This May Go On Your Permanent Record by Kelly Swails

Chapter 1

IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME

Having a drunk for a mother was a huge pain in the neck.

I put my fists on my hips and muttered, "Wonderful," as I grimaced and surveyed the kitchen. One of the cabinet doors hung open and dirty wine glasses and plates filled the sink. A coffee spill had dried on the gold Formica counter. An empty peanut butter jar sat next to the sink, a sticky butter knife beside it. An empty bottle of Jack Daniel's sat on the floor next to the overflowing garbage. The whole place smelled like sour milk and burnt popcorn.

Our kitchen was small even by trailer standards, and so the mess looked three times worse than it would in a bigger kitchen. Though maybe people with bigger kitchens didn't let their place get this messy. Or they had people to clean for them.

Dad took off when I was three and Mom's been looking for him in the bottom of a bottle ever since. That she'd made herself a sandwich surprised me, really. She didn't eat unless I shoved a bowl of canned ravioli under her nose, and sometimes not even then. The last few days I'd been busy registering myself for freshman year at the high school and getting my vaccinations updated, and so I hadn't had time to clean or look after Mom, both of which needed to be done.

"Okay, Sally. This won't take long if you just do it," I said as a way to motivate myself as I pulled my hair into a loose ponytail. First off I got to work hand-washing the dishes. I used the last of the dish soap and so I wrote it on the grocery list. After that I cleaned the old food out of the mostly bare fridge and took the garbage out. Crickets chirped in the darkness as I walked the gravel alley to the dumpster. When I got close, the smell of rotten garbage hung in the humid late-summer air and so I held my breath. I didn't have a weak stomach but why take the chance? Puking outside sucked. No matter what spot you picked puke splashed on your shoes.

On my way back I stretched and listened to the quiet streets. We'd moved to this small town a few months ago, and in her more lucid moments Mom liked to say they rolled the sidewalks up at night, which was her way of saying there weren't enough bars. Everything but the taverns closed by nine, and even those closed by eleven. At least we had decent internet service.

When I got back inside I checked the old cuckoo clock on the kitchen wall. The grocery store closed in twenty minutes; if I rode my bike I could make it there in plenty of time to pick up some food for the week. I rummaged in the drawer next to the phone but couldn't find the familiar blue Link card. I nibbled my thumbnail and checked the center of the table. Sometimes Mom stuck papers between the salt and pepper shakers, but I came up empty. Same with the small pile of junk mail on the counter. My stomach sank. I hadn't lost it, had I? Had it fallen out of my pocket without me realizing it? No. I'd bought eggs and bread four days ago and remembered putting the card away. I checked the drawer again with the same result. I pressed my lips together, took a deep breath, and walked through the living room and down the narrow hall to Mom's bedroom.

"Where's the food card?" I said.

"Why do you need it, Sally?" She said without taking her eyes off the little TV perched on her dresser. An episode of Hoarders filled the fuzzy screen and I grimaced. I didn't care to see anyone's miserable life, but Mom got sucked in by it. Maybe she told herself that those people were worse off than us.

"To, you know, buy food," I said. Her eyes flickered as she took a long pull from her wine glass and I knew she had done something with it. "What?"
 "What?" she repeated, her tone belligerent.

I balled my hands into fists. "What did you do with the card, Mom?" I said, making my words as calm and deliberate as I could.

"Nothing," she said.