There’s nothing written on the ceiling but staring at it must do something for my brain because it’s all I’m able to do for a while afterward.
When I get out of the shower, my parents are home. The TV is on, playing NFL football, one of the early games. I’m hungry, but it takes me a few minutes to mentally steel myself to go down there. I’m sure there will be updates about the various elders and an “everybody asked about you” speech from Mom that I’ll have to endure, somehow, without losing my shit or talking back.
My phone zings. Text message from Patrick:
-1 EMERGENCY MEETING. JANNA’S HOUSE.
WHEN?
NOW, DOOFUS.
Two seconds later, he adds:
BRING SNACKS.
I jerk on a pair of jeans and tumble down to the kitchen. It occurs to me to wonder what sort of emergency requires stopping to gather snacks, but I do it.
I toss Wheat Thins and string cheese into a paper grocery sack. They look small and lonely down at the bottom of the huge bag, so I crawl into the pantry to my bottom-shelf snack stash and grab some pretzels, a bag of baby oranges, a pack of M&M’s, and an open bag of Cheetos that might be stale because I totally forgot they were in here, so I haven’t been eating them.
“What are you doing?” Mom asks.
I flinch, feeling like a raccoon caught rifling through the trash bin. “Um, I have to go out.” I turn toward her voice, but I don’t see her.
Oh. She’s lying on the floor between the kitchen island and the stove.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a sandwich,” she says, like it’s totally normal to do that while horizontal. On the island there’s the bread, a jar of mayonnaise, and a table knife. The package of turkey slices rests on her stomach. I pick it up, step over her, and finish the sandwich for her.
“Out where?” Mom says. “Since when do you go ‘out’?”
“Something came up, with a friend.”
“Right now? Kerm, I—” She moves her hand in a way that means, look at me. As I do, incongruous images clash in my head. Two hours ago, Mom managed to look perky as hell on the way out the door to church. See? I want to tell her. This is what you get.
“Well, you look … kinda busy,” I acknowledge. “It’s fine. I have a ride.”
“You know the rule.” Her eyes are closed.
“Mom—”
My phone rings. Matt. “I’m out front,” he says. “Hurry up.”
“Um. Can I go?” I say to Mom, setting the sandwich plate on her stomach. “It’s kind of important.”
She frowns up at me. “It’s snowing.”
“My friend Matt is picking me up.”
“I don’t know Matt,” Mom says. “Who is Matt?”
“He’s a really safe driver,” I promise. “And he lives barely a mile away. I can walk to his place if you say I have to. But it’s really cold. And snowy, apparently. And there’s no sidewalk part of the way.”
Mom hates it when I try to walk on the main road, even though people do it all the time and it’s perfectly fine. She’s convinced some car won’t see me and will randomly go off the road at the exact moment I’m passing by. I sneakily do it anyway sometimes. Mom’s paranoia is pointless. It didn’t save my sister, who was practically perfect in every way Mom wanted her to be. Unlike me.
“Who is Matt?” she repeats.
“He’s outside right now,” I tell her. “You can go meet him. He’s super responsible.”
She purses her lips. “Write down the phone number where you’ll be.”
I wave my cell in her face. “Duh. I have my phone.”
“I don’t care,” she snaps. “This Matt. I want to talk to his mother.”
“His mother’s dead,” I tell her. Mom flinches. “Yeah, we have something in common. So I’m going out.” I scoop up the sack of snacks and stomp toward the front door. I yank my parka off the coat tree and slam my free arm into one sleeve. Good enough to get out of here.
Matt reaches across and pushes open the door for me. I ease it the rest of the way open with my foot and jump in, pushing the grocery sack between my legs, down into the footwell.
Mom doesn’t even pull on a coat. She comes after me, trotting down the front walk, her feet stuffed into an unlaced pair of tennis shoes that might actually have belonged to Sheila.
“God,” I mutter. “Drive. Go. Go now.”
Instead, Matt flicks the button that rolls down the passenger-side window. “Hi, Mrs. Sanders.”
“Matt?” She bends to peer in the window.
“Yes. I’m Matthew Rincorn.” He leans across me and stretches a hand out the window. Mom shakes it. Then her fingers flutter to rest on the lip of the window, clinging to the door.
“I—” she says. “I want—” Her voice stalls.
“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” Matt says. “I’ll have Kermit back by nine, is that all right?”
“Um, well…”
“Earlier, if you like,” he says. “We’re just having some fun.”
Snowflakes dampen her arms, neck, and shoulders. She looks up at the sky. “I’m afraid it’s going to get worse.”
“It’s not far, ma’am,” Matt confirms. “We’ll be all right. He can call you when we get there.”
“I’ll text you,” I tell her. “I promise.”
“Drive safely,” Mom says.
“Ma’am, I know I have your son’s life in my hands, so to speak,” he says. “I take the responsibility very seriously.”
“Okay,” she says, relaxing her grip. She looks at me. “Well, how about eight? I don’t want you out so long after dark.”
Eleven’s my normal weekend curfew; I intend to protest. But it’s Sunday, so it’s a school night.
“Sure, but I don’t have to be home until ten,” Matt says. “When I bring him back early, can the two of us hang out here until then?”
“Yes,” Mom says on a sigh of relief. “I’d prefer that. I’ll make pizza.”
“Sounds great.”
“Come here.” Mom grabs me and kisses my face. “I love you, sweetie.” Gross display of affection. I tolerate it, though mortified. Matt looks away.
Mom rushes back inside. She must be freezing.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “My mom’s a total freak.”
Matt shrugs. “She can’t help it. She loves you, like she said.” He pulls out of the driveway real slow. Mom waves to us from behind the screen door, and I feel good enough to wave back. It strikes me how smooth Matt just was. I’d have ended up yelling and screaming and probably not allowed to go anywhere ever again.
“That was good,” I tell him. “Like, amazingly good.” If I could handle Mom that easily, my life would be totally different.
“Yeah, I’m great with women.” Matt laughs, bursting and loud. “It’s such a fucking waste. Isn’t that always the way?”
I laugh, too. “Well, if you have any pointers, I’ll take them.”
Matt steals a glance at me. A strange, distant expression. Like the transmission console between us is a much wider gulf than it should be. I wonder, in the wake of it, when he returns his eyes to the whitening road, what he’s thinking. I wonder if he knows my comment was kind of a forced thing. The thing I figured a normal guy would say.