9

My mother does not believe in complicated goodbyes.

We pack and load the car by ten. My favorite books are stacked to the brim of a plastic milk crate. My mother leaves no time to return the library’s copy of Oliver Twist, so I lay it on top. She doesn’t bother to call the high school.

“They’ll figure it out soon enough, Corns.”

She leaves the kitchen table, the vinyl chair in the living room that I like to read on, all the heavy stuff. She puts the electric bill and the telephone bill on the counter and leaves no forwarding address. She leaves the door open.

“There ain’t no room for all those books,” the boyfriend says when I carry them out.

I ignore him and put the crate under my feet and look out the window as we drive away.