Free Narc by Crissa-Jean Chappell

into a laundry basket. The lady, with her squat legs and frizzy braid, looked nothing like Morgan.
    I hunched down under the covers.
    “Hi,” I said. What else was I supposed to do?
    It was ten o’clock in the morning and she’d already painted herself up: mascara, blush, the whole works. She wore a tank top decorated with rhinestone flamingoes and a pair of sweatpants draped low on the waist.
    “I wondered why Morgan was sleeping on the couch. I’m her stepmother, Sheryl,” she said, shaking my hand. Her grip was flimsy and dry, like chopsticks. “You go to Palm Hammock?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “And your name?”
    “Aaron Foster.”
    I guess she was one of those “cool stepmoms” who put up with coed slumber parties.
    “From whereabouts?” she asked.
    “Homestead. We’ve traveled around a lot.”
    “Military?”
    “Yeah. My dad was in the Air Force.”
    Her face changed. “Is he … um … in active service now? I mean, is he over there?” she asked. “Over there” was what people called the Middle East.
    “He’s dead,” I told her.
    This was really awkward. I hated the way she was looking at me, the pity on her face. So I did something dumb. I started blabbering.
    “He was in Iran, taking pictures. He said it’s different now. They even have a Starbucks. Except it’s called Star Box.”
    “Well,” she said. “That’s progress.”
    “Is it?”
    The silence swelled around us. Finally, she said, “I am not in favor of this war. But I want you to know that I support our troops.”
    “My dad wasn’t a soldier,” I explained, but she was already shuffling down the hall.
    I rolled off the mattress and found my shirt wadded under the dresser. My jeans reeked like hell, but I couldn’t go walking around in my boxers. In the back pocket, I found my cell. There was a voicemail from my “friend.” Great.
    “I received a phone call around two-thirty in the morning,” the cop said. “No message. Just a lot of background noise. Can you verify this?”
    He sounded agitated. Not a good sign. I wasn’t supposed to call unless there was a real emergency. Our weekly meetings off-site were our only source of contact.
    I called back and made up a lie about leaving the phone in my pocket, how it must’ve gone off by itself. Pretty lame, I know.
    “Don’t let it happen again,” he said.
    “It won’t,” I said before hanging up.
    The Narcotics team wasn’t the only one looking for me. Haylie must’ve sent a million text messages. By now, Mom was probably coming home from her shift at the hospital. The student nurses always got stuck with the worst “rotations.” I didn’t think about it much, but Mom’s version of school was crappier than mine.
    I texted Haylie our little secret message: OLA KALA. In Greek, it means, “everything’s okay.” That’s what Dad used to tell us.
Haylie: Are you dead?
Me: Not yet.
Haylie: Liar.
Me: Slept at friend’s house.
Haylie: GIRL friend?
Me: Something like that.
Haylie: !!!!!
Me: Cover for me. Please?
Haylie: OK. But what do I get?
Me: Driving lessons.
Haylie: Deal.
    In the sun-drenched kitchen, the smell of pancakes hit me. My stomach tightened. I could see my reflection in every gleaming appliance, from the stainless-steel fridge to the stove, which looked brand-new, as if nobody had ever used it.
    Sheryl pulled out a chair. “Sit.”
    I plunked myself down at the table. For some reason, I couldn’t stop scratching my ankles. When I peeled back my sock, the skin looked bumpy and swollen.
    “Are the mosquitoes biting?” Sheryl asked.
    “I don’t know. I’ve got this weird rash.”
    She checked it out. “You must be allergic to mangoes.”
    “What?”
    “The trees in the front yard. I’ve been begging Dave to cut them down. The leaves give me a rash if I touch them. Did you know that mangoes are related to poison ivy?”
    She peeked inside the oven, which was crammed with Tupperware. “I was going to make bacon but I can’t find the frying