Homewrecker

01 - 𝓽𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓪𝓭𝓸

". . . a tornado watch, as well as a severe thunderstorm watch, has been issued for Greens County since this morning and will remain in effect until seven o'clock this evening, so make sure to stay tuned to your favorite radio station, Vibes 104.6, for all the latest weather updates."

The voice was distant as it drifted to me from the speakers of a rusted blue pick-up truck idling in front of a STOP sign in the high school's parking lot a few feet away from me, the engine rumbling loudly as it shook against the tires and the windows rolled down, the blast from the air conditioning almost drowning the radio host out.

The humidity was hot and sticky against my skin as I looked around the truck as the newest pop song started to play from inside and saw another car, a hatchback, behind it. Not my mother's beat-up, old minivan. Static crackled the lyrics as the truck drove past me and the STOP sign, and I glanced down at my phone in my hand, the string of unanswered text message bubbles barely visible under the harsh sunlight reflecting against the screen.

Like normal, my mom was late.

I dropped my backpack down onto the ground beside me and sat down on the scorching sidewalk, wincing as it burned against my bare thighs under the hem of my shorts, and looked at my phone, again. Still no response, even though school let out almost half an hour ago. She was probably still asleep on the futon, the box fan pointed toward her, and the sundress she wore the night before tangled around her sprawled legs.

Normally, it wouldn't have mattered, and I would've just walked home. The trailer park was only a mile away from the school, less if I cut through the football field instead of walking on the shoulder. But today was different. Today was the last day of school, the day before summer break, and we were going to go to Plant-Nation together to pick out flowers for my garden around the trailer.

It was a promise she made to me when I stormed home after going to the nearest ATM a few weeks ago, so angry with her my throat closed up every time I tried to yell at her. She was a few steps behind me when I slammed the screen door, gravel kicked up by her footsteps as she tried to keep up with me, and she shouted her promise as I locked the door with her still outside.

"I'll make this up to you, baby, I will." Her voice, even through the flimsy plastic and torn mesh of the front door, still carried that familiar shrill tremble it did whenever she was desperate. But her desperation was what got me, so livid with her that it felt like it might burst through my chest, and her, locked outside of our trailer.

"Really, I will. Look, I'll weed! Right now, I'm going to weed. See, Bronwyn, I'm pulling out this dandelion from your garden." I heard a stifled grunt, and then a quiet snap. "I'm going to get a shovel, Bronwyn. I'll find a shovel, and I'll dig that up for you! Right now."

She didn't. She looked around the nearby trailers for a couple of moments, mumbling under her breath, until I heard her start knocking on our neighbor's, Kingston Castaneda's, trailer for a shovel and nearly fell down the cinderblocks that made up the stairs to our front door trying to stop her from waking him up in the middle of the night.

She started crying when I let her back into the trailer, rubbing her cheeks with the inside of her wrist, and she kept promising she would make it up to me as she plopped down on our futon, hiccupping.

"I'm sorry, baby," she told me, sniffling loudly and grabbing onto my hands. I stood there, not letting her bring me down onto the futon beside her, but not pulling away from her either. "I'm going to get a job," she resolved. "And my first paycheck, I'll make it up to you. We'll go to that flower place you love, and we'll buy all the flowers. All of them. Vegetable plants too, and I'll plant you help them even. Baby, I promise."