my hand. “I think I’m going out tonight with some friends.”
Mom frowns. “I didn’t know you had friends here, honey.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve known him for years.” Not quite a lie.
“Well, be
careful
. You know crazies come out at night.” She fishes her phone out of her purse and turns it on. She checks her messages with a frown and puts it back on the table. “We’ll both have our phones on, so if anything happens...”
I roll my eyes. “Mom. I’m eighteen.”
“And a very beautiful young woman. Even with your pink hair,” she adds, kissing my forehead, before excusing herself to the bathroom.
“Thanks for clarifying,” I mutter and lounge back on the couch.
My t-shirt still smells like last night—grass and pizza and salt water—and I smile to myself at how crazy it was. Do they always live like that? Disregarding property, rules, and social norms? I’ve never so much as scowled at a teacher, and my idea of living on the edge is firing lazy sound engineers.
Mom’s cell phone startles me out of my thoughts. It’s that annoying beep-ringing that comes generic with most phones, and starts to vibrate across the table. Should I answer it? What if it’s the bar? They are the only ones who’d call, as far as I know. My worst fear flashes through my mind. I quietly sneak over to the table to grab Mom’s cell phone and slip out onto the balcony so she doesn’t hear me answer it. The caller ID isn’t familiar, but the area code is Asheville.
As I answer, I pray it’s not the fire department. “Hello?”
“May we speak with Mrs. Baltimore?”
Definitely not the bar. Suspicion flares like a wildfire. “Who’s this?”
“This is Asheville Mortgage Bank calling on behalf of the foreclosure to your business.”
I try not to laugh. “Chuck, is this you?”
“Mrs. Baltimore, we have been trying to reach your business on behalf of—”
The deadness in his voice makes giggle.
“I’m referring to The Silver Lining on Haywood Street?” This man isn’t cracking. “If Mrs. Baltimore is there—”
“It’s
Conway
,” I correct, my voice small, and hang up. My hands are shaking.
Darla looks up from her pool chair and calls up from below, “Hey honey! Tell your mom to get her cute ass down here! I’m bakin’!”
I barely hear her. Dazed, I stumble back into the glass door, push it open, and return Mom’s cell phone to the table. Asheville Mortgage Bank? Chuck would pull a trick like this, wouldn’t he? He has that sort of sick sense of humor, right?
The toilet flushes as I settle back down on the couch with my cup of coffee. Mom yawns as she comes out, and digs into the refrigerator for a piece of leftover pizza, humming “Hotel California.” I watch her silently, trying to process—but I can’t function.
Foreclosure
? The Silver Lining... my Lining...
Foreclosure?
Why didn’t Mom tell me? How long has she known? It makes sense now, why she doesn’t answer her phone. She’s trying to
prolong
the reality of it, like she does with everything else. Instead of acknowledging Dad’s death, she married an architect. Instead of throwing me a graduation party, she and Chuck celebrated their fourth honeymoon in St. Martin. Instead of scolding me for my pink hair, she ignores it.
Foreclosure?
No—I refuse. I’ve sacrificed too much. While Maggie and everyone else were studying and taking the SATs, I was picking up Saturday shifts and being called “sweetie” by disgusting sound engineers. Instead of blowing my money on college applications, I was spending it replacing the bar mats. While everyone else celebrated getting into this college or that university, I celebrated
finally
booking a good gig that I thought might bring in the cash we needed. I spent my senior year sleeping in math class because I was busy until three in the morning keeping my Dad’s dream alive. I graduated as a mediocre student, not a genius like Maggie and not dumb as rocks like most of the football
Mom frowns. “I didn’t know you had friends here, honey.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve known him for years.” Not quite a lie.
“Well, be
careful
. You know crazies come out at night.” She fishes her phone out of her purse and turns it on. She checks her messages with a frown and puts it back on the table. “We’ll both have our phones on, so if anything happens...”
I roll my eyes. “Mom. I’m eighteen.”
“And a very beautiful young woman. Even with your pink hair,” she adds, kissing my forehead, before excusing herself to the bathroom.
“Thanks for clarifying,” I mutter and lounge back on the couch.
My t-shirt still smells like last night—grass and pizza and salt water—and I smile to myself at how crazy it was. Do they always live like that? Disregarding property, rules, and social norms? I’ve never so much as scowled at a teacher, and my idea of living on the edge is firing lazy sound engineers.
Mom’s cell phone startles me out of my thoughts. It’s that annoying beep-ringing that comes generic with most phones, and starts to vibrate across the table. Should I answer it? What if it’s the bar? They are the only ones who’d call, as far as I know. My worst fear flashes through my mind. I quietly sneak over to the table to grab Mom’s cell phone and slip out onto the balcony so she doesn’t hear me answer it. The caller ID isn’t familiar, but the area code is Asheville.
As I answer, I pray it’s not the fire department. “Hello?”
“May we speak with Mrs. Baltimore?”
Definitely not the bar. Suspicion flares like a wildfire. “Who’s this?”
“This is Asheville Mortgage Bank calling on behalf of the foreclosure to your business.”
I try not to laugh. “Chuck, is this you?”
“Mrs. Baltimore, we have been trying to reach your business on behalf of—”
The deadness in his voice makes giggle.
“I’m referring to The Silver Lining on Haywood Street?” This man isn’t cracking. “If Mrs. Baltimore is there—”
“It’s
Conway
,” I correct, my voice small, and hang up. My hands are shaking.
Darla looks up from her pool chair and calls up from below, “Hey honey! Tell your mom to get her cute ass down here! I’m bakin’!”
I barely hear her. Dazed, I stumble back into the glass door, push it open, and return Mom’s cell phone to the table. Asheville Mortgage Bank? Chuck would pull a trick like this, wouldn’t he? He has that sort of sick sense of humor, right?
The toilet flushes as I settle back down on the couch with my cup of coffee. Mom yawns as she comes out, and digs into the refrigerator for a piece of leftover pizza, humming “Hotel California.” I watch her silently, trying to process—but I can’t function.
Foreclosure
? The Silver Lining... my Lining...
Foreclosure?
Why didn’t Mom tell me? How long has she known? It makes sense now, why she doesn’t answer her phone. She’s trying to
prolong
the reality of it, like she does with everything else. Instead of acknowledging Dad’s death, she married an architect. Instead of throwing me a graduation party, she and Chuck celebrated their fourth honeymoon in St. Martin. Instead of scolding me for my pink hair, she ignores it.
Foreclosure?
No—I refuse. I’ve sacrificed too much. While Maggie and everyone else were studying and taking the SATs, I was picking up Saturday shifts and being called “sweetie” by disgusting sound engineers. Instead of blowing my money on college applications, I was spending it replacing the bar mats. While everyone else celebrated getting into this college or that university, I celebrated
finally
booking a good gig that I thought might bring in the cash we needed. I spent my senior year sleeping in math class because I was busy until three in the morning keeping my Dad’s dream alive. I graduated as a mediocre student, not a genius like Maggie and not dumb as rocks like most of the football
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