Sorta Like a Rock Star(37)

“Isn’t she blind?” Donna asks.

“She is. Word.”

“Then how did she know he was looking at her?”

“She didn’t. He wasn’t. Joan just made that hooey up.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s Joan of Old, evil incarnate.”

“I have to meet this Joan of Old someday.”

“Come to the battles. Any Wednesday afternoon. Better come before she dies though, because that could be—like—any day.”

“Ricky told me that Lex Pinkston apologized to you, and then came to The Franks Lair for lunch.”

“Can you believe that bullcrap?”

I realize that I am being sorta flip toward Donna, but I need to keep being flip or else I might start crying again. I don’t want to be around Donna right now, maybe because she’s too perfect, and I know I’ll never live up. And that’s a hard reality to swallow. True? True.

“Ricky was very excited about socializing with the football team. He said they were very nice to him for once.”

“Yeah, because you threatened Mr. Pinkston with a lawsuit.”

“Remember what I told you about teenage boys and men, how they need to be herded like sheep?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Are sheep evil?”

“No, they’re sheep.”

“So maybe you should give Lex Pinkston and his boys a try. I hear the rest of The Five enjoyed playing Halo 3 with the football team. It’s good to make new friends.”

“That’s so messed up,” I say, shaking my head, feeling the tears coming.

“You know who boys like Lex tease and call names? Girls they are secretly in love with. The kid probably has a crush on you. And if he’s willing to play nice, why not let bygones be—Amber, where are you going?”

I’m frickin’ out of there, BBB following behind, and then we’re walking through the night, down the street.

My stomach is growling because I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, but I don’t give a crap.

“You’re going to have to take a rain check tonight, JC,” I pray, “because I got nothing left over for you. I just can’t pray tonight. Sorry.”

I walk pretty quickly back to the school bus compound, BBB and I hop the fence, and I am surprised to find that Mom is home and awake.

“I made dinner,” Mom says when I enter Hello Yellow, and then she proudly holds up a McDonald’s bag.

“I could kiss you, Mom.”

“Why?”

I hug Mom for a long time, until I start crying like a baby once again. Her body feels so skeletal, and I can actually feel her ribs through the back of her jacket, which makes me sob even harder.

“It’s okay, Amber,” Mom says, alcohol on her breath. “We won’t be on this bus forever. I’m working on it.”

I want to tell Mom that I really don’t give a crap about living on a school bus, but that the world is beating me down and I feel like I’m battling everyone and no one is putting any fuel back into my tank and I’m not sure I’m going to make it to adulthood unscathed and still believing in hope because JC isn’t doing me any favors as of late and everything is so frickin’ messed up—but I can’t stop crying, so I just let my mom hold me and pat my back for a half hour or so of pathetic sobbing.

When I finish crying, I open the McDonald’s bag and find an ice-cold child-size Happy Meal: small Coke, a handful of fries, four chicken McNuggets, and some stupid toy promoting some stupid kid’s movie.

“Did you eat?” I ask Mom.

“Oh, sure,” she says, and then takes a sip from a Coke can, which I know is filled with vodka, because I can smell it.

“Mom, if you love me,” I say, my stomach growling with hunger, “will you please, please, please eat this meal while I watch?”

“I bought it for you, Amber. You’re a growing girl and—”

“Please, Mom,” I say, tears suddenly streaming down my face again. I hold a chicken McNugget up to her face and say, “Please eat this. Please. For me, Mom. Please. I want to see you eat.”

Bobby Big Boy is watching me from an adjacent seat, wanting to eat the chicken nugget himself, but he’s too good of a dog to go for it, so I don’t worry.

Finally, my mother takes the piece of chicken from me, bites off a tiny bit, and then chews.

Mom swallows, and then says, “There. Are you happy? Now you should really eat—”

“Eat the rest. The whole meal, Mom. For me. Please.”

“Amber, you have to eat something yourself and we only have—”

“I ate like—ten pounds of hamburgers at Donna’s. Please let me watch you eat the rest. I’ve had a bad day, Mom. Please eat. Try. For me.”

Slowly, my mom nibbles at the food, sorta like a suspicious mouse might nibble on rat poison, as I watch.

Mom really does try to eat, which makes me proud of her.

After ten minutes or so, she gets down two and a half chicken McNuggets—and then she starts to throw up.

By the time I get her off Hello Yellow, she has puked three times. After another bout of puking in the bus yard—which scares me a lot—finally Mom stops vomiting.

When she asks for her cigarettes, I get them for her and let her smoke. I even bring her the Coke can of vodka, because I’m terrified now, thinking my mom might die right here and now, and I know that vodka is what she most needs.