Free Personal Effects by E. M. Kokie

the driveway.
    The neighbors, the kids at school, everyone. All I have to do is breathe and coast and figure all the other shit out later. People do it all the time. Work. Live. Get by. No need to panic. Except, of course, that
later
is breathing down my neck.
    Dad walks across the lawn. “What’re you doing?” he asks, looking around like he’s afraid people will see me.
    “Nothing.”
    “Nothing?” An edge to that, but more curious than irritated.
    “Sitting. Sun felt good.”
    “And?” Dad asks.
    And what?
I think, but I know better than to say it.
    “Work? Are you going to get enough to pay half what you owe by the last day of classes, as promised?”
    As
he
promised. “Mr. Anders has me on a crew next week after school, and he’s looking at where he can use me after that until my summer crew starts.” Between that and what I had saved up, it’ll be close.
    “You make sure you take on as many shifts as he can offer from now until summer. I’m not paying a penny for that display case, you hear?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “OK, then.”
    Dad looks at Mrs. Russell. “That old bat never misses anything, does she?” Almost a smile — not quite, but almost. What the hell? He run over a small child on the way home? Maybe a puppy?
    “All right, well, enough of this crap.”
    And mood over.
    “I’m heading to your uncle Mac’s as soon as I’ve changed. Might be nice if you tackled that heaping pile of laundry sometime this weekend.” It’s not a suggestion. “Something’s started to fester in there.”
    I clean up the kitchen, washing out my glass and taking out the trash. Then I head downstairs, so I can avoid any more encounters with Dad.
    As soon as his truck clears the corner, I call Shauna, letting her know the coast is clear. Her mother made her promise to be home by ten, but letting her out on a school night shows just how much Mrs. G. likes me. Doubt she’d let her go see Michael on a school night.
    In the shower I think about what she might bring me for dinner, hoping for something from home, instead of a pizza or takeout. I can order food with the best of them. And sure, I can live on macaroni, cereal, and microwavables. But I can’t cook for shit. Not real food. For the first time since the fight, maybe earlier, I’m starving for something real.
    We’ll watch a movie down here. Means tomorrow my room might still smell like her. It’ll make it easy to close my eyes and pretend she’s really there, and we’re actually doing all the things I can imagine us doing. Even after I’m trying to think about anything else, my head keeps thinking about her. I run out of hot water and have to rush under the lukewarm spray.
    I have just enough time to throw on some clothes and pull up the comforter before I hear her car.
    The side door bangs open. “Hello!” she bellows down the stairs.
    “Be up in a minute,” I yell back.
    Her footsteps move up the three steps to the kitchen. One last quick look around the room, which looks OK, and then one last glance in the mirror near the door. I look OK, too.
    The microwave dings. My stomach growls in anticipation. At the turn by the laundry room, I smell the heavenly scent of a home-cooked meal, reheated but still home-cooked. My mouth waters. I don’t even care what it is.
    She’s been waiting to see how messed up I am; I know she has. I can’t do anything about my face, or hand, or the bruises that show. I planned to take the steps two at a time, shut up some of her worrying by showing her I’m fine. But after the long day bent over baseboards, then later standing over the cabinet doors, the best I can do is try not to limp or show her I can’t lift my right arm very far.
    Her first look says it all — the forced smile doesn’t hide her shock.
    “I’m fine,” I say.
    Her eyebrows climb to the messy hair curling around her forehead.
    “Really.”
    “Yeah, sure, you’re just great,” she says. It’s harsh and kind of angry, but I’m pretty sure