“People like him,” Edna murmurs, smoothing a paper beneath her palms. “They shine so bright you can’t help but look.” Then she meets my eyes. “But people in the spotlight burn faster than the rest of us.”
A pause.
“And Kai Steele? That boy’s practically on fire.”
My mouth parts, something half-formed rising to the surface, something likemaybeorI guess you’re right, but I never get the chance.
“The ones everyone sees,” Edna cuts in, folding the paper once, then again, “are usually the ones no one really knows.”
***
By the time I get home, I’m utterly drained. The walk back somehow feels longer than usual, and my legs ache as I step into the kitchen. As expected, Sam hasn’t prepared food for Mum—again. Sighing, I unpack the food I managed to grab with my meal pass.
I felt so guilty using the pass just for myself, so I grabbed as much food as I could carry and stuffed it all into my bag. It’s a lifesaver. Although I must have looked like a complete lunatic taking so much. I had fully stacked my tray with a mountain of food, and things were beginning to fall off.
The sandwiches are starting to go a bit funky, but I can’t afford to waste them. The bananas, on the other hand, have made my entire bag smell awful. I hate bananas—the smell, the taste—but Sam and Naomi like them, so I made sure to grab a few.
After sorting the food, I heat up a microwavable meal for Mum. I don’t have the energy to cook, and honestly, this will probably taste better anyway.
When I walk into her room, my heart aches. Every time I see her, she seems to become more distant, more lifeless, and it hurts so much to witness her like this. I grip the plate of food in my hand tightly as I approach her, taking a seat on the bed beside her.
“Hey,” I say softly, attempting a smile. “I brought some food for you.”
My heart sinks at the sight of empty alcohol bottles scattered all over the place. I know she’s been drinking for a while, and not just drinking, but doing other things too.
My mother doesn’t even bother looking at me, and it feels like she doesn’t even hear my voice. “Mum?” I ask again, my voice wavering slightly. Finally, her eyes lift to meet mine, and the sadness in them makes my throat tighten. There’s something else there too, something I see every time I look at her nowadays. It’s in the way her gaze flickers, in the way her lips press together like she’s holding back words she’ll never say.
Blame.
It’s always there, lurking beneath the surface, even if she doesn’t say it outright. And maybe she doesn’t need to. I feel it nevertheless.
I take a deep breath, trying to push aside the sadness and disappointment. “I got a new job at the bookshop today,” I tell her, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice and failing miserably. “A-and I… I made some friends.”
Her lips twitch, and for a second, I think she might actually smile. “That’s good,” she says quietly. “Are they treating you right?”
“Yeah, they’re great,” I reply, nodding too quickly. “They even offered to go shopping with me. Can you believe it?”
She nods, her gaze drifting away again. “Good to hear,” she murmurs.
I fiddle with my fingers, trying to think of something else to say, something that might connect us, even just for a moment. “After you eat, would you like to go on a walk with me?” I suggest tentatively. “Just around town. It would be good for you.”
She doesn’t answer right away, and I already know what she’ll say.
“Maybe another time,” she says finally, her voice distant.
Another time. It always means never, but I still ask. Every single time, I ask.
I don’t know why I keep hoping.
“You could braid my hair,” I blurt out, desperate to keep her here.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, there’s a spark of recognition. I grab the hairbands from my wrist and hold them out to her. “You always used to braid my hair before school.”
She takes the hairbands, her movements slow. “Okay,” she says softly.
Relief washes over me as she reaches for my hair. Her fingers are a little shaky, but they work with the same gentle precision as always. I close my eyes, letting myself savor the moment.
When she finishes, I reach up to touch the braid, my fingers brushing against the strands she’s woven together. “Thanks,” I say, a smile pulling at my lips.
