More Than Good Enough(33)

I was smiling so hard, my cheeks stung. The smile melted when I reached the house-formerly-known-as-mine. That big-ass Ford was parked crookedly in the driveway. My mom’s boyfriend. She’d been seeing him off and on for a while, but I could never remember his name.

Mr. Nameless waddled into the backyard. He had these camo shorts that looked diaperish, a stupid pair of wraparound sunglasses, and a jug of bleach. I watched him crouch on the lawn like a garden gnome.

God, I hated him.

He was slopping bleach all over the place, making a giant mess. This was his cheap attempt at killing weeds. What’s so bad about weeds, anyway? You can make wishes on dandelions. Nobody ever wished on a carnation, as far as I can tell.

I pulled down the sun visor and leaned back, just in case he saw me. As I rolled past, Mom slipped out of the garage. She was chugging from a tall plastic cup, but I figured it was her beverage of choice: white wine. Nice job, Mom. Nothing like getting the party started before sundown.

That’s one thing she had in common with Dad.

Maybe the only thing.

She squinted up at the car. I’m sure she recognized the Yeti. After all, it used to be hers back in the day. And don’t get me wrong. I was mad as hell. But when her eyes locked onto mine, I got this weird tingle in the back of my throat. I mean, she’s still my mom, right?

For a second, I almost pulled over. Would she let me stay if I promised not to damage her life? Maybe things could go back to normal. Yeah, I must’ve been crazy thinking shit like that. As long as Mr. Nameless was in charge, nothing would ever be normal.

Then I noticed the For Sale sign.

It was lassoed with party balloons, like it might lift into the sky. I kept staring at it, hoping the sign would do just that. I could totally picture it—the grass unrolling like a carpet, tugging my mom, Mr. Nameless, and everything else along with it.

My stream-of-consciousness went like this: Am I being punked?

Mom is NOT selling the house.

She just can’t.

I slammed the brakes. Turned off the ignition. Jumped out and marched over to He Who Shall Remain Nameless. The sting of bleach cut the air. My vision blurred as I got closer. He acted all surprised and stuck out his hand, offering me a fist-bump, which, of course, I ignored.

“Trenton,” he said, as if my name was a greeting on another planet.

Did I mention that I hated him?

Mom tugged me into a hug. She still hadn’t let go of her drink. The cold plastic cup seared into my ribs.

“What happened to your eye?” Mom was staring. Big time.

“Nothing.”

She grabbed hold of my chin and twisted it against the sunlight. Mom’s death-grip was brutal. She used to lick her thumb and smear the dirt off my face. I almost expected her to do it again. But even Mom’s spit couldn’t erase the stain under my skin.

I pointed at the For Sale sign. “You’re selling the house?”

Mom chewed her lip. I knew what that meant.

It meant she was going to start lying.

“Well, I’ve been meaning to talk to you, love,” she said, taking another sip of her drink. She chomped the ice and didn’t say anything else.

Mr. Nameless took over. “This place is too big for us. We could save a lot of money not having to pay property taxes.”

Us.

We.

Not me.

I grabbed the cup out of Mom’s hand and slam-dunked it. Ice cubes skittered across the driveway, leaving snail trails in the sun. “You didn’t even tell me!” I was screaming now. “I can’t believe you’re doing this!”

“Stop it,” Mom said. “You’re getting all worked up. My god. It’s only a house.”

“Oh right. I forgot. I’m not allowed to express an opinion.”

“Look at you, all cheesed off about nothing.” The more booze she guzzled, the more British she sounded. “My god, Trent. It’s not like I’m abandoning you.”

“Too late for that,” I said, walking away.

A hand sank onto my shoulder.

“Trenton.”

I spun around, completely on auto pilot. Balled up my fist, reeled back, and swung.

Mr. Nameless didn’t see it coming.

Neither did I.

In my entire life, I’d never hit another human being. Guess there’s a first time for everything. He sort of tripped sideways, flinging his arms out. I give him credit, though. Five seconds later, he staggered back on his feet like Stone Cold Steve.

Mom was freaking. “What’s wrong with you?” she kept yelling. Basically letting me know I was going to hell. When I reached the car, she said, “You’re no better than your father.”

It killed me, hearing her say that.

A rope had knotted up inside me. I could feel it getting stronger, pulling at my guts, as I struggled to break free.

I shoved the key in the ignition. The Yeti lurched forward and slammed to a stop. I tried a couple more times. Same deal. I jiggled the clutch and finally gunned it out of the driveway. So much for my dramatic exit.

As I drove, my head was looping on double speed. I’d been roaming without a destination all day. I couldn’t go back to the Rez because Dad was there. And wherever he was, you wouldn’t find me. At this point, we were opposing forces of nature.

I slowed for a red light and grabbed my cell. Out of habit, I started scrolling through my non-deleted emails. I pressed the phone against my ear, soaked up another dose of radiation while it hum-hum-hummed the audio equivalent of a blank stare. I couldn’t stop thinking about rockets and skating barefoot in the rain, the memory of Pippa, the taste of her mouth.