“Reagan,” Mom calls out and I immediately regret not doing my Black Angel walk.
“Crap,” I say under my breath. I can tell by the way she says my name that she’s going to want to talk about missing the trip to Templeton and I just don’t feel like it. I don’t have the energy to “talk it through.” She always wants to “talk it through” so she can feel like she’s doing her job as a mother, but really I think she just wants me to tell her it’s all right and that I’ll be just fine without them. And so I do it. Every time I follow the script and tell her what she wants to hear so she can bury the guilt and sleep at night.
“Reagan, can you come here, please?” she calls out again. I sigh, dig my heel into the floor, and turn around. I walk toward the opposite end of the hallway, following the light that pours out of her open bedroom door and onto the dark wood floors.
She looks up when I enter the room. She is so pretty, my mother, with her ivory skin and wide-set eyes. Her makeup is off and a plush cream robe is pulled tight around her thin frame. A small black suitcase is open on their dark gray linen bedspread. My mother is neatly folding articles of clothing and placing them inside. It’s a mixture of normal clothes—jeans, sweaters, T-shirts—and black clothes, or what I like to call their “kick-ass gear.”
“I take it by the size of the suitcase you won’t be gone long this time,” I say and walk across the cream carpeting to the dark leather chair in the corner. I sit down, throwing my legs up on the matching ottoman, crossing them in front of me.
“Those boots better be clean, my love,” Mom says, eyeing my boots on the leather ottoman.
“Don’t worry,” I answer, looking at the soles of my feet. “I went tramping through mud and cow manure a week ago. Should have worked its way off the boots and onto all the cream carpeting in the house by now.”
“No need to get smart,” Mom says, doing a double take with my outfit. She’s used to seeing me in PJs or sweats by this time of night. Not a red scoop-neck long-sleeve T-shirt and dark skinny jeans. “Where are you going?”
“Just to Luke’s to study for our AP bio test tomorrow,” I answer, gesturing toward the window that overlooks the Weixels’ home.
“Don’t you think you should stay in tonight?” she asks with a sigh. She likes Luke. But I don’t think she loves how much time we spend together.
“He’s got the notes for a couple of the classes I missed when I was in DC with you guys,” I answer. Pulling out the Black-Angels-make-me-miss-school card usually shuts her down.
“Okay,” Mom responds, semisatisfied.
“So, how long will you be gone this time?” I ask and nod toward the suitcase.
“Not very long,” she answers and returns to her folding. “Couple days is all.”
“Why can’t people need saving when we don’t have plans?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light and this conversation short. Mom looks up from her packing. Her intense eyes are uncharacteristically sad and I know guilt is twisting her stomach into knots. Good, I think, then immediately feel guilty for being glad that she feels guilty. It’s a vicious cycle.
“Sorry we can’t be there Saturday,” she says, leaning her hip on the side of the bed. She looks down at my father’s socks, unfolds them, and then refolds them.
“It’s fine. I understand,” I say and shrug, following the script.
“It’s all part of your cover anyways,” Mom says, waving her hand through the air, brushing it off and with it, any feelings I might have on the subject. “Just go with a friend or something.”
“Yeah. Sure,” I reply with a weak smile. It’s not even a question for them where I’ll be next year. And every time they talk about my future with steadfast certainty, the knot that’s been anchored to my stomach since Philadelphia pulls tighter and tighter.
“I’m also upset we’re going to miss the country club’s fall gala with Harper’s parents,” Mom says without looking up from her packing.