Page 15

“At noon.” I take a bite of my apple, holding back a small, happy groan at the juice flooding my mouth, knowing Mom will inevitably turn it into a diss at her.

“Then why are you dressed?” she asks.

“I’m going to the thrift store.”

Her mouth twists. “For what?”

“Mrs. Alvarez said she might have some fabric scraps. They’re free, so…”

Mom flicks ash into the tray and rolls her eyes. “Normal nineteen-year-olds go out with friends, Kamden. They get drunk. They get laid. They don’t spend their mornings digging through garbage for old lady clothes.”

Heat rises into my face. “I’m not looking for clothes. It’s… It’s for school.” The words slip out before I can swallow them down.

“Oh. That.” She takes another drag of her cigarette. “I told you to be realistic,” she says, shaking her head.

“I have a scholarship, Mom,” I mumble.

“So you’ve said.”

“It covers tuition,” I murmur, trying to back away from the conversation without being too obvious.

Mom scoffs. “And where will you live?”

“I’ll find a room.”

“With what money? And to what? College is just a waste of money and time. You’re better off just working like you are now. I’ve told you this.”

“I have to get going, Mom,” I whisper, pressing my nails into my palms.

“We’re having a conversation, Kamden. Don’t be disrespectful.”

I press my lips together because “disrespectful” is the word Mom uses whenever I don’t give her the reaction she wants. It’s not about respect at all. It’s about control. She’s bored, or angry, or both, and she needs somewhere to put it.

“I’m sorry,” I say, because it’s easier than fighting. “I just don’t want to miss the bus.”

“Your bus.” She exhales smoke toward the ceiling. “Always running off somewhere. Just like your father.”

The apple turns sour in my mouth, but I force myself to swallow. “I’m not running off. I’ll be back after work.”

“Uh-huh.” She stubs out the cigarette and immediately lights another, the flame catching with a soft hiss. “You know, Wade says you’re weird.”

A cold knot of dread coils in my gut. “Okay.”

“Not okay, Kamden. He says you make him uncomfortable. The way you slink around the house like you’re hiding shit.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“Then why do you lock your bedroom door?”

“I don’t.” I do. Every night. But she doesn’t know about the small screwdriver I keep wedged into the frame to hold it shut from the inside. The doorknob lock broke years ago.

I think it was Rick? Or maybe Al? It was one of the ones who believed it was their job to discipline me, since I’m fatherless and all.

“Wade says he heard you talking to yourself last week. At three in the morning,” Mom says, her eyes narrowing. “You know I ain’t paying for that therapy shit.”

“Mom, I wasn’t talking to myself. I don’t… need therapy.” Debatable.

“Better not. I already spend too much on you as is,” she complains.