anyone is watching.
With a resigned shake of his head, and his mouth twisting in irritation, he walks toward a neighborhood where all the houses look exactly alike. Small, brickâvarying in colorâtiny front porches, and peeling paint on the gables over each front door.
I don't say another word until we turn up the walkway to a red brick house. The neatly trimmed lawn has browned, and a couple of little bushes grow on either side of the cracked cement porch. It's obvious right off the bat that the people who lived here don't have a lot of money, but at least the house is neat.
âThis your place?â I ask, stepping into the living room behind him.
âNo, it's the neighbor's. I'm here to rob them.â He throws his backpack in the corner and goes straight to the fridge. He grabs a beer and pops the lid, collapsing onto the couch.
âI wouldn't be surprised,â I say, mumbling and looking around.
He closes his eyes and chuckles like he doesn't care.
âDo your parents know you drink?â Maybe this is the obstacle he needs to overcome. Maybe he's an alcoholic. I can deal with that. Get him to sign up for AA. Get him to go to meetings. Get him a sponsor. Easy peasy.
He throws an icy stare, then, and with a snort, he takes another swig, not bothering to answer.
His lack of emotion irritates me, and I feel no desire to keep my mouth shut. He reminds me too much of my older brother, Derek, when he's in one of his moods.
âWhat a moron,â I say. âI don't have to stick around and watch this. Why should I waste my time with you?â
His expression falls and pain fills his eyes for a split second, even though he tries unsuccessfully to hide it.
A pang of guilt pricks my conscience, because I'm being rude and I know it, but how could my comment hurt a guy like him? Why would he care what I say? He doesn't want me here, and guys like him... well, I just don't know how to deal with this situation other than how I'd do it with my brother, which will end in a big argument. I obviously don't know how to influence Brecken without saying something mean. I already regret the comments I've made so far.
I'm not normally such brat and I don't know what is wrong with me now. I should apologize, but can't bring myself to do it, and I don't want to sit around and watch him get drunk or hear any more of his asinine comments.
I want only one thing.
The comfortable, familiarity of home.
The memory of my mother's face and her robust laughter calls to me. Maybe smelling the yeasty aroma of baking bread, or seeing my dad sitting at the computer going through Craig's list will make me feel better. My little brother's good-humored teasing could pull me out of this funk easy.
All I have to do is close my eyes. The tug and pull begins in my belly and when I open my eyes, there I am in our bright, airy kitchen. I don't know if I've traveled a hundred miles or a thousand. I'm in the one place I love most.
I take a moment to soak it inâthe quiet, the familiarity of each piece of furniture, each picture on the wall, and relish the feel of just being here, of being home.
Normally at this time of day, my mom would be standing against the counter, reading mail or making some treat for us to eat once we gotten home from school, but silence fills the kitchen and my mother's absence makes everything seem sad and too quiet.
I float upstairs to her room, stopping at mine on the way. The closed door doesn't block me, and I move through it. The unopened blinds and sheer curtains encase the room in shadow. My perfectly made bedânot like I left itâstands under the window, and not one poster I put up has been removed from the walls. Not even bare-chested Jacob Black. My mom hates that one.
I quickly grow uncomfortable in my empty shrine, where only crumbling memories remain instead of girl things like ponytail holders, makeup, and rumpled clothes. I'll never sleep in that bed again. I'll never wear
Patria L. Dunn (Patria Dunn-Rowe)
Glynnis Campbell, Sarah McKerrigan