The morning air is a pleasant yet fleeting gift I know will turn hellish the second the sun breaks the horizon. The only noise at this hour (other than a distant neighbor’s yapping dog) is the soft crunch of grass beneath my feet. I trip on the first step of the back porch, nearly eating wood as I catch myself. After opening the sliding glass door into the dark house, the panting of a dog heats my exposed calves at once, her wet tongue lapping at them gleefully. “There, there, shh, you poor neglected thing,” I mutter quietly at her as I slip into the kitchen, where a single light is on.
I stop at the sight of my slender mom standing by the sink, a mug of coffee in one hand, a paperback curled in the other. She reads with needle-eyed focus, her pencil-thin eyebrows pulled together pensively between a curtain of long, beautiful, flowing blonde hair I most definitely did not inherit. Her oversized white sleep t-shirt hangs off a shoulder and comes so low, there’s no telling whether she’s got anything on underneath. I guess there’s a reason or two she’s constantly mistaken for my older sister.
I thought I’d get through my morning undetected. At least she’s not my stepdad. “I thought you kicked the habit.”
My words cause her to jump and drop her book. “Goodness, Toby! Make a sound, will you?” she hisses, clutching at her chest.
I wince apologetically. “It was the hair, huh?” I ask lightly, as if to blame my appearance for the fright. “I haven’t fixed it yet.”
Her shock collapses into choked laughter. “I swear. You’re as quiet as—Hey, hey, that’s not yours.” She recollects her book from off the floor before Winona, the attention-starved dog, gets ahold of it. My mom abandons whatever it was she was about to compare me to and instead nods at the fridge. “There’s a little milk left in the carton if you want to pour yourself some cereal, sweetie.”
“I just might.” I come up to the counter next to her. “What book is sooo good it’s got you up this early?”
“Oh, the butt crack of dawn is the only time I can read. And no, it isn’t anything you’d have the least bit of interest in,” my mother adds with a playful sneer. “It doesn’t have a single dragon or sword-wielding princess.”
I smile, leaning against the counter. “Well, maybe I’m more into the sorcery-wielding villains lately.”
“With sexy eyes and a dark, brooding demeanor? Yes, I know you so well,” she teases. Then she frowns suddenly. “Why do you look so nervous? Are there auditions after school today? You have that look in your eye, like you’re expecting certain doom.”
That might be a perfectly accurate depiction of how I suspect my first day back might be like. “No. Auditions are Friday. And I’m not auditioning,” I remind her, furrowing my brow.
“Toby …”
“No, I told you. I just want to paint the set and maybe run the soundboard for the first show … if Ms. Joy will let me.”
“Well, if she doesn’t, I’ll give that joyless Ms. Joy a piece of my mind. It’s your senior year,” she announces, as if we’ve forgotten. “You ought to get everything you want and then some!”
If only it worked that way. My mom has always been a fierce and loyal fighter in my corner ever since I could walk. When my bio-dad left however many years ago, it had been just the two of us facing the world. The stepdad came into the picture surprisingly soon after that, paired with a boy my age who was assigned as my new best friend and protector. Oh, how very fast hopes and plans die in this sad little house.
Then, as if summoned by Satan himself from the archway behind me, comes a deep voice. “Or you could take up a sport your senior year, grow some man-hair on them boy-balls of yours.”
Meet my stepfather Carl, a charming man who always has an intelligent pearl of wisdom to contribute to any conversation.
I address him blithely. “You mean like you did?”
“Better bet I did. It’s the only way a boy learns to be a man.”
I nod somberly. “Guess I’ll be doomed to hairless balls. At least my future boyfriends won’t complain about getting my man-hair stuck in their teeth.”
Carl squints at me, not getting it.
He doesn’t have to. The jab alone gives me a private moment of satisfaction.
I turn back to my mom with a smug smile, ready to resume our morning chat, but find her staring critically at me, clearly not appreciating my behavior.
My smile crumbles away, and after a moment’s resentment, I soften my attitude. “As nice as a sport sounds, I just don’t think it’s up my alley. I prefer something more creative, like painting.”