Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(39)

It’s a mistake. He does. His legs brush mine; his shoulder is inches from me. When I look down, I see the circuitry of his tattoo.

Here we are, sitting on the bed together.

I take a deep breath and try to push away my awareness of him. It doesn’t work. He’s still there, so close. So warm.

I give my head a little shake and log on to the website.

My parents’ electricity bill comes up. I’ve been away from home for more than two years, and I’m still checking this website.

“See?” I say. “Terrifying.” I point to the amount due—$83.26—and the due date—which is two days from now. “It gets worse,” I tell him.

I get out my phone, find my mother’s number, set the call to speakerphone, and dial.

It takes a few moments for her to answer.

“Hi, Tina!” she says excitedly. “I just got home. Guess what happened today?”

“I don’t know.”

“The big boss-lady showed me something cool at work. I’m on the blog again!” She sounds absolutely delighted.

Since I immediately know exactly what she’s talking about, I put my head in my hands. “Oh, God. Mom. What did you do this time?”

“Just what the customer asked,” she says, far too innocently. “Go look. You’ll like it.”

“I’m bringing it up now.” I type in the URL for a blog that catalogs terrible professionally decorated cakes. I’m pretty sure that most cake decorators don’t consider it an accomplishment to have made the “worst of” lists for three years running, but my mother has a twisted sense of humor. She decorates cakes in the classical style known colloquially as OMG, what the hell happened here? with an occasional dash of WTF just for seasoning.

I bring up the day’s offerings and scroll down. I know—immediately—which one is hers.

“Mom. No.”

“Exactly what they asked for,” she insists.

The cake pictured is a large, white sheet cake, fringed in iced purple flowers. “Welcome back, Bonzo!” proclaims the main lettering.

That’s not the bad part. Little bits of encouragement have been added around the edge. Things like, “Way to go!” in the upper left, and “Here’s to good behavior time!”

“They said they were putting on encouragement for a man just out of jail,” my mother explains. “I just added the best advice.”

Sure enough, she has. It’s in the lower right. “Only talk to cops with a lawyer there.”

Blake, who is reading over my shoulder, puts his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Don’t know why the family was so mad,” my mother continues. “I gave them what they asked for. Encouragement to keep him out of jail. It’s better than ‘You can do it.’ You have to be careful what you say to the cops. Everyone knows that!” She tsks. “Even the blog comments agree with me. Read them.”

“Well,” I say dryly. “If the internet commenters agree with you, you couldn’t possibly be wrong.”

“Speaking of internet. I got an email from Zhen Liu. Why didn’t you tell me you have a boyfriend?”

Crap. I know Mr. Zhen because he owes my mom a favor. I should have known he’d talk to her.

“Oh,” I say as breezily as I can, not daring to look at Blake. “He’s not a boyfriend. Just a friend who is a boy.”

“Not according to Zhen Liu,” my mother singsongs. “He says you came for him after work.”

Shit.

“Zhen Liu says he’s nice, for a white boy. He says he speaks Mandarin.”

“Yeah.” I frown at Blake. “Seriously, Mom. He’s not a boyfriend.”

“Is he rich?”

God. I blush fiercely and grab for the phone to take it off speaker, but Blake takes hold of my wrist and shakes his head.

“Do you think he’d be washing dishes for Mr. Zhen if he was rich?” I ask instead.

“Ah. Too bad.” I can almost hear her shrug. “I thought—maybe, if you had a rich boyfriend giving you money—but no, never mind.”

“Speaking of money.” I swallow. “Mom, is there a reason you haven’t paid the electric bill yet?”

“Why? The late fee is not so bad,” Mom says blithely. “And they don’t disconnect for three months. No point wasting money.”

“Ma.” I wince. “You know how this works. If you put it off another month, you’ll have to pay more than twice as much then. You have to keep on top of these things.”

“I meant to,” she protests. “I just forgot about it earlier. You know. Jack Sheng’s appeal. When I gave him the money, I didn’t think about this.”

“I gave you a checklist.” I put my hand to my head. “You’re supposed to go through it every month before you give away money you need to pay bills.”

I can almost hear her indifferent shrug. “I don’t remember where you put my checklist.”

“Mom.” This is always what it’s like. My mom just doesn’t take care. She doesn’t pay things; she brushes off late fees. I’ve tried letting her fail to teach her a lesson. She never learns her lesson. She just keeps on failing.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m paying it.”