I stuff the paper that Sebastian gave me into my front pocket before I turn around.
“Take me home.”
As soon as Ethan reluctantly drops me off, I don’t even bother to let him down easy when he asks to come in. I waste no time running up the stairs to my room and unfolding the crumpled-up piece of paper.
It’s a half-slip of paper, from the judge, going by the looks of it. My greedy eyes rake over the page, taking the information in.
First name: Sebastian. Last name: McAllister. Six foot two. One hundred and ninety-eight pounds.
Green eyes, black hair. Born October thirteenth, four years older than I am.
Then it goes on to list his charges—trespassing, breaking and entering. But the most important detail is the time stamp on the top of the page. The day after our hotel room was broken into.
He didn’t do it.
“Evangeline?”
I snap out of my thoughts, looking up to meet my mom’s expectant gaze. It’s eleven o’clock at night, and I’m sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. I’m surprised to see her. She’s usually at the office long after I go to bed. She claims she’s busy with work, but I think it’s more than that. I think she avoids being here as much as she can.
“Sorry, were you saying something?” I pop the grape I’ve been rolling between my fingers while zoning out into my mouth.
“Are you okay?” she asks, eyeing me warily. If I had a quarter for every time I was asked that question over the past year…well, let’s just say, I’d be richer than I was before it all fell apart.
“I’m fine. Just distracted,” I say. Not a lie. I thought about Sebastian all night long. I tried to go to sleep to get my mind off him, but my dreams were filled of metal cages and motorcycle rides and mirror mazes. I’ve spent all day fixating on our encounter last night. He had proof ready. Had he been carrying it around? Did he see me at the carnival before he went to retrieve it? And why would he go out of his way to prove his innocence? It’s not as if he’s on trial. Why would he even care what I thought?
“Is your father home?”
“Is he ever?”
“I have something I need to talk to you about,” Mom says in a tone that puts me on edge. Caroline Thorne doesn’t do sheepish, unless she’s worried about my reaction.
“What is it? Is it Dad?”
“No, he’s fine. Well, he’s not fine, but you know…” she stumbles over her words. Something my mother doesn’t do. “I resigned today.”
“What?” I ask, shock rippling through me. We’re barely surviving as it is since my dad stole drugs from the hospital he worked at, causing him to lose his medical license. A co-worker confronted him, and he turned himself in, narrowly avoiding jail time. “Why would you do that?”
She gives me a tight smile, and the dread inside me intensifies. “I got a call a while back. They’re going to use your father’s…issues to discredit me.” She can’t even say the word addiction.
“No.” I shake my head in denial.
“We’ll be fine,” she insists. “We have savings. We’ll have to downsize and…readjust. But we’ll be okay.”
“Why did you have to resign? It’s not like you are the one with the problem,” I argue. “Why should we have to lose everything for his choices? When are we going to stop paying for his mistakes?”
“It’s not that simple. We’ll be under a microscope. Do you know how bad it would look as state treasurer if my husband was exposed for using drugs and losing his medical license?”
“It isn’t fair!” I yell, standing from my stool. I’m too busy seeing red to listen to her placate me. Dad already lost his career. Now he’s forced Mom to lose hers, too? When will it be enough?
“Evangeline. Enough,” she says, her voice tired, but firm. “I’ve had to jump through a lot of hoops to keep this under wraps. It’s summertime, so it’s the perfect time to move. You’ll still finish your senior year out at Centennial. It’s not the end of the world. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m exhausted.”
This is what she does. What she’s always done. Downplay the problem. Diffuse the situation. Dismiss my feelings. Even before everything changed, I was always made to feel that I was too sensitive. Too dramatic. Too emotional. Slowly, I’ve started to harden around the edges, showing little emotion, even when they’re trying to claw their way out.
I snatch my keys from the hook next to the stove and stride toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” Mom asks with a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose like her teenage daughter throwing a hissy fit is the last thing she needs right now. I can’t help but think how different this scenario played out a year ago. My worried, overbearing parents are nowhere to be found. In their place are an absentee addict of a father and an overworked, over-stressed, willfully-ignorant mother with her head in the sand.
“Out.” I do her the favor of leaving before she has a chance to respond. It’s easier this way. For both of us. I duck into my beloved little white Mustang, gripping the steering wheel until it bears little crescent-shaped imprints from my fingernails before taking a deep breath and starting the engine.