Untraceable

Survival Skill #20

The reactions of animals provide warnings of any danger in the area.

~

Mom’s high-pitched voice sucks me out of a delicious dream. Think Mo plus kiss plus MoonPies. “Why are you in bed? It’s almost noon!”

I moan from under a mound of covers as my mind straddles between waking up and going back to sleep. “I’m tired.”

She yanks the pillow off my head, letting the bright light find my face. “Why? What were you doing all night?”

I squint, as dots blink in my vision. My hand shields my eyes until my pupils adjust. “Me? Where were you? You didn’t show up for our family dinner last night. Again.”

Mom acts nonchalant about standing me up … again. “I was offered another shift. I called but you didn’t answer. You must have gotten home late.”

I lean up on my elbows and stare at her. My muddled brain finally flickers on and starts to recall reality. “Really? Because I called the diner. They said you’d already left. Where were you?”

“Out.” Mom balls her fists and places them on her hips. “Anyway, I don’t have to answer to you.”

I cross my arms. “Well, you don’t have to lie to me either.”

She yanks off the bedspread, exposing my naked feet. “Get up. Jim’s only chargin’ me fifty bucks a session, the least you can do is be on time.”

I salute her and rise to a soldier’s stance. She ignores my military impression and leaves without saying another word. I sigh as soon as the door closes. Deep down, it sucks fighting with her. Wish I knew how to stop. Surely there’s a class or something. Troubled teens and their messed up moms 101.

Rubbing my eyes, I stuff my feet into bear slippers and shuffle to the closet. After squeezing into a pair of tan cargo pants, I flip through my collection of vintage t-shirts and choose a Cookie Monster one that says, “One Tough Cookie.” Don’t feel very tough today. Actually, the opposite. Beaten down. Weak. Spent. I wonder if Cookie Monster ever gets tired of obsessing over sugar. Who knows, maybe this shirt can give me some kind of super power. Like the big S on Superman’s chest.

As soon as I make it downstairs, Mom appears from the kitchen, wearing her diner uniform. “Gotta go, I’m late. I made you some breakfast.” She pushes through the screen door.

A couple seconds later, I hear the struggling clutch beg for mercy as Mom attempts to murder it once again. I smile. Weird, how the small, dumb things never change. Yet the big, important things you want to stay the same never do.

In the kitchen, I spot my most-important-meal-of-the-day on the table: two pieces of burnt toast, an expired yogurt cup (Hello, lactose intolerant!), and an open can of flat coke. What ever happened to Wheaties, fruit, and a good ole’ glass of OJ? I scrape the black crust off the bread and cram it into my mouth.

It’s official. Mom’s trying to kill me.

Just as I’m leaving the house for Dr. Head’s office, a photo perched up on the mantle catches my eye. The one of Dad and me holding up a huge fish we caught together. I’m wearing a big smile, unaware of the bunny ears he’s displaying behind my head. In pretty much every picture of us, he did something silly.

I stare at his smile and guilt pumps through me. I wasted so much time yesterday messing around when I should have been searching another grid. I need to regroup. Focus. Get back to my investigation. The gunfire replays in my head.

I need to see Les. Check and see if he found those guys. Tell him about the shooting noises. Find out why he never called like he promised.

There’s not much time before my appointment, but this can’t wait.