My mother hadn’t changed a bit in the last few years, so something had to be wrong.
A search of my suitcase produced more books than clothing, but I found a pale blue stretchy tee that would work. It read It’s not the length of the word; It’s how wel you use it. Daddy would love it. I pulled my nightshirt over my head and tossed it onto the bed, then donned the shirt and stepped into the jeans I’d worn the day before.
I was tugging a brush through my nest of black tangles when the first polyphonic notes of “Criminal” rang out faintly from somewhere behind me. My phone. Where did I leave my phone? I’d been home for roughly twelve hours and had already forgotten I had a life outside of the Lazy S. That was one of the dangers of coming home. Home traps you. It swal ows you whole, like a sandpit of nostalgia, sucking at you until you can neither move nor think, and you choke on your own panic.
Or maybe I was just being paranoid.
I tossed the contents from my suitcase, searching for the source of the music.
The bottom layer of canvas stared back at me, empty, but stil the music played.
Grunting in frustration, I threw the bag across the room. Its plastic-reinforced corner left a dent in the wal . Great. But Fiona Apple’s sultry, alto crooning grew louder.
There it was, half an inch of shiny chrome sticking out from under my bed skirt. I lunged for it, glad I’d disabled my voicemail.
Stil panting from my frantic search, I pushed the Talk button, cutting Fiona off in midsyllable. “Hello?”
“So I woke up this morning thinking something was wrong, and it took me a moment to figure out what it was.”
Huh? I held the phone out at arm’s length, staring at it as if it were to blame for the speaker’s lack of sense.
The cal er spoke again. “This is the part where you ask me what was wrong.”
Ah. It was Andrew. I should have known.
“Faythe? Are you there?”
I put the phone back up to my ear, but a long moment passed before I could answer. Hearing his voice in my father’s house was disorienting and vaguely uncomfortable, as if two very separate halves of my life had collided, crushing me between them and making it nearly impossible for me to think, much less speak.
“Faythe?” Concern raised Andrew’s pitch, exaggerating the stuffy sound of his voice.
I swal owed, wincing at how dry my throat felt. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I just woke up.” I sank onto the bed facing the mirror, where the photographs mocked me
from various points in my own past.
“Me, too. That’s what was wrong.”
“Huh?” My eyes settled on the photo of me and Marc at my senior prom. Try as I might to drag my gaze from it, Marc’s eyes kept pulling mine back. They seemed to follow me from the photo, glinting in amusement at my futile attempt to concentrate on what Andrew was saying. Or maybe they were just reflecting the clear Christmas lights used as prom decorations.
“I slept through my alarm and missed my first class.”
“Oh, no.” I turned my back on the photo, pleased at my victory over Marc’s picture-self.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t feel like learning anything today anyway.
My cold’s worse, and I think I have a bit of a fever. Anyway, I’d much rather talk to you than go to class.”
“Thanks.”
Thanks? Okay, I’m a moron. My brain just doesn’t kick in until I get some caffeine, but even after a gal on of coffee, I wouldn’t have known what to say to Andrew. Talking to him felt awkward, like we’d been out of touch for months instead of for a single day.
“What did your dad say about me coming to visit between summer terms?”
“Oh. Uh…I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet. But I wil .” I punched my fancy pil ow, glad he wasn’t there to see the dread on my face. I did not look forward to having that conversation with my father. Or any other conversation, come to think of it.
“Good. I’ll be there in three weeks.”
Yeah. Great. He’d never make it out alive.
I was only vaguely aware that Andrew was stil talking, until the lengthening silence told me it was my turn to speak. Crap. “You faded out for a second there.” I rolled my eyes at my own lie. “What did you say?”
“I asked you how many you have.”
“How many what?” Over the phone, I heard his sheets rustle as he moved. He really must feel bad if he’s still in bed, I thought.
“How many brothers.”
“Oh. Uh, four.” I saw no reason to explain about Ryan being MIA for most of the last decade. Or about anything else, for that matter.
“Four. Wow. Your parents must have real y been trying for a girl, huh?”
You have no idea.
“Faythe, is anything wrong?”
“Yes. No.” I frowned in confusion, one hand hovering over my face to shield my eyes from the sunlight. If only it could shield me from my life too…“Everything’s fine. I’m just stil half-asleep.”
I sat up, glancing at my bedroom door as footsteps hurried past in the hal .
“Hey, I was just about to get something to eat. Can I cal you back later?” I sniffed the air, trying to identify the owner of the footsteps. No luck. I was too slow.
“Sure,” Andrew said. “I was about to head out for breakfast anyway. I’m starving.”
“Okay, go eat. And I hope you feel better,” I said, too preoccupied with the footsteps in the hal to inject any sincerity into my reply.
A search of my suitcase produced more books than clothing, but I found a pale blue stretchy tee that would work. It read It’s not the length of the word; It’s how wel you use it. Daddy would love it. I pulled my nightshirt over my head and tossed it onto the bed, then donned the shirt and stepped into the jeans I’d worn the day before.
I was tugging a brush through my nest of black tangles when the first polyphonic notes of “Criminal” rang out faintly from somewhere behind me. My phone. Where did I leave my phone? I’d been home for roughly twelve hours and had already forgotten I had a life outside of the Lazy S. That was one of the dangers of coming home. Home traps you. It swal ows you whole, like a sandpit of nostalgia, sucking at you until you can neither move nor think, and you choke on your own panic.
Or maybe I was just being paranoid.
I tossed the contents from my suitcase, searching for the source of the music.
The bottom layer of canvas stared back at me, empty, but stil the music played.
Grunting in frustration, I threw the bag across the room. Its plastic-reinforced corner left a dent in the wal . Great. But Fiona Apple’s sultry, alto crooning grew louder.
There it was, half an inch of shiny chrome sticking out from under my bed skirt. I lunged for it, glad I’d disabled my voicemail.
Stil panting from my frantic search, I pushed the Talk button, cutting Fiona off in midsyllable. “Hello?”
“So I woke up this morning thinking something was wrong, and it took me a moment to figure out what it was.”
Huh? I held the phone out at arm’s length, staring at it as if it were to blame for the speaker’s lack of sense.
The cal er spoke again. “This is the part where you ask me what was wrong.”
Ah. It was Andrew. I should have known.
“Faythe? Are you there?”
I put the phone back up to my ear, but a long moment passed before I could answer. Hearing his voice in my father’s house was disorienting and vaguely uncomfortable, as if two very separate halves of my life had collided, crushing me between them and making it nearly impossible for me to think, much less speak.
“Faythe?” Concern raised Andrew’s pitch, exaggerating the stuffy sound of his voice.
I swal owed, wincing at how dry my throat felt. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I just woke up.” I sank onto the bed facing the mirror, where the photographs mocked me
from various points in my own past.
“Me, too. That’s what was wrong.”
“Huh?” My eyes settled on the photo of me and Marc at my senior prom. Try as I might to drag my gaze from it, Marc’s eyes kept pulling mine back. They seemed to follow me from the photo, glinting in amusement at my futile attempt to concentrate on what Andrew was saying. Or maybe they were just reflecting the clear Christmas lights used as prom decorations.
“I slept through my alarm and missed my first class.”
“Oh, no.” I turned my back on the photo, pleased at my victory over Marc’s picture-self.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t feel like learning anything today anyway.
My cold’s worse, and I think I have a bit of a fever. Anyway, I’d much rather talk to you than go to class.”
“Thanks.”
Thanks? Okay, I’m a moron. My brain just doesn’t kick in until I get some caffeine, but even after a gal on of coffee, I wouldn’t have known what to say to Andrew. Talking to him felt awkward, like we’d been out of touch for months instead of for a single day.
“What did your dad say about me coming to visit between summer terms?”
“Oh. Uh…I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet. But I wil .” I punched my fancy pil ow, glad he wasn’t there to see the dread on my face. I did not look forward to having that conversation with my father. Or any other conversation, come to think of it.
“Good. I’ll be there in three weeks.”
Yeah. Great. He’d never make it out alive.
I was only vaguely aware that Andrew was stil talking, until the lengthening silence told me it was my turn to speak. Crap. “You faded out for a second there.” I rolled my eyes at my own lie. “What did you say?”
“I asked you how many you have.”
“How many what?” Over the phone, I heard his sheets rustle as he moved. He really must feel bad if he’s still in bed, I thought.
“How many brothers.”
“Oh. Uh, four.” I saw no reason to explain about Ryan being MIA for most of the last decade. Or about anything else, for that matter.
“Four. Wow. Your parents must have real y been trying for a girl, huh?”
You have no idea.
“Faythe, is anything wrong?”
“Yes. No.” I frowned in confusion, one hand hovering over my face to shield my eyes from the sunlight. If only it could shield me from my life too…“Everything’s fine. I’m just stil half-asleep.”
I sat up, glancing at my bedroom door as footsteps hurried past in the hal .
“Hey, I was just about to get something to eat. Can I cal you back later?” I sniffed the air, trying to identify the owner of the footsteps. No luck. I was too slow.
“Sure,” Andrew said. “I was about to head out for breakfast anyway. I’m starving.”
“Okay, go eat. And I hope you feel better,” I said, too preoccupied with the footsteps in the hal to inject any sincerity into my reply.
