I haven’t been to a football game since before everything fell apart at my old school. To be honest, I never thought I’d go to another game. It’s different, though. This time I’m in the stands, not cheering from the sidelines. My gaze moves to our cheerleaders as they do their pre-game stretches. Trish is stationed next to Zoë, their legs in full splits. My muscles tense as my body remembers stretching in the same manner.
Josh stands. “I need a soda. You guys wanna come?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Tera says.
“Me too,” Wendy and I say together.
I’m watching Josh walk away when a crumpled paper cup hits me in the chest.
“What the—” My eyes scan for the culprit and land on Zach, standing below me with a goofy grin on his face.
“You made it!” he says.
I chuck the paper cup back at him and earn a death glare from the coach. He obviously missed his player throwing it at me first. “I said I would.”
“I probably won’t get a chance to talk to you again, but I wanted to say hi. Did you talk to your folks about this weekend?”
“I did. When do you want me?” I ask.
“Three o’clock on Sunday?”
“That works. Where do you live?”
“413 Charles Mayo Lane. Want me to come get you?”
“Nope.” I grab a pen and jot down the address, then click the pen closed. “Got it. I’ll see you then.”
“Sounds good. And thanks for coming—it means a lot.”
He looks like he might say more, but his coach thumps him on the back of his head and tells him to get his head in the game.
I turn to Wendy and show her the address. “Where is this?”
“Um…” She squints her eyes in thought. “Somewhere over in Pill Hill, I think.”
My forehead crinkles. “Are you kidding?”
“Nope. That Zach’s address?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you say Trish lives in Pill Hill?”
“Yeah, but it’s a big neighborhood.” She shrugs. “They could be blocks away from each other.”
“But it’s a wealthy neighborhood, right?”
“What did you expect?” she asks. “It’s Zach Andrews. You’ve seen what he drives.”
“Yeah, but I guess I didn’t expect that.”
“Look, don’t worry about it,” she says. “He’s obviously crazy about you. Don’t make a problem where there isn’t one.”
“If you only knew how many problems this could create,” I mumble.
Wendy stares at me, obviously trying to understand my frustration, but her attention turns to the announcer as he calls the starting lineup. Minutes later, the game starts with Zach leading as quarterback. I immerse myself in the chaos that is a high-school football game, cheering along with the Rochester South crowd at every score and booing the refs at every bad call. When the buzzer signals game over, I celebrate along with my tribe as Rochester South brings home a hard-won victory of 28-27.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I’M FREEZING. REGARDLESS OF WHICH WAY I MOVE OR HOW TIGHTLY I PULL THE BLANKETS AROUND ME, I can’t stop shivering. My arms are covered in goose bumps and I clench my jaw to stop my teeth from chattering. It’s no use—they chatter anyway. I snuggle closer to Amber, hoping to soak up some of her warmth, but it doesn’t help. I can’t remember ever being so cold. I open my eyes and the early morning sun peeks through the frost-covered windows of our van. I let out a breath, and the steam from its warmth hangs in the air of the cold fall morning. Though still October, we had a hard freeze last night.
“Mommy, I’m cold,” Amber whines.
“I know, baby. Snuggle closer to me and we’ll try to warm up,” Mom says.
“This is not good,” I groan. “It’s not even November yet.”
“Just two more nights,” Nick says. “With luck, we’ll get into the Dorothy Day House on Monday.”
“Let’s get some coffee,” Mom says. “McDonald’s is cheap and offers free refills.”
“We better not,” Nick replies. “The girls don’t like coffee, and hot chocolate’s more expensive.”
“I’ll drink coffee,” I say. “And Amber will, too, if we put enough sugar and cream in it. Please, Nick? We’re freezing.”
“It would get us out of the cold for a while,” Mom says. “The one by the mall has a PlayPlace—Amber could run off some energy.”
Nick breathes out a hot breath and its vapor floats in the air. “Okay, but just coffee. We’ll have lunch in a few hours at the Presbyterian Church.”
“But I’m hungry, too, Daddy!” Amber cries.
“Claire, see if you can give her something to tide her over,” he directs.
Mom opens a loaf of bread and spreads peanut butter on a slice while Nick starts the van. Cold air blows from the vents as the engine warms. Amber’s quiet only as long as it takes to finish her sandwich, then she wrinkles her nose and complains of thirst until Nick finally pulls into the McDonald’s parking lot.
“Why don’t you three go on back to the play area,” Mom says. “I’ll bring the coffee when it’s ready.”
We follow Nick into the PlayPlace and take in the large, colorful tunnels and slides. I glance around for a place to sit and my heart drops. Sitting near a window is Trish and her sidekick, Zoë. A toddler crawls down from their table and races through the tunnels and up the slides. Before I can look away, Trish spots me and sneers. Great!
Nick selects a booth on the opposite side and we slide in while Amber drops to the floor and takes off her shoes. In seconds, she disappears into the maze of tunnels and slides. Mom pushes open the door to the PlayPlace. She carries a tray loaded with four small coffees, a pile of sugar packets, and about twenty sealed creamer cups. Nick stands and takes the tray, an eyebrow raised and a smile teasing the corners of his lips.
“I just wanted to make sure there’s enough cream and sugar for the girls,” Mom says, but the corners of her own lips form a smile to match Nick’s.
I can’t help but watch them. Even after everything, they’re still in synch with each other. It wasn’t always like this, of course. They argued a lot in the first weeks after the scandal, but Mom’s seizure brought them together again.
Oh God. That seizure.
FOUR MONTHS AGO
The front door is unlocked. I push it open and take in the destruction of our living room. Everything is chaos. What should be on the shelves is scattered on the floor. The sofa cushions are flung about, and the stuffing from one hemorrhages onto the rug. It’s like a mafia movie where the good guys are on the run, but know they’re caught when their hotel room is vandalized. The bad guys have been there—searching for a secret recording or flash drive—and left the place in shambles.
My heart races and I reach for Nick’s electric guitar. It’s a little unwieldy, but is heavy enough to pack a punch. I hope.
The ice dispenser rumbles from the kitchen and I lower the guitar. Someone’s in there, and I can’t imagine a burglar or mafia hit man taking time to get ice for his drink. But just in case, I move on quiet feet toward the kitchen.
Mom sits at the table in her pajamas. Her dark red hair is pulled up into a messy knot on top of her head, its uncombed strands sticking out where she didn’t care enough to fix them properly. She’s been like this for weeks, but I thought her doctor had sorted her out with the latest cure-all antidepressant. Apparently not.
Mom tips a glass to her lips and takes a long swallow before placing the drink back on the table. The bottle stands beside her glass and I can just read its label from where I’m standing. Highland Park Single Malt Scotch Whisky. I didn’t think it was possible to surprise me anymore, but color me shocked: my mom is drinking all alone at three fifteen in the afternoon. I’ve never known her to drink except on rare occasions.
“Mom?” I step into the room.
Her head turns toward me in slow motion. Her green eyes are tear-glazed and bloodshot. Almost as though summoned, a fat teardrop falls from her lashes
and lands on the gray sweatpants of her pajama set.
“Oh, baby,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
I back away and lean against the doorframe. I fold my arms across my chest because I’ve heard “I’m sorry” at least a hundred times. It no longer means anything to me.
“What are you sorry for this time?” My voice is cold, brittle. “The living room? I’m not cleaning it up.”
Mom’s face drops to her hands and she sobs. In that moment, I snap. What the hell does she have to cry about? I stalk to the table and grab the bottle of Highland Park and her half-filled glass, taking them to the sink.
Her head pops up when she hears the ice hit the ceramic basin. “What are you doing?”
My hands shake and I can’t even look at her. “I’m pouring this shit out. What the hell are you doing?”
“Oh, Abby.” She rises on unsteady feet. “Please don’t.”
I set the empty glass in the sink and turn to her. “Why are you crying now, Mom? And what’s with the booze—and the temper tantrum in the living room? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I—I heard. I’m so sorry.”
My heart flips and I’d swear it bleeds a little at her words. I know exactly what she’s talking about, and deep down I hope I’m wrong. But then, I know better than anyone how fast news travels at Omaha East. “You heard what?”
“Erin called me,” she says, referring to my cheerleading coach. “She said the girls voted you off the squad. Oh, baby, I’m sorry.”
I narrow my eyes. “She called you when? Because I just found out half an hour ago.”
“This morning,” she admits. “Right after you left for school. The girls did it last night after practice and she planned to tell you before practice today. She wanted to give me a heads-up.”
Rage pours through me. “You’ve known for”—I glance at my watch—“five or six hours and you couldn’t give me a heads-up? Are you fucking kidding me? You couldn’t call me or come get me out of school? Maybe let me quit so I could save a little bit of pride? Really, Mom?”
Anger blinds me at this last injustice. Though things have been strained with my cheer squad, I thought they were my friends and just needed time to adjust. But when Erin dropped the news, I was blindsided. They’d voted me out. Like I was nothing. Like we hadn’t all been friends since elementary school. Like they’d never been to my house, or had Mom carpool them around before we got our drivers’ licenses. I clench my fists.
“I—I didn’t think,” she says.
“That’s the problem, Mom. You never think,” I yell. “You didn’t think before you screwed Coach Hawkins, you probably didn’t think when you trashed the living room in a drunken temper tantrum, and you sure as hell didn’t think about me and how I was about to be screwed over by the last group of people who were supposed to be my friends. Thanks, Mom!”
I pick up the bottle of Highland Park, pull the cork, and pour its contents down the sink.
“Stop!” Mom screams and trips on her feet as she rushes to my side. “That’s nearly a hundred dollars you’re pouring down the sink!”
But I can’t stop. I want to hurt her any way I can, and the closest thing to my fingertips is the booze she’s used to drown her sorrows—my sorrows, really.
We struggle against each other for a few moments, but in the end I win, and the drain swallows the last drop of whisky from the bottle.
“Why would you do that?” she shrieks. “That was expensive Scotch.”
“Oh God, Mom. Do you really want to play the ‘Why Would You Do That’ game?”
She stalks toward me, pulls her arm back, and slaps my cheek with her open palm. “I am still your mother and you will talk to me with respect.” Spit sprays from her mouth.
“Then fucking act like it!” I shout as I back away.
She sways, then advances toward me a second time, her face purple with rage. She reaches for my shirt and gathers it into both fists. Then suddenly, she lets go. In slow motion, her eyes roll into the back of her head and she drops to the floor. Her body jerks spasmodically as though she’s having a seizure.
“Mom?” I cry and drop to the floor next to her. “Mama!”
But she doesn’t answer.
I reach for the phone, and with shaking hands I press the three most important numbers I’ve committed to memory: 9-1-1.
THE MEMORIES FLOOD back, my reaction so strong it’s like it’s happening for the first time. I slide out of the booth. “Going to the restroom,” I say, keeping my head down so they won’t see my expression.
I promised to turn the page with Mom, and I meant it. My heart has been so much lighter since hashing things out with her last night, but now there’s an elephant sitting on my chest and I can’t breathe.
I throw open the bathroom door and head for the sinks, where I blot my face with cold water. It soothes the heat and somehow tempers the rage. I reach for a paper towel, and the bathroom door swings open.
Trish.
“Abby!” Her smile is fake. “Out for breakfast with the family?”
“Something like that. You?”
“Helping Zoë babysit her cousin.”
I nod. “That’s nice of you.”
Trish steps to the mirror and paints gloss onto her lips. She rubs them together and makes a loud pop, then catches my eye in the reflection. “What can I say? I’m a nice person.”
The door opens again, and this time it’s Amber with Mom behind her. Mom smiles at Trish, her eyes moving between us. She opens a stall for Amber then turns to Trish.
“You must be Mrs. Lunde.” Trish’s voice is sugar-sweet.
Mom smiles, but her body language is guarded. “Yes. And you are?”
“Oh,” she says. “I’m Trish. Abby and I go to school together.”
“How nice.” Mom’s words are clipped. Not unfriendly, but not exactly warm.
Trish turns to me. “Oh, Abby! I guess I’ll see you at Homecoming! Scott asked me after school yesterday.”
“That’s nice. I’m sure I’ll see a lot of people there.”
“Oh, but Zach didn’t tell you?” She smirks. “We’re all going together.”
“How do you figure?”
She shrugs. “Scott and Zach worked it out last night. We’re all meeting at Wendy’s.”
“Oh.” I’m shocked and don’t know how to respond.
The toilet flushes and Amber emerges. She stares at Trish for a moment before Mom redirects her to wash her hands.
Trish primps in the mirror, straightening a hair that’s not out of place, then turns back to Mom and me. “Well, I gotta go. It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Lunde.”
Without waiting for a response, she flips her hair over her shoulder and struts out the bathroom door.
“Who was that?” Amber’s tiny nose is scrunched in distaste.
“Trish Landry. She goes to my school.”
“She doesn’t like you very much.”
“Amber,” Mom warns. “That’s not very nice.”
“No, Mom. It’s true. She hates me.”
Mom’s eyes hold mine while Amber dries her hands. “Are you okay, Abby?”
I nod. “She’s Zach’s ex-girlfriend, and she expected he’d ask her to Homecoming.”
“That’ll be awkward then,” Mom says, choosing her words carefully. “You sure you still want to go?”
“Positive.” I nod. “I’ve had enough bullying to last a lifetime. I can hold my own with her.”
“She has mean eyes,” Amber says.
“Yeah, she does,” I agree.
WEEKENDS ARE TOUGH when you’re homeless—at least for kids. During the week, Amber and I spend the majority of our time at school. Aside from my paper route later in the day, the weekends are a black hole of time with nowhere to go and nothing to do but roam. Even for Mom and Nick, the weekends pose a challenge because most of the places they’d apply for jobs are closed. To fill this never-ending downtime, we return to the library.
Ambe
r and I are now regulars and head to our posts in the teen media and arts-and-crafts rooms. Mom and Nick take the stairs to the second floor where they check the classifieds for job openings.
“Stay close to Sister, and don’t go anywhere,” Mom warns Amber. “Daddy and I will be upstairs if you need us.”
Amber grins at me and rolls her eyes dramatically—a gesture I’m sure she learned from me. I drop her off in the kids’ art room, then find a carrel next door with a clear view of her in the adjacent room.
I debate my options. I could do homework, but what I really want is to get on Instagram. I pull up the website and use my old login but, without a phone, there’s nothing I can do but comment on the posts of others—and the last thing in the world I want to do is reconnect with my old “friends” from home.
I tap my fingers on the keyboard for several seconds, then type in the web address for Facebook and enter my old login information. I haven’t been on Facebook in longer than I can remember, but I’m hoping kids in Rochester still have accounts. I mean, I still have an open account, even though I didn’t use it as much after I got a phone. While it’s not the best, it’s a place I can call home—somewhere people can find me until we have a real place to live.
My heart aches as old, familiar names pop up in my feed. Part of me wants to read their status updates, but doing so will only twist the dagger buried deep inside. Instead, I open my friends list, unfriending and blocking everyone from my old school or anyone who had anything to do with Mom’s scandal. When I’m done, I have two friends left—Mom and Nick.
New School, New Me. I say the words like a mantra.
Now with a fresh start, I spend the next twenty minutes finding the accounts of Josh, Wendy, Tera, and Zach. I click the icon to send friend requests, then hesitate over Emily, Jordan, Kierra and Paige from my vocal music class. On a whim, I send them friend requests, too. I’m just logging off when a message pings from Zach.
ZACH: Hey, you! Facebook? Really? LOL
ME: Haha! Yeah—at least until I get a new phone. I was hoping you had an account.
ZACH: It’s all good. I’ll start using it more now I know you’re here. We still on for tomorrow?
Roam Page 11
