The Hurt Patrol (20 page)

Mom is putting stuff away when I get there. She just got back from the store. Grocery bags piled high!

And The Bomb is glad to see her Auntie Rusty!

She is such a pretty dog. She is all shiny and smiley and healthy, and her big wolf teeth are sharp and white. I give her some kisses where the dark fur comes to a little point on her lil' husky forehead, and she wags. She gives me some kisses back on my cheek. Good, sweet girl!

I miss living with a pet so much! But I just can't afford one in the city. The special pet deposit is like $500 (in addition to the regular deposit) when you move into a rental,
if
they'll even let you have one. It's lame! Bommy would never dookie in the house, unless there was an emergency! But try telling a landlord that. When Beau and I rented our house that was one of the first questions. That's how I knew how much the deposit was. And that was only if we had a cat. No dogs allowed at all!

I look to see what else is in the paper bags. So many . . . and so full! Whoa.

Mom is spending way more on food now that she is working. I get a mango out of the bag.

“Dang, Mama, mango? I might move home.”

“Hey, don't cut that yet. I don't think it's ripe till day after tomorrow.”

“No, it's good, I can tell. It's all mushy and yummy.”

“Still—don't. Have an apple.”

Her tone makes me stop.

St. Teresa, patron saint of control freaks; pray for us.

I put the uniquely unripe mango back in the sack. She bails it out of the bag and puts it in the fruit bowl. Gives me a little look. Fine. Fruit bowl it is, Boss-Lady!

I sigh, as wearily as she ever did when I lived with her.

And she hears me and turns around in genuine concern. She comes over and puts her hands on my cheeks and stands on tiptoe to kiss my forehead. I have to bend down for her to do that now.

“How are you two doing up in that terrible house?” She looks at me searchingly, and I feel my annoyance melt. “Do you keep the windows and doors locked
all
the time?”

“Pretty much. We're fine. Beau has to be careful with his bike though. Block watch guys said there had been a few petty robberies recently,” I say.

See, I told her this as a comfort and also to distract her from tripping on our safety. No worries; just petty property crimes. So that she's not to worry. See, Mom, honey, I don't even have a bike, and Beau McCarefulbritches brings his inside!

Yeah. So that strategy backfired.

She immediately starts freaking out.

“What?! When?! Were they armed?! Oh, honey!! Do you know anyone who got robbed?! Did any of your neighbors?! Did anyone call the cops?! Oh, why do you guys have to live there?! It's a terrible neighborhood! It's awful! And they litter!”

My mom is so random. I keep a straight face.

“Okay, Mom, I promise to do something about that. The litter.”

She stops and points her finger at me.

“Rylee, you stop making fun of me! It's true! It shows people's attitude! Oh, just never mind, Miss Smarty!” She's getting cranky-face again.

I change the topic.

“I ordered my cap and gown today.”

She stops and switches to the same subject. Sort of.

“Listen, have you heard from your dad yet?”

“No.” Now I'm the one getting cranky-face.

“Huh . . . You know, this is starting to get a little weird. I don't know what his problem is. He used to be very reliable about getting back to people. I don't know what to think. It's strange for him to ignore your graduation.” She glowers with ancient annoyance. He has the power to irritate her, even years later, even from like three zillion miles away.

And I agree this time.

He hasn't got in touch with my little brother Paul or me in years. I decided not to think about it—after failing repeatedly to get him to visit us—so I haven't been in touch with him either. The graduation card and picture is the first letter I'd sent, since I'm still waiting for an answer from the last time I wrote four years ago, when I sent him a birthday card/long letter and never got a response.

It's all a giant whatever.