Hallie Hath No Fury . . . by Katie Finn Page B

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    â€œHallie?” I was shaken out of these thoughts by the sound of my mother’s voice, which sounded scratchy, like she’d just woken up, despite the fact it was nine at night.
    â€œYes?” I asked as I set my own bag down. I was ready to be helpful—basically, I wanted my mother to start acting like my mother again and not like a silent zombie who knew how to drive a car.
    â€œGo down to the bodega, would you?” she asked, sounding exhausted as she pulled her wallet out of her beat-up leather bag and handed me a ten. “Just get some milk and cereal so we’ll have something in the morning. And then get a slice for dinner if you’re hungry.”
    I nodded and pocketed the bill. “What do you want?”
    â€œNothing,” my mother said, giving me what I’m sure was supposed to be a smile, but was actually just a poor imitation of one. “I’m going to bed. Lock up when you get back, okay?”
    I nodded. “Okay.” I took a breath, to try and say something—maybe that things would be okay, or that this would pass—but I honestly wasn’t sure things would be okay. And I wasn’t sure my mom thought they would be, either. And both of those things were terrifying to me.
    When I came back upstairs, I put the groceries away, then sat in the quiet apartment at our kitchen table with my pizza. I picked at my slice, even though I didn’t really have an appetite. I thought back to all the pizza I’d eaten with Gemma all summer—Gemma and the crazy sausage-pineapple-pepperoni pizza that only she and Paul seemed to like.… I suddenly drew in a sharp breath. I knew now why Gemma’s expression when she’d looked at me from the car had bothered me. It was because I recognized it.
    It was the same expression she had on her face when we’d been playing Monopoly and I’d find out later that she’d stacked the deck with get-out-of-jail-free cards. It was the expression of fear that she was going to be found out mixed with triumph at winning, however she pulled it off.
    It was how she looked when she’d just gotten away with something.
    *   *   *
    â€œAny change?” Josh asked. In the background, I could hear people yelling and the sounds of laughter and scuffles, and I wondered, not for the first time, why boys—especially lacrosse-playing boys—were so loud .
    I looked over to my mother’s closed bedroom door. “No,” I said, relieved that I could actually tell someone the truth. In the two weeks since we’d been back from the Hamptons, things had gone from bad to worse. Strangers on the Internet were still accusing my mother of plagiarism, and her regular teaching job—the one whose salary we basically lived on—had told her that her services wouldn’t be required for this coming fall. She’d spent a few days on the phone, putting on her best confident voice, trying to get a teaching job somewhere, anywhere else, but getting rejected at every turn. Paul had called a lot the first week, trying to explain, but my mother always hung up pretty quickly, and I guess he’d gotten the message, because the calls slowed and then stopped.
    She’d gone into her room three days before and had gotten into bed, even though it wasn’t even dark outside yet, and had basically been there ever since. I didn’t think she was sleeping, though—I’d sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and hear the faint sounds of late-night TV—old-timey movies and infomercials promising miracles. Josh had called from his lacrosse camp to check in, and I’d wasted no time in letting him know just how not-good things were here.
    My brother let out a long sigh, and I knew him well enough to understand what he meant by that—that we were both feeling totally out of our depth here. “I know,” I agreed.
    â€œI think I should come home,”