Dana Ilic and the Shadow Door (Lightwielder Chronicles #1) | ✔️

1| The Light from Nowhere

"...So, as I was saying, I really should talk to your mom."

"Yeah. Okay. Sure. I'll tell her. Bye." Blood rushed through my ears as I hung up the call, still clutching the phone in my trembling fingers. 

Oh, bummer.

Who had called the freaking child services on us?

Probably that  nosy neighbour. Or my honey-voiced, overtly concerned  supermarket manager.

And the child services official said she'd come here on June 23rd? That's like two days from now!

My free hand absentmindedly combed through my cat's fur.

I chewed on my lower lip till I tasted blood.

Argh, dang it, what's gonna happen to me now? School's almost over. July is here. I might be stuck with my weird elderly aunt Tania... The whole summer holidays, at the very least.

No way I'd stay with old Tan forever. That'd never happen. I would live on the streets first. I would pretend I'm eighteen.

Hey, it's a wonder what some well-placed make-up can do.

I always think of something. 

The thought helped. I raised my chin up high and resolutely padded towards the kitchen.

Exhaling, I dropped the paper bag on the table. My hands and arms hurt like hell from all that shelves stacking at Lunds & Byerlys.

Hey, at least I got paid for May. I've been waiting for that money for more than two weeks.

Have to be careful how I distribute the cash. And I royally suck at cooking.

I first stacked half-a-loaf of brown bread and a couple of cans sardines in the cupboard. Lemon-flavored ones—left, tomato-flavored ones—right.

That would have to do for lunch, when I got back from school.

Maybe even for dinner, too. 

I pulled out two hand-painted cereal bowls, filling them with milk to the brim, and popped open the newly-acquired Cheerios box.

"Mind always thinks clearer after a nice spot of breakfast," mom used to say.

I cleared my throat and shouted. "Moooom! Breakfast's ready!"

There was no reply.

"Mom?" I tried again, with the same result.

Like a rocket, I shot towards the bedroom.

My fingers coiled around the old doorknob, my breath hitching at the possibility that she had wandered off.

As my dumb brain went over all the possible panicky scenarios, the door swung open and I whew-ed at the sight of the familiar black, curly, matted mane.

"Mama," I muttered.

"Dana. Zdravo, dusho moia. My darling daughter," she whispered, the second time in English, rocking in the rickety chair by the window.

Katarina Ilic. The best mama in the whole wide world, but with the worst luck possible. She was born in former Yugoslavia and had to escape her own country during the war of the 90s, seeking a new chance at happiness here in Bloomington, Minnesota. Grandpa had died in the war, and she and her older sister Tania were raised by my grandma.

The one-bedroom flat where we lived was luckily on her name, so the money I earned was just about enough to cover for food and bills.

I was trying to put some cash on the side for taking mama to the psychiatrist. And now the flipping CPS was onto us.