Ritual - Palm South University

And since our dad was a piece of shit who took off shortly after Mac was born, this was the only option.

It’s a full house, with Mac and his sister, Kia, their parents, my little brother, me, and — the guest of the day — my mother.

Christine Pennington looks better than I’ve ever seen her look. Her normally ashen skin is golden brown and healthy, her big brown eyes wide and full of life, her smile no longer the dead one that I’d become accustomed to growing up, but rather one that glows and fills her entire face. She looks nothing like the profile picture on her new Facebook account — the one she’d contacted both me and Clayton on. That woman was skinny and drugged out and sad. The one sitting across the fire from me with a glass of water is healthy and sober and happy.

Still, I don’t trust her.

And I don’t like the way Clayton so easily does.

“I can’t believe you’ve been in Mexico this whole time,” Clayton says after our mother finishes off a story about her and my older brother, Carleton, in Tijuana drinking margaritas the size of their face. He had asked to come today, too, but I’d refused.

One fucked-up family member at a time.

“It was quite a ride,” Mom muses, thumbing the condensation off the side of her glass with a smile. “The beaches there, they’re just incredible.” Her eyes find mine then. “Of course, I’m sure it’s nothing compared to the beaches in Florida, right, baby?”

My nostrils flare at the pet name, because she hasn’t ever called me her baby. Even before she bailed on her family, we had a strained relationship at best. Because unlike my younger brother who saw her as an angel, and my older brother who followed in her footsteps, I saw her for exactly who she was.

A monster.

And I wanted nothing but to get as far away from her as I could.

I take a sip of my beer in lieu of answering, and an awkward silence passes over everyone before Kia steers the conversation toward how Clayton and Mac are both doing so well in football. My shoulders ease a little once it’s no longer my mother talking, until she somehow finds a way to bring it all back to her.

“I wish I could have seen you play your freshman year last year,” she says to Clayton, reaching over to thumb his cheek. I don’t miss the way his eyes light up at the affection. “I bet you were a stud.”

“He really was. Made me look bad,” Mac comments, nudging his best friend. “But now, we’re dominating. Going to take this team all the way to state.”

“Well, I can’t wait to watch it.”

I scoff, crushing the can of beer I just drained and tossing it in the bag for recycling before reaching into the cooler for another.

Everyone is quiet, and Mom looks hurt where she watches me across the fire.

“What?” I ask, cracking the top on my next can. “Disappointed that I’m not playing into your bullshit the way everyone else is?”

“Clinton,” Mrs. Harrison warns me, but her husband touches her arm gently, shaking his head to indicate it’s not her place. And while I respect the shit out of her for stepping up and caring for my brother like he was her own, right now, it really isn’t her place.

“I’m not… I wasn’t trying to…” Mom stammers.

“You’re not what?” I ask, tilting my head. “Spewing off a bunch of lies like you always do? Showing up after ditching your family for two years for some vacation in Mexico and expecting it to all be okay?”

She swallows.

“I was just saying that I’m happy I’ll be able to see him play,” she whispers.

“Bullshit,” I whisper, sucking down half my beer.

“Come on, bro,” Clayton begs from across the fire just as Kia excuses herself to the restroom.

“No,” I yell, and I surprise myself at how much my voice booms. Everyone else seems shaken, too, their eyes locked on me as I point across the fire at my brother. “Don’t let her fool you. Don’t let her get in your head with her lies. I’ve lived through enough of them to tell you that they only get better with age.”

“I’m not lying,” Mom says defensively, holding her chin high. “And I surely don’t appreciate the way you’re talking to me or about me right now, Clinton. I’m your mother.”

At that, I bark out a loud, barrel-chested laugh. “Oh, are you? Because I thought mothers were supposed to take care of their children, not ask them for money time and time again, and then disappear and not talk to them for two years.”

“Alright, Bear, I think that’s—” Mr. Harrison starts, but he doesn’t get to finish before I stand, towering over the fire and my mother on the other side of it.