She places the pan in the kitchen sink, where it ricochets off other dishes. “Almost ready.” She sits across from me and places the plate of gross in front of me. Her hair is graying a little on the sides, but her face is wrinkle-free. I wonder how she does it—how she looks so young. I know I’m the reason for the few gray hairs she does have. She had me when she was twenty—a product of a spring vacation fling that turned into more. She’d met my father in Florida and said it was love at first sight, but I don’t believe her because if it was he wouldn’t have left. People who “fall in love at first sight” don’t ever leave each other. That’s what that means, I think.
I don’t know a lot about love, though. I’ve only had a couple of boyfriends, but never long. They were more the let’s hold hands and go to the movies, make out on a Saturday night, and break up a few weeks later type. It’s better I didn’t have more. I would hate to have to leave that kind of love behind. The kind where a boy loves you and you can only think of them and what they’re doing and of the next time you’re going to see them. That slow burn that ignites each time you see each other. Yes, I’ve read romance novels. I should feel deprived that I never got that, but I’m content with not having it. I have to be to die. It’s the constant guilt-love that I have to carry around like luggage. That’s the love I can leave behind.
I lift my fork and scoop out a bite of the soggy fish and stare at the substance, contemplating how awful it must taste. The plate’s chipped on the side, gouged out at some point in time or knocked on the counter. I can’t remember if I did it, or if she did, or maybe Dad or . . . . There’s imperfections all over the house. The stair that creaks too loud, the cabinet door that hangs when you open it, the fridge door that doesn’t shut all the way unless you close it gently. It’s not even an old house.
“Eat,” Mom says, forking the sludge on her plate. “How was school?”
“Fascinating.”
She shoves the food into her mouth and chews, scrutinizing me. “Something’s different about you.”
I perk up. Can she see the desperation on me? I quickly change my posture and lift my chin so I look more put together.
“Did you do something different with your hair?”
I let my back slouch. “Yeah, it’s parted on the right instead of the left,” I lie.
She nods.
I poke at the fish and taste the cabbage. It’s atrocious, but I eat it all because that’s what a good daughter does—a daughter who isn’t thinking about killing herself.
When we’re done, she gathers our plates and puts them in the dishwasher. “I need to get ready for work. You know the rules,” she says, closing the dishwasher door.
“No boys, no sex, no fun.”
She laughs. “Fun’s allowed.” She walks by and squeezes my shoulder. “It won’t always be like this. When you go to college . . . .” She laughs again. “Good Lord, help me. I don’t even want to think about the shenanigans you’ll get into then.” She glances down at me with a thoughtful expression.
“You said shenanigans, Mom. I’m so proud.”
She laughs and walks out of the kitchen. “I thought you’d like that,” she yells, clomping up the steps.
A twinge of guilt wiggles into my heart, but I tamp it down. I’ve gotten good at that. When my heart’s mission is to stop beating, I can’t let anything get in the way, not even Mom and her big words I never thought she’d use.
I run upstairs and plop down on my bed, sinking into the comforter, and slide my earbuds into my ears. I turn on the TV so there’s more noise in the background. I hate the silence; it reminds me of the voices I’ve heard. Mom’s comforting tone. The clink of dishes as she makes her awful meals. My little sister Tate’s laugh as she ran down the hall, chasing our old cat, George. Her tiny voice calling me Sissy. I used to hate when she called me that, but now her voice haunts me like a permanent echo.
I open my calculus book, stare at the same page for five minutes, then close it. I’m not going to need this anymore. No use torturing myself.
Out of nowhere, Dean pops into my head. I grab my laptop off the floor and flip it open to do some cyber-stalking on him when my phone rings. I glance at my phone and Jackson’s picture’s not there. Instead, a number I don’t recognize is. I debate answering it, but slide the answer button to the side.
“Hello?”
“Ellery?”
It sounds like . . . shit.
“It’s Colter.”
What the hell is he calling me for? And how did he get my—
“I got your number from Jackson.”
Fucking Jackson.
“What do you want?” I say, trying desperately to sound nice, but sure I sound like an asshole.
“You’re so pleasant. I can’t imagine why you don’t have any friends.”
“Jackson’s my friend.”
“Jackson’s a puppy who follows you around for some reason.”
Oh, he’s trying the tough love thing. I’ve seen this on TV. I can play too, Tom Sawyer. I laugh. There’s something about him that makes me want to listen. “Okay. Really, what do you want?”
“You haven’t told anyone I let you go, have you?”
“Let me go?”
“I could get in big trouble if someone finds out I didn’t give you to the cops when you had that gun.”
Ah, okay. This makes more sense. Maybe he doesn’t want to save me. Could I have misjudged Mr. Do-Gooder?
“I’m not going to tell anyone. Your secret’s safe with me.”
The phone crackles with his breathing. It sounds intimate, like something I shouldn’t be able to hear.
“Okay.”
It’s silent. I’m waiting for him to hang up.