She’ll regret that one day.
One day, my mother will be sorry she didn’t listen to me and hopefully I won’t be around to see it.
I shouldn’t even go back now, but I have to.
I have to go back and get my bike, plus my backpack is there. If I ever want a real shot at getting out of Rolling Meadows then I have to try to get through school. At least graduate so I can get a real job that makes enough money to get me away from this shithole town.
Away from her.
My fists clench at my side and I bend to grab another brick but I come up empty. I search the grass again, look for anything I can throw at the stupid empty house, but I don’t find anything. Nothing but something shiny and smooth.
I dig a little in the dirt to unearth the stone, realizing as soon as I do that it’s more like a river rock instead of a broken piece of cement, which is odd because Rolling Meadows isn’t anywhere near a river. I brush off the dirt then shine it on my t-shirt, the texture cool and smooth, without any imperfections.
My eyes trace the oval shape, scan it for any cracks or chips, then I slowly rub my thumb over the center of it, the action calming me a little.
And that’s why I keep doing it.
The entire walk back to my house I rub my thumb over the cool, smooth stone, my anger dropping to a simmer, the fight leaving my body as extreme exhaustion sets in.
Maybe I can try to talk to her again.
Maybe if I stay calm and level, try not to get upset and talk to her like an adult she’ll listen to me.
I’m not asking for much.
Grocery money, maybe a little for some new shoes. It’s stuff I need, stuff we both need, and if she realized that I’m not trying to go buy comic books or some shit, Mom would try a little harder to save it or set it aside.
Maybe…
I stop dead in my tracks as I turn down my street, my heart dropping to my stomach when my house comes into view.
It’s on fire.
My house, my shitty little one bedroom house, is on fucking fire, the flames lighting up the entire block like the Fourth of July.
And for a second, my anger turns into panic.
I run toward the house, toward the huge group of onlookers that have gathered on the street, pushing my way through the crowd until I’m standing at the edge of my yard.
“Is there anyone inside?” My voice comes out in a barely audible whisper, the question directed at no one in particular. But I don’t get a response, so I try again. “Was there anyone inside?”
“Don’t know for sure,” Ms. Peabody, our neighbor, sighs before she tsks. “I knew that North woman was trouble the moment she moved into that house.”
Which was ten years ago, so the crazy old bat’s statement seems asinine right now. “Was she in the house?”
Ms. Peabody pulls her gaze away from the fire to look at me, her eyes widening as she does. “Sam?”
I just nod, barely able to fight my eye roll.
“Boy, your mama isn’t in that house.”
Relief floods me, but only briefly. Just because she wasn’t inside doesn’t mean something bad didn’t happen to her. And no matter how angry I get, I don’t want my mother to—
“She was standing here no less than twenty minutes ago.” An unfamiliar emotion flashes in her eyes—one I’d call pity even though I know that’s not it—before she looks between me and the house that’s about to collapse. “And she said…”
My gut swirls with anxiety, the relief gone, anger creeping back in before it consumes me again.
“Your mama said you were on your own tonight, Sam. Said to tell you she’s staying with her boyfriend and she’ll try to find you tomorrow after school…”
