Free Narc by Crissa-Jean Chappell Page A

pan,” she said, looking a little flushed. She opened the microwave and thrust a plate in front of me.
    “Butter or syrup?” she asked.
    “Yes, please.”
    She laughed.
    My mom wasn’t big on anything “instant,” which included pancakes that came ready-made in little plastic pouches. They were rock-cold on one side and scalded on the other, but I grabbed a fork and dug in.
    Sheryl sat down across from me. “You live where?”
    “Downtown,” I said between mouthfuls.
    “That’s a long way to drive.”
    “My mom didn’t like the schools in our area.”
    She nodded. “Morgan wanted to switch last year. She had such a hard time. Teenage girls can be brutal.”
    “Sheryl. Oh, my god,” said Morgan, strolling into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around her head. “Please stop. Now.”
    “Fix yourself up,” said her stepmom. “I’m talking to … what did you say your name was?”
    “Aaron.”
    “Would you two like to explain something to me?” her stepmom asked.
    Morgan looked at the floor. “What’s that?”
    “The car,” said Sheryl.
    “What about the car?” said Morgan, still avoiding her stepmom’s glance.
    “It’s scratched, young lady. And guess who’s going to pay for the repair?”
    Morgan shrugged. “Dad will fix it when he gets back.”
    “This is your responsibility.”
    “How do you know it’s my fault?” she said, almost shrieking.
    “It was me,” I said.
    They both stared.
    “I was the one driving. It’s my fault. I’ll pay for it. I promise.”
    Sheryl glared at Morgan. “You let this boy drive your father’s car?”
    Oops.
    “Come here,” her stepmom said. “Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”
    I’d heard that one before.
    Morgan and her stepmom headed outside. The front door slammed and my glass of orange juice trembled. Behind the door, I caught Sheryl’s voice rising.
    “You don’t even know this boy,” she said.
    “He’s just a friend,” Morgan shot back.
    Ouch. The f-word. God. Is that how she saw me?
    “He’s hiding something,” her stepmom hissed. “He said his father was in Iran. Didn’t he mean Iraq?”
    My dad was taking pictures, not fighting a war. That was his job—observe from a distance. Why was that so hard to understand? I should’ve made up a lie. Then maybe she’d believe me.
    Morgan’s voice cut in. “Give him a break, Sheryl.”
    “That boy just tried to sell me a string of lies.”
    Could people see through me that easily? I was starting to freak now.
    “How long have you known him?” Sheryl went on.
    “God. I feel like I’m on trial or something. He goes to my school, okay? We never really talked before. I don’t know why.”
    I’m human wallpaper. And I’m not on your social level. That’s why.
    “This is your senior year,” Sheryl said. “Not the time to be making bad decisions.”
    “Decisions? You mean I actually get a choice? I thought my life was already decided for me. Community college. And, if I’m lucky, a job selling life insurance or whatever.”
    “Honey, I know you had your heart set on art school. But I really don’t see how drawing pretty pictures is going to get you anywhere.”
    “Yeah. Like dance was a logical career option.”
    “You used to love your ballet studio.”
    “Actually, I hated it. Don’t you remember? I begged you to take me out of those classes, and you kept making me do it, year after year. Even when I got sick … ”
    “Let’s not talk about it. You’re healthy now. That’s all that matters.”
    This didn’t sound like the usual school drama. More like family stuff. God. My mom got on my nerves sometimes, but she was the total opposite of Morgan’s freaky stepmother. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
    Sheryl came back with Morgan and said, “Let’s get your friend home. Where did you say you lived?”
    “I didn’t.”
    “Downtown. Isn’t that what you said?”
    I didn’t want Morgan to know that I lived in a shitty apartment in Wynwood. It was