Page 1 of Lennox Lane

PROLOGUE

Lane Sanders learned early that good news was only good if it belonged to somebody else.

She was fifteen the day she came home with a straight-A report card tucked into the front pocket of her backpack like it was a winning lottery ticket. All the way from school, she held one hand over the pocket, pressing the folded paper against her stomach. At the same time, the bus groaned through Stonebridge traffic and kids around her complained about homework, teachers, cafeteria food, and parents who cared too much.

Lane didn’t complain.

She watched the blocks pass through the scratched-up window and imagined her mother smiling. That was always where Lane messed up. She imagined too much.

She imagined Jeanette Sanders looking up from the couch, seeing all those A’s lined up neat and perfect, and saying something soft. Something proud. Something that made the nights Lane stayed up studying with an empty stomach and a busted lamp feel worth it. Maybe her mother would tell her she was smart. Maybe she would say Lane was going somewhere. Maybe she would touch her cheek without leaving pain behind.

By the time Lane stepped off the bus, she had built a whole scene in her mind.

Jeanette would be happy.

Jeanette had to be happy.

The report card was proof that Lane was not like the rest of the mess around them. It was proof she could get out. Proof she could be more than cracked linoleum. More than unpaid bills. Have a life where cabinets held more than noodles and government cheese. A place where men don’t come around smelling like liquor and sweat. A place where her autonomy is not at risk.

The apartment complex sat tired and gray beneath a cloudy sky, its brick face stained from years of rain and neglect. A shopping cart leaned sideways near the dumpster, one wheel spinning lazily in the wind. Somebody’s baby cried from a second-floor window. Music thumped behind another door, muffled and bass-heavy. You could hear two boys from the building next door arguing over a bike neither one of them owned.

Lane ignored all of it and hurried up the stairs.

She still had hope in her chest when she unlocked the door. That was the part she would hate herself for later. The apartment smelled like old grease and the cheap floral spray Jeanette used when she wanted to pretend the place was clean. The curtains were drawn even though it was the middle of the afternoon, leaving the living room dim and yellow around the edges. A soap opera played too loud on the television as the women on the screen cried in perfect makeup while Jeanette sat on the couch in a stained tank top and pajama shorts with one leg tucked beneath her, a cigarette hanging from her fingers.

An empty bottle sat on the floor beside her foot. Jeanette lifted her eyes when Lane came in, and the room changed before a word was spoken. Her mother had that look on her face. The one Lane had learned to read before most girls learned how to read boys. Heavy lids. Tight mouth. Shoulders pulled up as if the whole world had climbed onto her back, and somehow Lane was responsible for carrying it.

“You late,” Jeanette said.

Lane glanced at the cracked clock on the wall that always ran five minutes slow. “The bus was late.”

Jeanette gave a humorless laugh and tapped ash into an overflowing tray. “Ain’t that always the excuse?”

Lane swallowed and closed the door behind her. She wanted to say it was not an excuse. She wanted to say she had come straight home just like she always did. Lane knew that the longer she stayed out, the more stories Jeanette made up in her head. But she knew better than to correct her mother when there was liquor in her blood and bitterness sitting on her tongue.

Instead, she adjusted her backpack strap and tried to hold on to the good thing.

“I got my report card today.”

Jeanette did not move or react to what Lane had just told her. Lane’s smile dropped slightly, but she kept it there because she had practiced it on the bus. She had practiced being bright enough to make her mother proud, but not so bright that Jeanette felt judged by the shine.

“I got straight A’s,” Lane said, pulling the paper out with careful fingers. “Even in geometry. Ms. Wallace said if I keep it up, I can start applying for early scholarship programs next year.”

The television filled the room with dramatic violin music.

Jeanette stared at the paper like Lane had pulled out a knife.

Lane stepped closer, holding it out. “She said colleges like consistency, and since my grades have been good since freshman year. I might be able to get a full ride somewhere if I keep doing my extracurriculars and community service.”

The change in Jeanette’s face was subtle at first. A tightening around the eyes. A twitch near the corner of her mouth. Then her gaze moved from the report card to Lane, and Lane felt the hope inside her chest begin to fold in on itself.

“A full ride,” Jeanette repeated.

Lane nodded slowly. “Maybe. If I keep working hard.”

Jeanette took a drag from her cigarette and blew the smoke out through her nose. “So you think you better than me now?”

The question landed with so much vitriol.