The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(30)

Since last spring, I’ve been going there by myself, though, and neither Mom or Dad have bothered to ask if any of my friends were going with me. They’ve assumed, which is to say…they’ve been too wrapped up in their own separate shit to adequately parent their only daughter.

For once, their total lack of interest in my life has worked out in my favor.

“MAX! I swear to god, I will burn your PlayStation if you don’t give me some sort of clue here, Bud!”

Downstairs, there’s a loud crash, followed by a thud, and then the sound of footsteps hammering up the stairs. My brother bursts into his room, where I’m ankle deep in the clothes that have been dumped on his bedroom floor; his cheeks are flushed, eyes flashing with irritation. Like most eleven-year-old boys, Max takes threats to his PlayStation very seriously. “I don’t even care about soccer anymore. I basically told Dad I wasn’t going to go, so you might as well stop.”

“Well Dad basically told me you basically had to go, so find your shorts. If you’re not in the car in five minutes, there’ll be consequences.”

Growling like a little fucking savage, Max begins to kick through his clothes in search of his elusive soccer shorts. I grab my bag and head downstairs, trying to decide which book to read while I wait for Max’s practice to be over. I don’t blame the kid for not wanting to go. It’s raining again, layers of mist skating through the tops of the trees that cover the mountainside opposite the house, and the cold feels like it’s seeping into my bones.

I’ll be safe and dry in the car, but Maxie will be soaked to the skin and covered in mud in less than five minutes flat. Which reminds me…

“I’m taking the van, Dad!”

“Can’t you take him in your car?” he calls from his office.

“No dice, hombre. Last time I did that, it took a week to get the dirt out of the seats. Pretty sure it’s all still ground into the carpet, too. I’m not dealing with that again.”

“Come on, Sil. I don’t have time to clean the van!”

“I appreciate that. But you’re an adult with the six-figure salary. You can afford to have someone detail it for you. See you in an hour!” I snatch up his keys, ignoring the sound of his grumbling coming from underneath his office door, and I go wait in the van for Max. I’m getting ready to lean on the horn when he comes running out of the house, red-cheeked but dressed in his full kit, soccer cleats and all. He slams the car door behind him and slumps down into his seat, arms folded across his chest. “I need your cell phone,” he informs me.

I throw the van into reverse and clear the drive. “Why?”

“I was s’posed to hang out with Colton and Jamie in the game. I need to let them know I’ve been kidnapped.”

For all their faults, my parents have stuck to their guns on this one thing: Max doesn’t get a cell phone until high school. I had to live by this same rule, so I sympathize with him. The little monster has memorized all of his friend’s number’s, though, and he constantly has his hand out for my phone. Beyond annoying. If I don’t give it to him, the next hour is going to be brutal. I opt for the quickest, easiest route to a peaceful life and I hand it over.

He begins typing furiously. “Mom was crying this morning,” he says.

“What? What do you mean, she was crying?”

“I heard her in the shower.”

The sky’s darkening. I haven’t bothered to turn any music on, so there’s nothing to obscure the deep, low rumble of thunder that rolls in the distance. “I’m sure she wasn’t crying, Max. She might have been humming or something. It’s tough to tell what’s going on when the water’s running.”

“Silver. I’m eleven, not a moron. I know what it sounds like when someone’s crying. She was crying just like when Grandpa died.”

When our grandfather died three years ago, Mom didn’t just cry. She sobbed inconsolably, and the sound of her pain stole the very last fragments of my innocence. I’d never seen such agony on anyone’s face, or heard it in that way before, and I knew for a fact that I was witnessing the lowest, most harrowing moment of my mother’s life as she lay in the fetal position, collapsed on the hallway floor, clutching the phone to her chest.

If she was crying like that in the shower, then…No. There’s just no way. I would have heard her. And besides, something monumentally bad would have had to have happened to make her that distraught. Dad would have pulled me aside and given me a heads up, even if Mom had tried to hide it from me. “Could have been a video, Bud. Or maybe a song.”

Max huffs, stabbing at the phone’s screen ever faster. “Whatever you say.” He hates not being believed. It’s his thing, his trigger, the one thing that makes him snap and act like he’s fucking possessed. Mom always says we should never discount or dismiss him out of hand, and that sometimes it’s best to just humor him. I’m about to do just that when I hear the shooping sound of his message being sent. “Who’s Alex?” he asks.

“What?”

“Alex. You got a message from him.”

I nearly swerve the car off the road. “Give me the phone. Give it to me, Max!”

“Don’t freak out. He just said he was going to hang at the house with Dad until we get back. Did you forget he was coming over?”