I could hear them arguing from my bedroom upstairs. Each and every one of their words jabbed me in the stomach and I winced as if it had been aimed directly at me.
“You're an asshole!” my mother screamed. I heard a crash.
“You're an asshole!” my stepfather bellowed in that annoying tone of his. He wasn't so good at comebacks. Just insults. Always insults.
I wanted to put on some headphones to drown out the commotion, but I needed to hear it. I deserved to hear it. I got up from my window seat where I was drawing in my sketchbook and walked over to the door and sat down, cracking it just a little. I couldn't see them from where I was, but I could hear them and see their angry shadows cast on the wall.
“I've always got to do everything! Everything! No wonder I work all the time; I hate the people here!” That was mom.
“Psh, whatever..” I heard my stepfather, Evan, flick his lighter and inhale. His shadow shook its head.
She did hate us. Both of us. I knew it.
“No job, you never do anything. Neither of you! You're worthless!”
“Whatever,” he chuckled darkly, as if finding this all so amusing. He flicked ash onto the floor, then took another drag. I heard it and gritted my teeth, sure they would break and fall out of my head.
“Huh?! What did you say?!” Oh God. My hand closed into a fist as I struggled not to crawl away, hide under my covers, pretend I never heard any of this. Pretend to sleep. No! I chastised myself. I deserved this.
“Nothing, Christine..” he dropped his cigarette onto the tile and stomped it out with his house shoes, then left it there. Evan started up the stairs, mumbling. “Fat pig.. worthless.. bitch..”
I quietly got up off the floor and tiptoed back to my window seat, hiding my sketchbook under one of the ugly pink throw pillows there. I couldn't risk either of them seeing it.
Evan had completely retreated into his bedroom when I heard my mother call my name. “Angie! Angie! Get down here! Now!” I did as I was told.
“Clean this up,” she pointed to a ceramic angel I made her for her birthday in art class last year, smashed to pieces in the floor. It had taken a whole week to perfect, hours to paint every little detail onto the clay. I tried not to cry, hurt, as I got the broom and dustpan out of the utility closet.
As I was picking up the angel, there was a knock on the door. I knew who it was without even checking. My mom let Jeremy in right as I scooped up the remaining bits of the angel into the trash. Jesse and I have been best friends since kindergarten. She was the only other person who knew what went on in my house. She didn't find out until third grade, though. I made him swear not to tell. Ever. And she didn't. He mentions it every now and again. That I should tell someone. An authority figure. I change the subject.
Jesse looked from my mom to me with an eyebrow raised, but said nothing, as usual. They didn't know she knew.
My mom put on a fake smile. “How's your mom?” she asked her.
“She's starting another treatment plan tomorrow, so a bit apprehensive, but otherwise fine, thanks for asking.”
Jesse's mom had been diagnosed with lung cancer seven months ago. No one really knew if she'd make it through this, but no one really said otherwise. I often wished Patty had been my mom instead of Christine, with her rosy cheeks and warm hugs and perfume that smelled like ginger and cloves. She was everything a mother should be; warm, loving, caring, and nice. She was kind of strict, but it was because she cared.
I put away the cleaning utilities and cleared my throat, "I'll be right down."
I sprinted up the stairs and went back into my bedroom, grabbing my messenger bag, my sketchbook, a change of clothes, and some toiletries. I wouldn't be coming home tonight.
"Let's go," I said, walking past Jesse and out into the yard. She followed. My mom didn't ask me where I was going, she didn't tell me to be home by a certain time, she didn't even say goodbye. She never did.
"Angie.." I heard her say. She knew. She always knew.
"No," I forced out. "Not here."
Jesse lived only two blocks away from my house. It was a pretty small neighborhood, and everyone knew everyone. When I finally reached his house, I walked right in just as I'd done ever since kindergarten. They didn't mind.
Mitchel Johnson, Jesse's dad, was sitting in the living room, watching tv as I walked through the room and went straight to the bedroom at the end of the hall.
