Page 40 of Miserable Marionette

The straps of my backpack snag my hair as I rush down the hall, the smell of freshly cooked bacon making my mouth water. I nearly lose my footing as I slide to a stop. “Mom?”

The knock on the door comes mere seconds before Dad’s loud voice booms from the couch, a plate of hash browns, bacon, and eggs piled high in front of him as he nurses his customary cup of coffee. “Come in!”

The door opens and closes before I manage to school my features.

“Morning, Gid,” Dad quips, but my best friend barely gives him a nod in acknowledgment before he heads deeper into the house, his eyes turning to my mom, who looks like she’s seen a ghost. All the while, a popping pan of bacon threatens to start a grease fire on the stove.

He walks over to her, snagging a piece of bacon from the paper towels on the counter.

“Are you hungry, Gideon? Help yourself,” Dad offers. I don’t know why. Gideon’s mom always cooks him breakfast, unlike mine. I don’t think I’ve seen her cook anything in months. Until right now. My mouth is watering, but my stomach is twisted into tight, angry little knots. Dad is back to paying attention to the TV, and Gideon is paying attention to me.

When he finally speaks, my mom takes a deep breath, flipping the bacon. “I’m good with this, thank you. Ready, Audrey?”

Everyone but me is content to act like this is normal. Like it’s not insane she’s even awake right now after another late-night bender. Not still three sheets to the wind. Like her cooking breakfast for us isn’t weird.

I stand here, my backpack slipping off my shoulder, staring at her while she avoids my gaze. Avoids everyone’s gaze. Pushing around the burning bacon in the pan, her body nearly sags against the counter. Hell, has she even been to sleep yet?

“It’s not even seven yet, boy. Auds just got down here.” Dad chuckles.

It’s his laugh, carefree, normal laugh that breaks me from my staring.

“I’ll eat at school.”

“Your mom made a—"

“She probably spit in it.”

“Audrey Emma Fisher,” Dad warns, making my cheeks flush in front of Gideon.

But Mom, no, she’s unusually quiet. No flipping her lid at my rudeness. No woe is me. Everyone is so mean to me. I have it so bad. I never asked to move here lecture.

“Sorry,” I murmur, stalking toward the front door. I don’t even slow as Gideon reaches out, snagging my backpack so he can carry it for me. He graduates in just a few months. I hate the idea of him not being in school with me, even if we are in different grades. My tennis shoes hit the gravel as he steps in front of me, blocking my path.

He doesn’t speak, waiting, watching, and I don’t have the patience for it this morning.

As soon as I open my mouth to tell him to knock it off, he shoves the bacon in. The flavor bursting on my tongue, making my stomach let out a nasty little growl. Reminding me just how hungry I actually am. “You’re not eating the food at school.”

“How do you know?” I muffle around the bacon.

“You hate it.”

I chew, glaring at him as he leans forward, his hand snagging my wrist. “Starving yourself doesn’t teach her anything.”

I go to pull my hand away, ready to lay into him too, but he just tightens his grip, tugging me across the road. Instead of stopping at his car, I’m tugged up the porch and led inside the foyer, the scent of flowers and pine-sol warming me.

“Morning, Audrey!” Mr. Bell calls from his office as we pass.

I nearly choke on the meat as I swallow. “Morning, Mr. Bell!” We’re halfway up the stairs to the living area when his mom comes into view, lingering in her odd way. A watcher, like her son. “Morning, Mrs. Bell.”

“Morning,” she offers quietly, her eyes on Gideon as if waiting for some explanation for me being in their house, where I almost always am. Regardless, it’s the same confused, if not downright despairing look in her eyes, every single time.

“Audrey didn’t eat breakfast,” he offers, tugging me past her into the kitchen.

I’m barely in my seat at the small circular dining room table nestled in the far corner of the cozy black and white tiled kitchen before Gideon sets a plate of pancakes down, stacked four high. I try not to grimace at the one slathered in butter on top.

Gideon's chair scoots across the floor before he leans over, snagging that one off my plate for himself. I shoot him a grateful look immediately as Mrs. Bell finally follows us into the room. Her fingers wrapped in Band-Aids as she takes a glass from the cabinet and fills it with orange juice.

She doesn’t speak as she sets it down in front of me, none of us do, until the silence beats down too hard. As usual, I’m the first to break.