” she starts, and then pauses like she’s not sure where to go from there.