“Get up, Leni.”
“Go away.” I groan and roll over.
“Leni.” Mom tugs on my covers.
I yank them away. “Not now. Not again.”
It’s dark under here, so dark that for a moment I don’t have a clue where I am. I could be anywhere or nowhere, something or nothing.
My mother crashes around the room, muttering under her breath. I hold mine. Maybe she will forget about me, forget about whatever is on her mind, whatever has her going at whatever time this is.
Mom drags my quilt off me. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here.”
This scenario plays out so often I should be used to it by now. It doesn’t matter if we’re leaving something behind or headed somewhere specific. It’s all in my mother’s head.
“It’s the middle of the night,” I say, as if it makes a difference to her. “I’m tired.”
She holds out my sweater. My shoes. “Get going.”
I haul the covers back over my head.
I hear my runners thud as they hit the floor. “Fine then,” she says. “I’ll go without you.”
I lie still. I feel Mom next to my bed. Hear her breath. “Go on then, why don’t you,” I mutter.
She doesn’t move.
I feel my blood pulsing in my ears.
“Okay. I’m going,” she says. But she still doesn’t move.
How many times have we been through this stupid song and dance? Testing each other?
She wants to leave. I want to stay. Even if this place is no better than any of the others.
“Fine.” She walks away. A drawer opens and closes. A chair squeals. A zipper hisses.
I can see it all, the way she pulls together the few things that have been spread around the place since we got here—one day ago, or three—into her old blue duffel bag. Shoves her bulging purse under her arm, drags her red quilt from the couch or cot she’s been sleeping on this time.
Now she’s standing at the door, looking back. Checking for whatever she may have left behind.
As I wait her out, my breath moves up my chest into my throat.
When I can take the silence no longer, I peer over the top of my quilt. Mom is staring at me. Not challenging or demanding. Pleading. “Leni. Come on. Please.” Her hair is unbrushed. One side of her collar sticks up against her neck.
“Jeez!” I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
The one thing in the world worse than being dragged around by a crazy mom? If she left without me.
“What is it this time?” I pull on my clothes, shove my stuff into my backpack and grab my pillow and comforter, the box of cereal and two apples.
“Get moving,” she says. “I’ll tell you in the car.”