“You can do it, son!” Eve squeezes my non-throwing arm with steely determination in her eyes.
This shot has become the most important goal in my life. Half the town is watching, and for once, they’re rooting forme. There’s no ill will, no rolling eyes, nocan you believe this guyshakes of their heads. Even Mr. Donahue is hunched forward, palms braced against his thighs, spectating from the sidelines.
“I’ve got odds on a perfect game, perfect game—who’s in?” A few hands reach over his shoulder to press cash into his.
I press the ball to my chest, touched. Mr. Donahue’s… takingbets?
Sweat prickles down my neck as I lower my throwing arm and turn to address the crowd. “I just want to say, your support means everything.”
Cheers boom around me. I am Rocky, entering the ring. Jon Bon Jovi spotted in the frozen aisle at Shop Rite. Guy Fieri’s frosted tips just, like, all the time.
“When I first grasped this ball—”
Eve yanks my sleeve. “Just shoot. No speech.”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “I won’t let you down!” I thrust my arm high into the air, feeling the rowdy cheering in my very bones.
I take my spot, aim, and—
plink.
The crowd goeswild.
“Aww, great job, sweetie!” I turn around as a soft hand pats my back, my heart lurching in my chest as the crowd disperses.
“Mom?”
Her face is loose and happy, and it breaks into a grin positively dripping with oxytocin. She is wearing a long, lime-green feather boa and a plastic top hat intended for St. Patrick’s Day, except somebody has taped a weed leaf over its shamrock. Her eyes are bloodshot and dilated.
Beside her is Dr. Srinivasan, smiling proudly and housing a bag of Cheetos.
I blink at her, utterly dumbfounded, as she pulls me into a big, embarrassing hug, swaying side to side and refusing to let me go. The smell emanating from her clothing brings me back like a time machine to our old garage, where Dad languished day after day, doing absolutely nothing with his life and—and—
Smoking marijuana.
“Are youhigh?” I pull out of her arms forcefully, but she doesn’t seem to clock my question or my rising anger.
“This is wonderfully open-minded of you, Julie. Supporting Nomi’s dispensary at her Pot Luck like this.” Mom beams dopily at me. “I’m so proud of you, sweetie.”
Pot luck? Nomi?Dispensary?!
I can’t process any of this because Mom’s standing there, stoned out of her mind in her ridiculous weed hat, andstill, her words pulse through me like a bigger, stronger heartbeat than my own.
I’m so proud of you, sweetie.
My eyes feel suspiciously heavy, like they might producetearsover this, which is outrageous and cannot be borne.
“I’m not here because I’mopen-minded,” I spit it out like it’s a dirty word. “I’m here to pick up Dr. Srinivasan.”
Her grin falters, then collapses into the small, disappointed frown I know too well. Dr. Srinivasan places a calm hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Gisella.”
“I can’t believe you, Mom!” I rake my fingers into my hair. “I can’t believe you’rehere, doingdrugs!” I point at Dr. Srinivasan. “Withhim!”
Before she can say another word, I turn and flee into the house, up the stairs within, through a door I slam shut behind me, and then, out the window.
Shit.I should’ve stopped with the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
