“No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t say anything.”
I wish I could be annoyed at her. I’m so sick of feeling sad, heartbroken and a little disturbed, that I’m desperate to feel an emotion that isn’t one of the above.
But as much as I force my brain to be pissed at her for spending money on booze and men, and sparkly bits of string that leave next to nothing to the imagination, I can’t be mad at my own mom.
All I can do is vow to do better if I have children of my own.
Because not only is it exhausting to open the empty pantry in the morning and settle for a grumbling stomach, it’s also embarrassing. Everyone in my grade knows that my mother is out most nights on the Strip. People see her. She even flashed the soccer captain last month, and it’s still hot gossip all over the entire school.
I go into geometry class and hear people making comments about the shape and size of my own mother’s breasts. It’s shameful, and the teachers look at me differently. They neverraise their voice, even if I’m late like the others. I’m not normal, just a charity case that all the staff feel sorry for.
I’ve lost friends because of my own fucking mom. At one point before the school got involved, random students would linger outside, apparently trying to see if my mom was the “MILF” their friends claimed her to be.
When your own mother loves male attention and booze more than her own daughter, you know there’s a problem.
All the teachers at my school are concerned, but from an insider’s perspective, it’s different. She’s still my mom. There was a time before all of this when she’d only party twice a week. She used to cook meals and take me to the library every Monday morning for story time.
Everybody else thinks that she’s gone, but she’s still in there.
I clear my throat. “You should wake up. It’s nearly five p.m.”
“That’s alright, honey,” she says drowsily. “I didn’t get home until midday. I think I’ll have a few more hours. There’s a packet of sweet waffles in the pantry if you’re hungry.”
I head to the kitchen, but not before opening the curtains and windows to let in some daylight and fresh air.
There’s not much point in even doing that. We live in a neighborhood that’s low in elevation and thick with the smells of nicotine, sweat, and decay.
Back in the kitchen, I realize she lied about the waffles, or got confused.
Or accidentally left them out on the countertop for Tim to help himself to.
I peer out the window and watch as he walks down the street, digging into another waffle from the packet. He shoves the baked good into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten for months.
In an attempt to fill the gaping hole in my stomach, I fill up a glass of tap water and down the tepid liquid in one go, hoping it’s enough to sate my hunger until tomorrow lunchtime at school.
I finish the glass of water and set it on the stained worktop. At this point, the only thing keeping me going is the quote I heard my history teacher indirectly tell me when he was teaching us about World War Two:
If you’re going through hell, keep going.
“You look like you’ve been alone with your thoughts for too long,” Carter says. “Can I get you another drink?”
“Right,” I chuckle. “Because booze is the resolution to everything.”
“Not everything,” he says. “But it has the ability to make life much easier.” He pauses for a moment to study my expression. “You’re worried. Rest assured—there’s no need. We’ll protect you.”
Protect the pretty little toy so no other men can get their hands on it.
“Thanks, but I can take care of myself just fine.”
“I know you can.”
“Excuse me?”
“It must be tiring.”
Where is Carter going with this statement? After analyzing his blue eyes for far too long, I swivel around in the bar stool and request a pint of water from the bartender.
“Sparkling or still?”
