Bad Son (Wild Men 3.50)

Literature.

Or my life.

“Jarett!” Mrs. Lowe’s voice is getting louder. “I know you’re up there. We need to talk.”

What about? About how they’d be sending me packing?

Oh shit, she’s coming up.

She knocks. That’s fucking ridiculous. This is her house.

I suck on my cigarette, inhaling the bitter smoke.

“Open this door, Jarett,” she says from outside, and strangely she’s not shouting anymore. “Open this door now.”

Or what?

I stab the glowing embers into the sill and throw the cigarette down the roof. I watch it tumble, tiny pinpricks of red in the gathering darkness.

“Please, Jarett,” she says from behind the door. “Let me in.”

My throat closes and I have no fucking idea why. I’m eighteen, for fuck’s sake. I don’t need gentleness. I’ve learned to fight for my place in the world.

But for some reason I swing my legs inside and close the window.

Then I open the door.

Mrs. Lowe gives me a watery smile. I hate her wet cheeks, her red-rimmed eyes. Hate I made her cry.

Hate that I give a damn.

I lean against the door frame, folding my arms over my chest, and school my face into a bored expression. “What is it?”

“Look.” I see her try to school hers yours, and fail. “May I come in?”

I step aside, giving a mental eye-roll. “It’s your house,” I mutter.

She walks inside, wringing her hands together. “It’s yours, too.”

I shrug. Yeah, right.

Mrs. Lowe is a short, plump woman with deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her hair is a washed-out dyed blond, her eyes a washed-out blue, like her son’s.

She’s usually quiet, and kind, and foreign to me, as distant as the far side of the moon.

“Come sit here,” she says, sitting down on my unmade bed and patting the mattress beside her.

I don’t budge. I watch her, waiting to hear the verdict. My bag is under the bed, all packed. My phone’s in my pocket. I realize I’ve been waiting for months for this moment—when the look of disappointment would enter my n

ew foster parents’ eyes.

Only this time the social services won’t arrive to take me away. I’ve turned eighteen. I’m on my own, but that doesn’t scare me.

Nah. Fuck no.

My heart is racing, betraying me. My palms are sweating. I lower my hands and wipe the sweat off on my jeans, hoping she won’t notice.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened today?” she asks quietly.