The Game
Page 19
And I will crush him. Not intentionally, and probably not without crushing myself a bit in the process, but it’s going to happen. Not because Aiden is a bad guy—I think the fact that he’s in my bedroom despite all Mom’s rules speaks for itself. As does the fact that he made a cute Rapunzel joke instead of complaining when I told him he’d have to climb the drainpipe and sneak into my bedroom if he wanted to see me. I couldn’t risk letting him use the front entrance like a normal person (I wouldn’t put it past Mom to rig the door with some kind of undetectable sign to check if it’s been opened when she leaves me home alone).
I should probably explain about my mom.
She’s amazing and funny—but nearly every hour of the day she’s terrified out of her mind that something terrible is going to happen to me. I think it has to do with how she grew up. She’s never been exactly forthcoming about her past, but I do know that her mom dropped her on the doorstep of her unsuspecting father’s trailer when she was three, never to be seen again, and that the height of her dad’s parenting skills was remembering to feed her most of the time. He died shortly before I was born, so I’ve never met him, but given my mom’s lack of parental supervision growing up, it seems like she swung really far the other way with me.
Until a few years ago, the only time I was allowed on the computer was for school—home school, that is. And I think it was more my mom’s fear of algebra than any of my pleading that finally made her relent and allow me to go to public school. Though, to be fair, it might also have been the hunger strike I enacted.
It took me a little longer to convince her to let me get a cell phone, which I finally accomplished by printing out news stories at school about kids who got kidnapped and saved themselves by calling for help. Were some of them stories I wrote myself using mock- up layouts I found online? Maybe. But sometimes my mom needs that extra push to rein in the superparanoid would-keep-me-in-a-bubble-forever mentality that defines her as a parent.
I’ve learned that the best way to get what I want is to either convince her I’m in more danger if she doesn’t listen to my suggestions (e.g., public school, a cell phone) or just keep a few harmless details from her (e.g., Aiden).
Most days, I think she knows I cut corners when it comes to her rules, but I like to think she’s the teeniest bit proud of me when I figure out how to get around one. I’m not stupid enough to flaunt Aiden in front of her, though, which is why I practically shove him off the chair when I hear the front door open downstairs.
She did break her record. It isn’t even nine o’clock yet.
“Katelyn?”
“In my room!” I call, jumping up and pushing Aiden toward the window.
“Is this my answer?” There’s a teasing quality to his voice that I can appreciate only because he has the good sense to whisper.
“Know what happened to the last guy my mom found in my room?”
“He got invited to dinner?”
“He got a face full of pepper spray.” All because he was trying to decorate my room to invite me to a dance. Poor guy. And poor me, since Mom and I ended up moving right after—Mom says the two are unrelated, but I doubt it.
She calls it wanderlust, but I’m not sure that’s what it is. She’ll be fine one day, and the next I’ll come home from school to find that she’s quit her job and already has half our belongings in boxes—hence the unpacked ones stacked in my room. We’re closing in on a year in our current duplex, and I’m hoping to make it through graduation here, if nothing else. But that means getting Mom to make some ties in Bridgeton so she won’t want to leave the next time she gets an itch.
My greatest triumph of the past year was getting her to agree to start dating, something she hasn’t done since my dad died, despite the frequent offers she gets. She had me when she was only nineteen, so she’s still young and looks amazing—also thanks to the fact that we run together every morning. She has stunning green eyes and thick auburn hair that reaches halfway down her back. My eyes and hair are the same color as hers but not nearly as striking. The main difference between us is that my skin is more olive than her fair, sunburn-prone complexion, a gift from a man I barely remember.
Based on the way she still tears up on the rare occasions I get her to talk about my dad, I’m not expecting her to fall madly in love with one of the guys she dates, but a little flirting and fun would be good for her. And any reason to stay in one place long enough for it to feel like home is good enough for me.
If she found Aiden in my room, she’d have a moving truck in our driveway before he even made it out the window.
I push him again. “You have to go.”
“Meet me tomorrow.”
“I—” I start to object, since I have no idea how I’ll slip away from Mom, but he looks perfectly content—eager, even—to get caught. “Fine.”
“Promise?”
I almost grit my teeth, but I remember that he’s still waiting for my answer about whether he’s wasting his time with me. I know what I want the answer to be, but hearing Mom’s footsteps on the stairs, I give Aiden one last shove. “I promise.” He climbs out the window, only to dart back in the second I start to turn away—to kiss me one more time.
“Go!” I hiss, trying not to smile. I don’t breathe again until he clears the frame so I can close the window and yank the curtain shut.
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