Free Wanted by Heidi Ayarbe Page A

lobe.
    “Mike?”
    “Yeah. I’m good.” I pick up my crumpled clothes and shove them to the bottom of the laundry basket. I’ll throw my jeans away later. Luckily I’m still the one in charge of laundry, so it’s not like Lillian will notice bloody clothes.
    A pot of coffee percolates in the kitchen. Lillian pushes a cup across the table, looking up from yesterday’s paper—the one she gets from the clinic. News is news, but it’s kind of weird that we’re always one day behind, like perma life lag.
    I cup the coffee mug in my hands, sipping down the bitter liquid. “Thanks for the coffee. I guess I slept in this morning.”
    She motions to the clock. “You’re running behind.” She puts a plate of half-cold scrambled eggs in front of me, burned toast on the side. “You were out late,” she says through the paper.
    I take a forkful of egg and just about gag on the congealed grease. I grab a piece of the charred toast, spreading it thick with butter and jelly, pushing the plate of eggs away. “Sorry.”
    Lillian watches me. “You do anything stupid last night?”
    I shrug. Witnessing a drug deal probably isn’t a smart thing to do. However, witnessing one and living is miraculous.
    Lillian does this thing where she raises one eyebrow, and it turns from an arc into a pointed gray triangle, as if an invisible string is about to yank it off her forehead and flap it around in the wind, marking the spot where all happy thoughts surrendered.
    “Just went out. With a friend.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Like what else?”
    “Like anything else that’s stupid? Other than sneaking out, which is totally unacceptable .” When Lillian’s angry, her accent sneaks up on her.
    “I’m not my mom.”
    Lillian nods.
    “Or you,” I say, pushing myself back from the table. “I’m gonna be late.” When I leave the room, Lillian’s turned to the weather page in the Nevada Appeal , and I want to scream at her because the weather does change from day to day—maybe nothing else, but the weather does.
    Yesterday’s paper. Today gone until tomorrow .

Chapter 11
    IN THE COURTYARD THERE’S
    a short line of kids waiting to buy tickets to the class ski trip. I look at the poster: PEARLY GATES HEAVENLY SKI TRIP: RIP DOWN POWDERY SLOPES. SAINT PETER IS WAITING. There’s a pretty hokey drawing of Saint Peter on skis, his robes fluttering in the winds marked with “The North Face.” Underneath the picture, there’s a string of things that are supposed to justify spending sixty dollars on one day, including all-you-can-drink hot chocolate, transportation, equipment rental, all-day skiing, and a day of unforgettable memory making. (Perfect for yearbook photo ops before it goes to press!)
    This year’s yearbook committee chose No Borders, No Boundaries as our theme. But they’re just words. Boundaries Abound would be more appropriate. Maybe that’s why I hate the yearbooks with pithy quotes and most likelies and cameo shots of pep rallies and school dances . . . now this—a ski trip. It’s a montage. The accumulation of someone else’s memories—a collage of lies that transform our stories, stealing our truths. So when we go back to our twentieth reunion, we’ll take down the dusty book, see the smiles, and think, “Yeah. That was a good time.” We become generic—our history is a template to fill with new faces and dates. Copy. Cut. Paste.
    I much prefer PB & J , named after Seth’s favorite sandwich, with just the right mix of irony, sarcasm, and pretty decent reporting.
    Josh plops into the spot next to me. “Latte? Two shots of cinnamon dolce, extra shot of espresso.” He hands me the coffee. “How’s your knee?”
    I’ve been sitting in the courtyard, watching the stream of students, waiting to see if Moch shows up. I cradle the coffee in my hands and inhale the sweet smell. “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome. Who’re you waiting for?”
    “No one.”
    “Have something to do with last