Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“I might,” she protests, and I grin at that. “It does suck you won’t be around for senior year.”
“Yeah. Well, getting expelled took care of that.”
“It was a bonehead move.” She laughs at me. “Fucking amateur hour.”
“Easy, cupcake.”
Julie scoffs at my warning. “Oh, look at me, I’m a solid C-student hacking my grades to give myself straight As. Hope no one notices.”
“Alright, I got greedy. I admit it. Lesson learned.”
Honestly, I didn’t think a few overworked, underpaid public school teachers with three jobs and two hundred students would be paying attention. Or even give a shit. It’s not like I did it for myself, really. I thought it would be a nice birthday present for my mom. Make her feel good about herself, like I wasn’t a complete screwup. I should’ve just gotten her some flowers. Or at least not tampered with the one class taught by the teacher who hated me more than paper cuts.
“Do yourself a favor.” Julie snuffs out the joint and lights some incense on the nightstand. “Try to stay out of trouble.”
I shrug. “That’s impossible.”
We say goodbye with a hug. It’s more efficient this way. Clean and quick, no sense pretending either of us had a lot of emotion invested in this. Even if it wasn’t just sex, I’ve changed schools enough to learn how to leave. When you move around a lot, you don’t bother with many attachments. Everything ends.
At our little house on Phillips Avenue, I kill the engine of my old Jeep to find movers loading up a truck parked on the street. Before I even reach the front door, I can hear the screech of packing tape being pulled from the roll. Moving is practically a ritual in this family. The scent of cardboard. Empty rooms. Tiny particles caught mid-air in slanted sunbeams. These things are more familiar to me than chicken soup.
“Oh, RJ, there you are.” Mom emerges from among the towers of boxes. She checks her watch with a frown. “The movers have been here for hours. Where were you?”
“Saying my goodbyes.”
“Well, hurry up.” She plants a thick black marker in my hand. “I need you to figure out what you want to bring to Greenwich, what to ship to New Hampshire, and what’s getting donated.”
“Donated?” I didn’t know we were liquidating.
“Sure.” Mom blows hair out of her eyes and wipes the sweat from her brow. She’s got an almost frantic, giddy energy about her that is harshing my buzz a bit. “David already has furniture a hell of a lot nicer than this ratty old stuff. We’re getting a fresh start. Clean slate.”
“Okay, well, I’ll leave you and your clichés to your work. I’m gonna throw some clothes in a bag and call it good.”
“No, I’m serious. You’ll need to do a little more than that.” She all but drags me to my room, which the movers have already started dismantling into open boxes. “Labels. On everything, okay? Whatever you want sent to Sandover, make sure to mark it.”
“Right. What about belts and shoelaces? Should I ship those? Don’t want to get them confiscated by the warden.”
Her face falls and I know instantly I’ve stepped over the line. I don’t always mean to be such an ass. Not to her, anyway.
Mom softens her tone. “Is that how you feel? Be honest, are you mad at me because I’m sending you to boarding school?”
“I was joking. It’s fine.”
“No, talk to me.” She tugs my arm to sit on the bed beside her.
When I don’t speak, she brushes my hair back, searching my face. Christ. It’s always awkward when she gets all maternal on me. It’s just not her natural state. Which isn’t to say she’s an awful mother. We’ve always gotten along well. But as far as family ties go, ours have never been the strongest, what with her being gone a lot and generally being more interested in herself than anything I had going on.
I get it, though. She never set out to have a kid at nineteen. Shit happens. That she didn’t leave me on a bus or outside a fire station is more than my dad ever gave us. So I can’t really complain. But these heart-to-hearts don’t come naturally to either of us. When the rare one occurs, it feels like we’re impersonating characters we’ve seen on TV.
“This isn’t punishment, you know? I’m not trying to get rid of you. David thought this would be a good experience. Maybe keep you out of trouble,” she tactfully adds.
“Seriously, it’s not a big deal.” Given the choice, I’d rather not be trapped in that mansion with the two of them going at it all the time, worried about whether my mom had just been railed on the breakfast counter. “Besides, I’m used to being on own.”
My childhood is a graveyard of microwave dinners and pizza boxes. You quickly learn to be self-sufficient when your mom is hopping all over the country as a flight attendant. I was thawing leftovers while she was hitting on bachelors in first class.