Not that I give a fucking fuck what he thinks.
I need to work hard on my involuntary reactions to Mom. My automatic responses took root decades ago, but I can change. From now on, I’m going to smile and bite my tongue. I’m not going to argue with her even if it kills me.
I shove more chips in my mouth and lean my head back. It’s cool and quiet here in the pantry—well, except for the crunching. I can breathe. No one knows where I am, and I find an odd comfort in that.
Until, that is, the door swings open and almost hits me. “Are you hiding in here?” My gaze travels up long legs and worn-out jeans.
I shake my head and swallow. Simon isn’t scowling this time, but he does look at me like I’m crazy. Not that I care. “How did you find me?”
“I heard your crunching.”
I lick my salty lips once more and brush crumbs from my chest. “That loud?” I struggle to my feet, and he doesn’t offer a hand. I thought men in the South were supposed to have some manners.
“I figured a swamp rat got in here.”
Guess not. It’s obvious that Simon and I are not going to be friends.
7
March 17
Mom flips me shit.
Simon gives me the bird.
THE DAY from hell continues past midnight. Mom’s earlier potshots were nothing compared to the howitzer aimed at me now. We’d all gone to bed, or so Lindsey and I had thought, but Mom had different plans. Around one in the morning, she broke the infrared stream we’d placed across her door. Three hours after I said good night, we had to coax her back into bed and reset the alarm. Lindsey and I barely made it to the top of the stairs before she set it off again. No amount of coaxing and cajoling works this time. For over two hours now, she’s wandered the house, wringing her hands and wreaking havoc.
“You’re an ungrateful child!”
Rage has changed her face and glazed her eyes, but she still looks like my mother.
“What can I do to make you feel better, Patricia?”
“Nothing!” She turns her attention to Lindsey. “Who are you?”
“I’m Lindsey and I’m here to help you.”
“I don’t need your help. I need my shoes!”
“Here we go,” I mutter a little too loudly and she looks at me. “You want to get rid of me so you can keep everything for yourself.” She’s still worked up about the furniture, and no amount of reasoning on the part of either me or Lindsey has gotten her past it. “Grandmere will tan your hide for the way you treat me.” I know she’s anxious and afraid and will calm down once she gets into her routine. I should be grateful that she recognizes me at least.
I’m tired, my forehead hurts, and I don’t want to do this with Mom. “Let’s please go to bed and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“You’re going to kill me in my sleep.” She points at the door and yells, “Get out of my house and take that fat girl with you!”
“Mother! That’s horrible.” I turn to Lindsey and apologize for my mother.
“I’ve been called worse.”
Mom keeps it up for another hour before Lindsey finally manages to double-dose her with nighttime medication. I wish I was so lucky. I’m too hurt and wound up to sleep now, but even if I was calm as a millpond, my mattress is bumpy and lumpy as hell. I suspect it’s a Civil War survivor. Well, maybe it isn’t that old, but it’s as thin as toast—and this is the good one. I know because I pulled a Goldilocks and tested them all.
I do manage to doze off for half an hour here and there, and I wake in the morning with a back- and neck ache. I am tired and my head hurts. There’s no coffee to be found, and I grab my chest as a palmetto bug scurries across the kitchen counter and drops to the floor. God bless her, Lindsey smashes it beneath the heel of her tie-dye Croc.
I can still hear the crunch and now this:
“Can you say hello?” Mother pushes her face closer to the birdcage. “Polly wanna cracker?”
“Be careful,” I warn her, and pull her away from the cage and the African parrot inside. At least that’s what we were told he is, but at the moment it’s hard to say. He’s got red and green feathers on his head and wings, but the rest of him looks like a plucked chicken.