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“None of your business. But she just got out of the hospital yesterday, so go easy on her.”
She tilts her head at me, too savvy for her own good. I check the TV, where the Monday night replay is winding down. “Hey, don’t you have school tomorrow?”
“I’m not a child, Marco.” But she yawns and swings her feet to the floor. “I am going to bed now, but only becauseIwantto go to bed.”
Spoken like a true…child.
∞∞∞
I’m tired, too, but sleep doesn’t have a snowball’s chance of finding me any time soon. I tie on my running shoes and slip quietly into the night. The chain link gate squeals on its hinges, and when I go to close it, the top one pops out. Dang it. I’ll see what I can do about that tomorrow.
Our street is a half-mile dead-end with a dozen trailers littered along either side. My family’s is a singlewide permanently set in place by someone who tried to make it a real home but ended up in foreclosure. About half the residences are ancient fifth-wheels sinking into the desert floor, yards littered with rusted out cars and put-to-pasture appliances. Such is the ramshackle homestead at the turnaround. Mom mentioned that old Mr. Hale died last year, and it appears his worthless son has taken over.
I smell pot as I get within spitting distance, and death metal courses from a speaker somewhere. The glow of roaches is visible from the street.
I turn around before reaching their dented mailbox. Their type usually makes trouble when it doesn’t show up on its own.
I wish Mom lived on another street. Or in a different city. Maybe even another state, although I of all people know that’s silly. Crime and drugs are ubiquitous—but I also know there’s better than this.
Good heavens, where must Annalise think I’ve brought her? The seventh circle of hell, perhaps?
Little by little I’m remembering why I dragged my feet in coming home. My family has enough problems of their own without adding my drama.
Ihave enough problems of my own.
Yep, that’s how selfish I’ve become. Mom needs me more over time, not less. She’s tough and strong and can whip me any day of the week, but…she deserves more. Of me. From me. From life in general. How easily we could have beenthatfamily, like the one at the end of the block, devolving into dysfunction after Dad died. But Mom rose up, stepped up. raised four kids in a cramped trailer, putting food on our table by mopping floors and cleaning toilets.
A set of headlights appears up the road. The thumping bass and blaring music streaming out open windows disrupts the peace of the night. I hug the shoulder as the ratty old beater passes, slowing to check me out on the way by. They turn into the Hale place.
I’m home now, but instinct tells me to wait, so I sit on the top step. Not a minute later, the car is on its way back to the highway. No sooner do I stand than another vehicle rattles and sputters its way past our drive, its destination the same as the first’s. It too spends less than sixty seconds at the trailer and then leaves.
There might be a half-dozen legitimate reasons for cars coming and going in the middle of the night, but I can’t come up with one. My only thought is,Great. Mom’s nearest neighbor is a drug dealer.
CHAPTER 25
Annalise
The elderly man in line ahead of me at the grocery store a couple weeks ago shook his bony finger at the fresh-faced cashier and warned the teen never to get old. Rambled on and on about the woes of aging while I tapped my foot at the delay. This morning, I have decided that if getting old feels anything like I feel now, I am heeding his sage advice.
Every part of my body aches inexplicably. Excepting the nightmare and my secondhumiliating meltdown in front of Marco, I had a perfectly restful night, so I shouldn’t feel this way.
I can’t be a worse houseguest than I’ve already been, however, so I brush out my hair, slip my bra back on, and open the bedroom door. I’m wearing my uniform—that is, the same outfit as yesterday, the only one I have with me.
Do they have clothing stores in the desert? Who knows?
The only sound that meets me is the low hum of television news. This morning, a narrow strip of sunlight streams through a small window in the kitchen area. The table we all crammed around last night has had a leaf removed and been pushed against the wall beneath the lacy curtains. Marco is seated there, sipping from a steaming mug. With his coffee, eyeglasses—go figure—and a folded newspaper, he’s looking all domestic. Yes, a literal, hardcopy, print newspaper. I didn’t know they still made those.
I pause to take in the visage—and peer around the dark corners of the room to see if mister tough-guy agent-man is lurking in the shadows. The glasses make him look smart, serious, and staid.
Smart? Definitely. Staid? Ha.
“Good morning.”
He looks up from the paper. I’m surprised he didn’t hear me coming. Tripp never misses a glance, a sound, a movement. I expected the same from Marco, but I have to say he’s a lot more chill than my brother.
Frowning, he lays the paper down. “I thought you’d sleep longer.”
After my midnight meltdown, I’d been dreading facing him—and he leads with attitude? “I can go back to bed if you want?”
