I leave them as Phoebe starts singing a Shawn Mendes song.
Mom’s in the kitchen stirring a pot of meat sauce. On Sundays, she either makes spaghetti or chicken pot pie. Both are favorites of mine, and I eagerly look forward to my visit every week.
I settle at the counter near the sliding glass door that flows into the backyard. The house is a modest one-story with three bedrooms and one bathroom, which Mom has transformed into a homey family space. When we moved from New Jersey, we lived in an apartment for a year before Mom got her job at the hotel. Then she found this house in a decent neighborhood with a good school system.
I take out my wallet and count out three hundred dollars.
“Where did you get that money?” Mom’s tone rises as she visibly gulps.
I can’t lie to her. I thought about it. But she knows my tells. When I lie, I chew on my lip and I subconsciously avoid direct eye contact. I’m only aware because she once shared that tidbit with me.
“Don’t ask, please.” I slide the money across the counter. “It’s not much, but I’ll get more.” My twenty-percent cut doesn’t add up to three hundred bucks. I’m not telling Ray I overcharged for the bags.
I’m well aware if he finds out he’ll have my hand on his workbench ready to slice it off with one of those expensive tools he owns. But he didn’t say I couldn’t charge more. The deal is to give him his standard cut, and I plan on doing that.
Tears cascade down Mom’s face. “Adam, please tell me this isn’t drug money?” She keeps her voice low.
I glance through the archway leading into where Phoebe and Sam are. Phoebe is still belting out a song, and Sam is singing along with her. He’s completely off key, but it’s the thought that counts.
I sigh heavily. “Phoebe needs her vest, and we have a hospital bill to pay. It’s only until you find a job.” The last part is somewhat of a lie. I have three months with Ray, and if I try to quit before then, I’m sure he’ll string me up by the balls.
Or put a bullet in my skull.
She shakes her head in quick succession, crying softly.
I wrap my arms around her. “Please let me handle the money situation.”
She sniffles. “What about football? And school? You can’t risk that.”
“Mom, I can’t risk anything happening to you and Phoebe.”
She sobs quietly.
My heart is breaking and breaking and breaking. I know she’s disappointed. I know she’s scared. But there is no other quick solution for fast cash, and a job paying minimum wage just won’t cut it.
“I’ll be careful.” And I will. Emily isn’t going to rat on me. The stakes for her are just as high.
Or at least I pray they are.
8
Emily
Prison is the only way I can describe my weekend. I swear my bedroom walls closed in on me minute by excruciating minute. Mom grounded my ass, and it’s ridiculous how much power my parents have over me although it was Mom who went ballistic.
Friday night, when we returned to the house after the disastrous fundraiser, Mom launched into a hissy fit. Rage poured out of her as she flung an expensive vase against the stone fireplace. Her precious antique shattered into tiny pieces.
Dad watched on in disgust.
I feared for my life with the way she glared at me like I was an intruder and not her kin. Mom is downright scary when she wants to be.
When she was done cleansing the rage from her system, she turned her temper to me, but Dad stepped in. I knew he was livid with me too, but that didn’t mean he’d let her harm me. When he tried to calm her down, a fight ensued between them. After an hour of shouting at one another and throwing my name around like I wasn’t even in the room, Mom stormed out of the house.
It pains me that I’m the crux of their problems. But if Mom had the decency to treat me like a daughter, and not one of her employees or students, we might be a close family, and I sure as shit wouldn’t have to resort to drugs to numb my pain.
She didn’t return until the following morning, and wherever she went to cool off must’ve been a place that sucked out all her fury, because she calmly laid out the terms of my punishment.
I’m grounded for the next two weekends.
