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Dandelions poke through the weedy, unmowed lawn; one of the wooden rails of the fence lies on the ground, rotting. My dad is crazy busy with his job, and now wanting to bepromoted to dean, he’s rarely home and is too tired to work on the house on the weekends. And Mom? She bitches about it, but she’d rather spend her time painting children’s murals on bedroom walls than painting the house. So the house looks lived-in, a little rough around the edges, but “perfectly fine with its imperfections,” Dad says.
    The front door still sticks. I give a little kick at the worn, splintered bottom—the same place it’s been kicked at for the past twelve years. I start to walk toward the kitchen when I hear footsteps above. “Mom? Is that you? You home?”
    She suddenly appears at the top of the stairs, looking flustered as she ties a robe around her slender waist. Her long, dark, gray-streaked curly hair is tousled; mascara is smeared under her long lashes.
    “Jesus, Mom, you scared me.”
    “You scared me, too. What are you doing home?”
    “Forgot my lunch.”
    She hurries down the stairs, into the kitchen. “You want me to make you something?”
    “I thought you had a client meeting . . . the mural you’re painting in Bloomfield Hills?”
    “No. No. The dad cancelled. I guess I slept in a little.” She sweeps her hair back behind her ears and adjusts her robe.
    I sneeze. “Ugh. My allergies are horrible, and my nose won’t stop running. Can you please get me a Claritin?”
    “Sure, hon.” She pulls out a chair, stands on it, and unlocks a combination padlock on a kitchen cabinet over the refrigerator.
    “You don’t have to hide stuff anymore, Mom, you know that, right?”
    She doesn’t answer, just pulls out a foil sheet of the allergy medicine, pops out a tablet, and hands me the pill.
    My parents insist on locking up stuff ever since my overdose: everything from the bottle of scotch that my dad likes to sip now and then, to vanilla extract (as if I’d consider getting drunk on two ounces of a decade-old bottle of flavoring). And the Claritin. I mean, what am I going to do with allergy medicine? Snort it? Oh. Yeah, I think I did try that once.
    It’s sad that they don’t trust me yet. But I made that bed, for sure. It’s like I’m their handicapped child and want, need to kick the crutches out from underneath me.
    I lower my head under the faucet, slurp up water, and swallow the pill. “Oh, by the way, I’m going to hit a meeting after school, so I probably won’t be home till dinner.” I have to cover my butt, not knowing how long Sergeant Daniels will need me.
    “Says here you already went to one before school.” She stands at the counter reading the note I’d left.
    Shit.
“Oh, yeah, well, I got sidetracked with Willa and ended up not going. Something about a birthday party for me.”
Not a total lie.
    “Well, that’s sweet of her.” She pours herself a cup of cold coffee—heats it in the microwave. “Then I’ll see you at dinner. Takeout, okay?”
    “Sure, I’m fine with whatever.” I kiss her on the cheek and smell something different—a musky, smoky smell.
    Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her robe. She reads the message and smiles.
    “Who’s that?”
    “Oh, no one. Something about work,” she says as she rushes back up the stairs, forgetting about her coffee, texting the
no one
back. “Have a good day, hon.”
    “Sure.”
What the hell was that about?

6 days
10 hours
15 minutes
    I sit on the bleachers at the top of the Packard High stadium, watching my PE class run relays on the track below. Eva Marie was right. My hair was a cinch to twist and didn’t take her long. I could join in on the relays or open my Moleskine and sketch out possible “tagger looks.” Duh, easy decision.
    “Cool ’do.” Billy Weisman checks out my hair and smiles as he balances on his skateboard, teetering on the steps. I guess he’s cutting class, too.
    I pat at the pinned twists.