18
Jane
The clock in the dash of Blair’s Mercedes reads five past midnight.
Great.
One thing I always try to do is make curfew, even though I break each and every other one of Mom’s rules: no smoking, no drinking, no fooling around with boys, etc. But I do my best to meet curfew so she can’t have one obvious thing to hold against me.
I’m praying she’s already asleep.
I have Blair drop me a little ways from the house, to keep the noise to a minimum.
Pa’s truck is nowhere in sight.Humph.
I creep up the steps, tiptoe across the porch. Creak open the front door.
My shoulders sag.
Mom’s sitting at the kitchen table, reading theFarmers’ Almanac.
In the light of the lone bulb hanging above her, her face looksolder, solemn. I almost feel a pang of pity for her, there all alone with that dreary book, but then her expression sours at the sight of me.
It’s like she can smell the booze from there. The cigarettes, the weed, the cologne of the boys who got close enough to me to flirt.
Her eyes skewer me, giving me the same once-over she gave me before I left.
I tug my skirt down.
“You’re late.” She shakes her head, trains her gaze back to the pages now in her lap.
“Not my fault. I tried to get Blair to leave earlier, but—”
“I was starting to get worried.”
“It’s only five minutes, Mom.”
She whistles out a sigh.
“Where’s Pa?” I ask, trying to change the subject. And to provoke her. “Why isn’t he home?”
She closes the book, narrows her eyes at me. “Your father is out. You know he needs to find new clients.”
Ah, so that’s what she’s calling it.
I can’t help it—it’s the alcohol and my own spitefulness—but the corners of my lips lift into a grin.
“What?” Mom spits out, her voice strained.
I recompose my face, turning it into a blank mask. “Nothing.” I drop my eyes to the floor, then head for the ladder that leads to the loft, swerving around her on my way.
I can feel her stare lighting into the back of me.
I wince in pain as I mount the bottom rung of the ladder—my leg is still a mess—but I force myself to climb.
I’m halfway up when her voice slithers across the room, icy cold, mean. “I can smell tobacco smoke on you. I don’t know who you think you’re foolin’; I can also smell boy all over you.”
I pause, then keep pulling myself up.
