Bad Company II
I wake up the next morning in my same clothes, the smell of the day before, of Adrianna and of Emily’s couch, and the sound of my step-mom’s voice.
“Is everything okay?” She asks.
My dad’s wife talks at me and I’ve learned to keep my answers short, and they are even shorter today like I start not answering at all and pretend she is asking a question without expecting an answer, that she is being that fancy pants word I learned in English class, “rhetorical.” Finally she says, “You’re someplace else, maybe you need to have a conversation with your father.”
My back starts to twitch.
Where is my candy? Maybe it’s under the sheets or it got stuck underneath the blankets, or it is caught between the mattress and the wall? Step-mom gets up and her fingertips brush something. She holds it out to me as if it’s trash from the street. “What’s this?”
At first I think she’s found it. She waves a baggie underneath my nose. But she turns it upside down and nothing falls out. Did all of that sweet bitterness get lost somewhere when I stepped out of my jeans or took off my favorite jacket? I scan my floor for the clothes and don’t find them anywhere.
“Did dad already do the laundry?”
But she doesn’t answer me about the laundry. “Do you want ants crawling on you?” She asks. “Throw this out.” She slaps my face and adds, “I won’t tell your father, this time.”
“Sorry about leaving a mess.” If I don’t move, she’ll go.
As soon as she leaves I ransack my room like a maniac hunting for the bag filled with all of that deliciousness that makes me believe I have my own fashion house but Tommy and I are still best buds. But when my frantic search ends, my hands are empty, I figure I left my candy at Emily’s, downstairs in her living room and just like I knew that kid brother of hers was hopped up on cold medicine, I imagine he will find it.
“Is everything okay?” She asks.
My dad’s wife talks at me and I’ve learned to keep my answers short, and they are even shorter today like I start not answering at all and pretend she is asking a question without expecting an answer, that she is being that fancy pants word I learned in English class, “rhetorical.” Finally she says, “You’re someplace else, maybe you need to have a conversation with your father.”
My back starts to twitch.
Where is my candy? Maybe it’s under the sheets or it got stuck underneath the blankets, or it is caught between the mattress and the wall? Step-mom gets up and her fingertips brush something. She holds it out to me as if it’s trash from the street. “What’s this?”
At first I think she’s found it. She waves a baggie underneath my nose. But she turns it upside down and nothing falls out. Did all of that sweet bitterness get lost somewhere when I stepped out of my jeans or took off my favorite jacket? I scan my floor for the clothes and don’t find them anywhere.
“Did dad already do the laundry?”
But she doesn’t answer me about the laundry. “Do you want ants crawling on you?” She asks. “Throw this out.” She slaps my face and adds, “I won’t tell your father, this time.”
“Sorry about leaving a mess.” If I don’t move, she’ll go.
As soon as she leaves I ransack my room like a maniac hunting for the bag filled with all of that deliciousness that makes me believe I have my own fashion house but Tommy and I are still best buds. But when my frantic search ends, my hands are empty, I figure I left my candy at Emily’s, downstairs in her living room and just like I knew that kid brother of hers was hopped up on cold medicine, I imagine he will find it.
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