The way his head bent over the paper, dark hair falling in his face. He was so serious. His mouth firm, teeth biting on his lip as he concentrated.
He had no idea that I watched him.
We sat on the couch in his living room and I wished I never had to leave. But I knew that in just a few minutes I’d have to leave again.
Mrs. Hendrick didn’t like me. I’d been around enough adults who couldn’t stand me to recognize the signs.
I wanted her to like me. Because she was the sort of mother I imagined mine would have been like. Baking bread and planting flowers. When I think of my mom I didn’t feel angry like I probably should have. I didn’t think about how she left me alone. I didn’t think about how she had never come back to find me.
I think about the one memory I had that was as clear as if it had just happened yesterday. I was standing on a stool by the counter stirring cake batter in a giant bowl. My mother was beautiful with her hair pulled back and a smile on her face as she closed her hand over my much smaller one and helped me mix the ingredients.
I felt loved and secure.
It was the only time I could remember ever feeling that way.
Until I came to Flynn’s house for the first time.
And even though I knew Mrs. Hendrick didn’t like me, it didn’t change the fact that I loved being there.
“Flynn,” I said, trying to get his attention. He didn’t acknowledge me, his pencil moving rapidly across the paper. I knew that I might as well not be there. His focus was absolute.
I got to my feet and headed into the kitchen to get a drink of water while I waited for him to finish his drawing. This time it was a picture of his dog, Marty, who was following me, hoping I would give him a treat.
I leaned down and scratched the Border collie behind the ears, loving him as much as I loved this house.
I came up short, finding Mrs. Hendrick at the kitchen table, embroidery in her lap as she stitched. She looked a lot like Flynn with wavy, dark hair that was a little unruly and always hung in her face.
She looked up when I came in, her green eyes, just like her son’s, colder than his could ever be. “Hello, Ellie,” she said, and I didn’t like the way she spoke my name. Like it was a bad word.
Normally I’d give an adult with such a clear aversion of me nothing but attitude but I couldn’t with Mrs. Hendrick. I wanted her approval more than I wanted to preserve my pride.
“Hi, Mrs. Hendrick. Is it all right if I get a drink?” I asked, wondering where this girl with the good manners had come from.
“Of course,” she responded shortly.
I started to walk around her and stopped to look at what she was working on. “That’s really pretty, Mrs. Hendrick,” I told her honestly.
“Thank you,” she said. I was reaching for a glass when her voice stopped me. “Why are you here, Ellie?”
“Um, I’m hanging out with Flynn,” I said, not understanding.
Mrs. Hendrick put down the needlepoint and looked at me, her eyes narrowed. “Why are you hanging out with Flynn? He tells me how you treat him at school. How your friends bully him. So answer my question. Why are you here? It can’t be that you enjoy his company given the way you act once you leave. What sort of person walks into someone’s home, eats their food, watches their TV, pretends to be their friend, then abuses them when they’re in public?”
Her words cut me to the quick and I felt ashamed. Ashamed of my behavior. Ashamed that she saw it.
Mrs. Hendrick glared at me and I knew that she wouldn’t ever like me. I’m trash. Not worth the shit on her shoe.
“I’ll tell you what type of person does that, Ellie. A cruel person. A person incapable of thinking about anyone but themselves. My son deserves better than that. He deserves better thanyou.”
Then she returned to her embroidery and I forgot about getting a drink. I grabbed my bookbag and I left, not saying anything to Flynn.
Because Mrs. Hendrick was right.
I was trash.
I was cruel.
I was selfish.
