30

On the way home I formulate a plan, which doesn’t take long as there’s only one course of action left: I need to hand over the Book of Busts to someone else in such a way that the guys won’t hate me or beat the crap out of me. Right now I’m running low on the popularity meter—I’ve lost my quartet friends, and it’s pretty clear that all the senior girls hate me—and I’m counting on the guys to make sure I reach graduation with all my limbs intact. After all, there may be multiple groups currently planning retribution.

When I get home, I lock myself in my room and wait for Mom. I figure I’ll know when she arrives because she’ll try to break my door down.

An hour passes, then two. Eventually I hear the front door click open downstairs and Matt the Mutt greets Mom like she’s the center of the universe—which, at least for the dog, she probably is.

I wait for her to climb the stairs, but she doesn’t. I wait for her to scream, but she doesn’t. There’s not a sound down there. It’s the quietest our house has ever been.

I let another five minutes go by, but by then I can’t bear the suspense any longer. I want to get this over with. There’s no way to avoid it, so the best thing is if she just reams me, grounds me, tells me I’m evil and disowns or castrates me, exactly as Abby predicted.

I tiptoe down the stairs and peek into the kitchen, and the living room, and the study. She’s not there. And then I notice that her bedroom door is closed, so I creep over and knock as gently as I can.

There’s no answer, but I detect the faintest hint of moaning from the other side, so I knock again. Still nothing, but I open the door anyway.

She’s sitting against the wall, hugging her knees like she’s twelve years old. I think I’ve heard her say that developmental regression is sometimes a result of an emotionally devastating event, which I guess puts the blame firmly on me.

“Are you okay, Mom?”

“Why why why why why why—”

“Mo-om?”

Her mouth continues to open and close, but she’s stuck on why like a damaged CD.

I take a tentative step toward her, then another. “Mom, I’m really sorry.”

She sighs. “Where did I go wrong? What was it I failed to do? . . . failed to explain?”

“Nothing. You didn’t fail at all.”

“Why were you at Hooters?”

Hooters? Oh, the credit card statement must have come. Crap.

“That was when I was with Dad.”

“What were you and your father doing at Hooters?”

I should tell her the truth—Dad was getting hammered and ogling the waitresses—but I think it would break her heart, so I don’t say a word.

A moment later she’s crying, and although Dad used to have her in tears at least once a month, it’s the first time in my life I’ve been responsible. And I don’t feel glib or defiant or even defensive anymore. I just feel like an asshole.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I really am. I just wanted to be popular for a change.”

“Popular with whom? I mean, it doesn’t seem like you’re popular with the girls in my class.”

“No. It hasn’t exactly worked out like I planned.”

“You planned this?” A fresh dose of crying ensues, and she peers up at me through the curtain of tears. “Who are you?”

“I’m me. Kevin.”

“No, you can’t be. My Kevin would never do something so hurtful.” She closes her eyes. “I think you should go stay with your father this weekend. I can’t have you around right now.”

I crouch down beside her. “I don’t think he’s going to be very helpful, Mom. I really don’t want to go—”

“I don’t care. I need you out of here, and I think that spending some time with your father will help.”

The idea is so stupid that I snort, hoping she’ll take offense and have it out with me right here, right now. But she doesn’t bite. She just remains crumpled against the wall, gently rocking back and forth.

“There’s money in the drawer. Call your father, then call a cab. I expect you gone in half an hour. If you can’t figure things out by talking to him, then don’t bother coming back.”

She doesn’t look up, so after a few more seconds of silence I prepare to leave. I can’t believe it, but Abby was right: Mom’s disowned me. Then again, so has Abby, and Morgan and Taylor and Kayla and Jessica, and Nathan and probably even Caitlin. And I’m still not clear on how everything got so incredibly messed up.

I pause at the doorway and listen to the awful sobbing that became the soundtrack of our lives after Dad left. Mom cried for so long I began to wonder if she’d ever stop. But these last few weeks, since she started teaching at Brookbank High, there haven’t been any tears. She’s even begun to resemble that bohemian scholar in the photo upstairs: determined, energetic, content. My insanely dysfunctional high school—the bane of my existence—gave her a taste of happiness, of fulfillment. And she really did make a difference. Had I undone everything?

I look over my shoulder, but I can’t bear to make eye contact. “Mom, I know I don’t deserve it, but would you apologize to your class for me? I mean, for everything I’ve done.”

She shakes her head. “No, Kevin, I won’t … They took a vote. They don’t want me to come back.”