Why didn’t Mr. Sinclair answer? What’s the big mystery?
Who says there’s a mystery? Maybe Mr. Sinclair didn’t like the kid and just won’t talk about him. Or maybe there wasn’t a boy. Maybe the stuff is from when the owner was little and he went to a nursing home and it just got left.
I think about maybes and what-ifs for I don’t know how long, then go inside.
“Did you get lost?” Mom asks, laughing. She’s already frying burgers and boiling mixed veggies. “Uh, about the rest of the groceries?”
“Sorry.” This always happens when I think about things: my brain flies out the window. I go back to the car and bring in the last few bags.
Mom ladles out the food as I set the table. “So, how was your first day?”
“Great,” I lie.
“Wonderful.” Mom brings over our plates. “Could you give me some examples of what made it great?”
I sigh. “Great classes. Great locker. Great cafeteria.”
“And the kids?”
“Great.”
Mom waits for me to say something else, but I just start eating. She gives her amused smile, the one that says, You’re funny when you get like this. “On the subject of great, I had a pretty great day myself.”
“You made lots of contacts?”
“Even better. I got a job.”
I practically choke. “What?”
“At least for now.” Mom beams. “Ken’s receptionist is having a baby. She’s been working till he could find someone to take over. I said I had office experience, and, well, I’m shadowing her till the end of the week and taking over Monday.”
“You’ll be working for that real estate guy?”
“Don’t frown. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.”
I slump into my chair. Cowboy Boots. Every day I’ll be hearing about Cowboy Boots.
Mom reads my mind. “It’s a job, Cameron. And he didn’t ask for references.”
References are a killer for Mom. She’s scared that if a company checks her past, people at her old place will know where she’s working now and Dad’ll find out. Besides, who hires someone with a history of suddenly quitting?
“Terrific, then. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Mom’s smile goes into overdrive. “I don’t want to ‘ruin your reputation,’ but that offer of a ride to school is open. I can drop you off on my way to work and pick you up after five on my way home. You’d have time to join a club, finish your homework in the library.”
Five? If I take the bus after school, that means I’ll be here alone—and Mr. Sinclair has a key. But if Mom drives me, the gang on the bus will think I’m scared of them. I picture them crowding me at my locker: Hey, Cammy, you scared, Cammy? Where’s your mommy, Cammy?
“The bus is good.” I chew and swallow, but I don’t taste anything. I’m underwater, hardly able to hear Mom when she asks me what’s wrong. I stop eating and stare at my plate. Mom asks again.
“Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. It’s great.”
Mom tilts her head. “Cameron, it’s not. I can tell. What is it?”
I shrug. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“I can listen.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have anything to say.”
“Is it about my new job?”
“No. I’m glad about that. Really.”
We sit for a while, not saying a word, then Mom clears my plate and brings me a bowl of ice cream for dessert. “Don’t worry,” she says quietly. “It’ll get better. The first day at a new school is always hard. I remember when…”
I zone out while she tells me the story about what it was like for her when Grandpa and Grandma moved when she was little. One girl made her life miserable, but by the end of the year they were best friends. This story is supposed to let me know she understands what I’m going through, but it doesn’t. It just makes me feel stupid, because apparently I don’t know what I’m feeling. Also—hello, Mom—having a gang that can beat me up whenever it feels like it isn’t like you having some girl who made fun of your sweater.
Besides, I’m not even thinking about school. I’m thinking about Mr. Sinclair and whether I should tell Mom he has a key and he let himself into the house. I mean, he could do that in the middle of the night while we’re sleeping. I picture him standing at the foot of my bed, staring at me.
Stop it, that’s crazy.
Is it? Anyway, if I tell, so what? Mom’ll freak, but then she’ll say, “Every landlord has a key, and I did ask him to clear things out, so it’s my fault. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him about limits.” And Mr. Sinclair’ll say, “Sorry,” and Mom will act like everything’s fine. Only it won’t be. Mr. Sinclair will know I’m scared, and he’ll still have the key.
“…And by the end of the year, Marcia and I were best friends.” Mom reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “Trust me, honey, things will get better. Things always get better.”
“Oh yeah?” I pull my hand away, so mad I can’t think. “Things always get better? Like with Dad?” Mom turns white. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
Mom gets up and takes our dishes to the sink. She braces herself against the counter.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Never mind. Go do your homework.”
“Mom—”
She raises her hand, not mad or anything, just like it’s on a string. And I know that’s it. Nothing I say can make it better.