Flyaway (3 page)

But then again, I'm sure she'd want to see me. She might even perk up and say, "Well, there you are, honey pie. Come give your old mom a hug."

I knock on the door. "Mom?" There's no answer, so I crack it open.

The room is dark and empty, but the covers on Mom's bed are rumpled. I lay my cheek against her pillow and breathe in her scent. She's been here; at least I know she's alive.

Then I notice the drawer of the little table by her bed is open. I slide it out a hair further. The dog-eared envelope where she stashes the grocery money sits on top of her lacy bras and panties. It's empty.

I get this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I just know I have to check. I go into my bedroom and feel under the bed till I find the heart-shaped metal box where I keep my treasures: a reddish rock from Grandpa's ranch in Montana, a shell I found on the beach in Carkeek Park, a bird's egg wrapped in cotton. And my money. I had forty-five dollars I'd saved up from babysitting in there. Now it's gone. Not only that, the egg is broken and the inside of the box is coated with yellow slime.

For a second I'm so pissed I want to slam the box against the wall. But only for a second. Mom never takes my money unless there's a good reason, like that time she borrowed fifty bucks to cover rent. She probably needed it for one of those bills, and she'll pay me right back as soon as she gets her check. Or maybe they accepted her application to sell jewelry at the street fair, and she needed it to pay for a booth or something. It's me I should be pissed at, blaming Mom when all she's trying to do is make things better for us. Still the sick feeling won't leave me, and I wish my money was still there.

I rinse out the box in the bathroom sink, tuck it under my arm, and slip out the front door, locking it behind me. It's gotten even cooler outside, and the two guys are still poking around under the hood of the truck. I sprint to the bus stop just in time to catch the number 48. I make the transfer downtown, but I'm working so hard to come up with other reasons my money might be gone, I miss the stop in Wedgewood and have to walk five blocks back to Aunt Mindy's.

She wasn't supposed to be home till six-thirty. But here it is, the middle of the afternoon, and her spotless white Camry is parked in the driveway.

Aunt Mindy is waiting for me on the living room couch with her arms crossed and her mouth pressed into a thin line. She's changed out of her workout gear into a pair of designer jeans and a tight blue T-shirt. The heat's cranked up to about ninety degrees, and little half-moons of sweat peek from under her arms.

"Hi," I say over my shoulder, as I head for the guest room, trying to sound cool and casual.

"Stop right there. Where have you been?"

"Where do you think? School."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "School."

"I was feeling better, so I took the bus."

"That's interesting, because your counselor says you haven't been to school all week."

I swallow. I feel like I'm perched at the top of a roller coaster, about to drop.

"And here I rescheduled my interview so I could pick up your homework."

Pick up my homework? Who does she think she is, my mom? I start to walk away, but she stands and comes after me.

"June lets you get away with this, doesn't she ? She lets you cut school."

"And your point is...?"

"And I see she lets you mouth off too."

"Whatever."

She grabs my shoulder. "Don't 'whatever' me. And by the way, you went off and left the door unlocked."

I jerk away so hard I jab her with my elbow. "Get your friggin' hands off me!"

"Hey, watch it! If you were my kid—"

"Well, I'm not! And quit blaming everything on Mom!" I storm into the guest room, slam the door behind me, and throw myself face-down on the bed. For a minute it's quiet. Then I hear the
tap, tap
of Aunt Mindy's sandals approaching the door.

"Stevie?"

I bury my face in the checkered quilt.

"Stevie, can I come in?"

"Shut up!" I snatch the vanilla-scented candle from the little table by the bed and hurl it at the door. It hits with a
thump.

"Stevie, please."

I don't answer, and pretty soon her footsteps click off into the distance. About ten minutes later, the front door slams.

The quiet in the house isn't cozy anymore—it suffocates me. I lie there with my fists clenched and stare at the ceiling. I should just get out of here, go stay at the apartment. But no doubt she'd find me and drag me back. I decide the only way I'm going to get through this is to keep my mouth shut as much as possible.

 

When there's a knock on the door maybe half an hour later, I open up to see Aunt Mindy standing there in sweats and running shoes, damp curls plastered to her forehead.

"I went for a run," she says. "Always makes me feel better."

I keep my face blank.

"I'm starving. There's a great little Chinese place on Fifteenth. How does that sound?"

I'd kill right now for a corn dog, but whatever. "Sounds okay."

"Great," she says. "I'll hop in the shower."

 

The restaurant she picks is crowded and dark and stinks of incense. The hostess smiles at Aunt Mindy and shows us to a table in the back.

"This is one of my favorite places," Aunt Mindy says. "I usually come here alone, so it's nice to have company."

I stare at the weird names on the menu: Moo Shu this and Goo Goo that. "What is this stuff ?"

She laughs. "I bet you haven't had much Chinese. Your mom's always been a burgers-and-fries kind of gal."

What's wrong with burgers and fries?
I think. But I stick to my plan and stay quiet.

The waitress slides a pot of tea onto the table between us and turns over our cups. They look like miniature white cereal bowls.

Aunt Mindy pours herself some tea. "I remember one time, way before you were born, I took your mom to a little Chinese place that had just opened up in Helena. She stared at the menu like you're doing, with her forehead all wrinkled up. When the waitress came to take our order, June said, 'I'll have the Egg Foo Yung.' But when the food arrived, she took one look at it and said, 'What is this crap ? I thought I ordered eggs.'" Aunt Mindy chuckles and shakes her head. "She expected it to be a plate of eggs and hash browns, like in some diner."

If we weren't in a restaurant, I'd throw the pot of tea at her. So Mom isn't all cultured and sophisticated. She's still worth a million Aunt Mindys.

The waitress comes to take our order.

"You should try the Kung Pao Chicken," Aunt Mindy says.

I mentally stick out my tongue at her, then I turn to the waitress. "Give me the Egg Foo Yung."

 

When I finally give up on chopsticks and ask the waitress for a fork, I can see why Mom was surprised. Egg Foo Yung tastes nothing like eggs. It's actually pretty good—these spongy, spicy little pancake things with yummy brown sauce all over them. I start to wish I hadn't worn my tight jeans.

I'm hoping we can eat in peace, but no. Aunt Mindy has to tell me stories about when she and Mom were girls, back on Grandpa's ranch in Montana. She makes a big deal about all the times she saved Mom's butt when they were kids. "I spent so much time keeping June out of trouble, you'd have thought I was her mom instead of her little sister," she says.

I've got half a mind to get up and leave, when all of a sudden she gets quiet. "Stevie," she says, "I owe you an apology for what I said back at the house. I never should have criticized your mom."

I pick up one of the chopsticks and poke at the pool of sauce on my plate. I wonder what she's up to now.

"We've always had different ideas about raising you. But you're not my daughter, so I had no right to say what I did."

I use the chopstick to paint pictures: a heart, a bird, a tree.

"Truth is, I love your mom. If I get mad at her sometimes, it's just because I worry about her. She never quite seems to get her life off the ground."

I knew it. I knew she couldn't say something nice about Mom without twisting it around. I grip the chopstick so hard I'm surprised it doesn't break.

The waitress brings the check and a couple of fortune cookies, but Aunt Mindy doesn't seem to notice. She locks her eyes on mine and says, "You need to get back to school, Stevie. If you screw up high school, you'll be crippled before you even start your life. I don't want to see you end up ... having regrets."

I know exactly what she's thinking. She doesn't want me to end up like Mom.

"I made an appointment for us to see your school counselor tomorrow. We'll talk to her together, okay?"

I let the chopstick clatter onto the plate. "Forget it."

"I'm afraid it's settled. Mrs. Watkins is concerned about your future, and so am I."

"I'm not going to—"

"Unless you want me to bring CPS into this."

Sometimes I want to strangle her. "Fine. I'll talk to her."

"Good." She smiles. She just loves getting her way.

She picks up the check and starts rummaging in her purse. "There's something else I wanted to talk to you about. While you're staying with me, I expect you to pitch in around the house. This weekend we'll make a list of chores you can be responsible for."

I'm used to doing housework. Mom's busy a lot, so I end up doing most of the cleaning. I don't really mind it, but I'm not about to tell Aunt Mindy that. "No way," I whine.

"Yes, way. But the news isn't all bad. I'm also going to start giving you an allowance. How does twenty dollars a week sound?"

It sounds like the most money anyone's handed me for doing pretty much nothing, but that's another thing Aunt Mindy doesn't need to know. "Sounds all right," I say with a shrug.

"And I'm going to put you on my cell phone plan. With me working all the time, we'll need a way to stay in touch. Maybe we can pick out a phone for you this weekend."

Me and Mom hate cell phones. Every time we see someone jabbering on one, we pinch our noses in the universal PU sign and bust out laughing. But if Aunt Mindy's dumb enough to buy me one, sure, I'll take it.

"Now let's see what the future has in store for us." She sets her credit card on the little plastic tray and picks up a fortune cookie. "Me first." She cracks it open and reads: "You will soon have everything you dream of."

She laughs and rolls her eyes, and for a second she looks exactly like Mom. "That'll be the day. Now your turn."

The fortune cookie is light and fragile as a bird's egg. It cracks open easily. I read the fortune to myself:
The love you seek is right in front of you.

Aunt Mindy leans forward. "What's it say?"

I stuff the fortune in my pocket. "It says I'm going to win a million dollars."

 

I toss and turn all night thinking about the meeting with Mrs. Watkins. But when six-thirty the next morning rolls around and Aunt Mindy turns on the shower, I know there's no way out.

"You didn't have to dress up just for me," she says as she grabs her car keys off the hook near the front door. She looks all sharp in jeans and a jacket and little gold hoop earrings. Her curls are stiff with some kind of gel. I've got on black high-tops, black jeans with holes in the knees, and a black T-shirt. "You look like you're dressed for a funeral."

Exactly.

Mrs. Watkins's office is on the second floor. The room is so tiny she looks like a walrus in a goldfish bowl.

"Hello again," she says to Aunt Mindy. Then she turns to me. "Hey, stranger. Long time no see."

I can't look at her, so I keep my eyes on her huge belly, which pooches over the waistband of her pants. Everyone at Ballard High knows Mrs. Watkins may look all soft and squishy, but she never takes "no" for an answer, and if you even think about trying to scam her, you're screwed.

She moves the stacks of papers that bury a couple of folding chairs. "Please sit down, you two. It's definitely time we had a talk." She perches on the edge of her desk, and her thighs spread like pan-cake batter in a pan. Not pretty.

"I'm so glad you stopped in yesterday," she tells Aunt Mindy. "I've left a number of messages with Stevie's mom, but she hasn't returned my calls."

"Yes, well, that doesn't surprise me."

Mrs. Watkins turns her stun-gun eyes on me. "So, Stevie, you didn't show up for any of your classes this week, and you had an unexcused absence last week as well. What's up?"

I was awake all night figuring out ways to answer this, but I'm too nervous to remember any of them. "I couldn't make it, that's all."

Aunt Mindy glares at me. "You know that's no excuse—"

"Let's let Stevie speak for herself." Mrs. Watkins leans toward me. "We want to help you, Stevie. Can you tell us why you haven't been coming to school?"

The room is stuffy, and Mrs. Watkins gives off a stale, oniony smell. I'm starting to sweat.

"I ... my mom needed me to help out at home." I sneak a peek at Aunt Mindy. I can see the wheels turning, but she doesn't say anything.

"Go on," Mrs. Watkins says. "You were helping your mom."

I wriggle in my seat like a fish on a hook, but Mrs. Watkins's eyes hold me in a vise grip. The image of my heart-shaped box swims before my eyes, and all of a sudden the truth comes blurting out: "I stayed home to answer the phone."

The second it's out of my mouth, I know I've blown it bigtime. Mrs. Watkins looks confused, but Aunt Mindy practically leaps out of her seat.

"I knew it. June's got you caught up in this crystal thing, doesn't she?"

Mrs. Watkins frowns. "Crystal thing?"

I'm hyperventilating and I feel like I'm ready to pass out.

"A client of mine told me about it," Aunt Mindy says. "Her brother's a cop." She glances at me, then turns back to Mrs. Watkins. "This nightclub Stevie's mom works at ? Apparently it's a front for dealing crystal meth."

I jump up and kick at my chair. "Liar!" Then I barrel toward the door.

Mrs. Watkins grabs my shoulder. With a hold like that, I'm thinking she should get a second job as a bouncer.

"Hang on a minute," she says. "Let's talk this thing through. I wonder if you're aware of school board attendance policy. Seven unexcused absences in a calendar month, and you've got a date in truancy court."