Pusher

thirty-seven.

"Your principal called today."

I hardly registered my mother's voice, still submerged between the couch cushions in search of my car keys. They had to be around here somewhere.

"Huh? Oh, you mean the school board thing. I already told him I didn't want to give the speech. I don't know why he's bothering you about it," I said, abandoning the living room to join my mother in the kitchen. I hurriedly shoveled in a bite of my abandoned dinner, still sitting on the counter, and proceeded to scan any visible surface for my keys. The whole room seemed to be piled with forgotten junk and stacks of papers. The only ones we really needed to worry about — this month's bills — were stuck to the fridge with a magnet, the ever constant reminder of why I stuffed my purse with weed every morning.

"I swear, Ma, if you try to talk me into it too, I'll straight up run away and join the circus. You know I hate public speaking."

"No, Angelica, he was calling about your behavior."

My eyes snapped up to her, my confusion showing plainly. For the first time since I got home I looked at her, really looked at her. Her eyes were heavy and tired, though that had become the norm these days. Her expression was solemn. I waited for the hard lines of her face to crack into a familiar smile, but her gentle reassurance never came.

"My behavior? I haven't done anything wrong."

"Your teachers have noticed you've been less attentive during class," she said. Her mouth fell back into a flat line but I was sure there was more she wanted to say.

"Ma, my grades are fine. What is this really about?"

She drew in a breath, her eyes resting closed as her grip around the coffee mug tightened, then relaxed. She released her sigh and her grey eyes flicked to mine, disappointment crinkling them at the edges.

"Why didn't you tell me you had a boyfriend?"

For a moment, all I could do was stare blankly at her.

"Because I don't," I said, my voice flat. Just as easy as the light sigh that escaped her lips, my mind was tugged back to the week before when Harlow caught Maverick and me outside the auto shop holding hands. My attempt to prevent Mav from smoking was majorly backfiring. "I don't know why my principle is spreading rumors about me to my own freaking mom, but it's just a bunch of bullshit."

And all this time I thought when the boys complained about Harlow, they were simply over exaggerating his focus on them, but this was crossing a line. Giving Maverick a hard time on tardies is one thing, but calling his supposed girlfriend's mom? He was obsessive.

"Angelica," my mother scolded. Her expression hardened. "Watch your language."

"But it is!" I squealed, resenting the way my voice made me sound like a petulant child.

"You've been different lately. Sneaking around, lying to me—"

"I'm not lying to you. Don't you think I would have told you if I had a boyfriend?"

"I don't know what you would do anymore, Angelica," she said. Her voice shook. "Some days it feels like I'm living with a stranger."

"What is that supposed to mean?" My small voice was evidence enough of the way her words cut right through my chest, rooting a sharp pang in my center.

She sat tight lipped for a moment, her composure stiff and frigid before she broke. "I won't let you make the same mistakes I made when I was your age. Your principal told me about this boy. He's violent and—"

"What do you think I'm going to do?" I spat, "Get knocked up? Let some guy use me as a punching bag? I'm not you, okay? I'm nothing like you."

Silence screamed back at me. I was forced to face all the words I never meant to say. It wasn't hard to see the tears that were stinging in my mother's eyes. The same ones were reflected in my own.

What the hell was wrong with me? I couldn't recognize my voice.

I wanted to go to her, wrap myself in her embrace and tell her everything — truly everything. But this stony figure in my kitchen hardly resembled my mother. She was frigid, worn down by months of exhaustion, just a hollow version of the one person in this world I used to trust.

I took a step back.

"Angelica." Her voice sounded empty. It echoed in the space between us. I couldn't stand it.

"I should go," I whispered, "I have to go."

My name echoed again, rattling off the walls of our kitchen. I was already turned around, rushing out the door. I never decided to start running. My shoes hit the pavement without direction or thought, propelled further by the buzz of voices in my head.

Oh God, what the hell was wrong with me?

I didn't stop until I could no longer breathe, my sobs making it too difficult to draw in even a stuttering, sharp breath. The wind whipped against my bare arms, the cold cutting right through me. I wiped at my tears impatiently, perpetually sniffing with nothing to cry into.

I longed for the security of my car, the stretch of highway laid out before me. I needed to get away from here. I needed to drive, but my keys were still lost somewhere back in the house, and I couldn't go back there.

I couldn't see her. So I just kept walking, rubbing at my arms while I tried to figure out where I could possibly go from here.