“You checked with the pizza guy?” I’m making a joke of something she doesn’t think is funny. It’s not funny. I’m just not ready to tell her how unfunny all of it is.
“June, I called every phone number I could find in the goddamn house. You never just disappear. We—me and you—we don’t do that to each other!” Her eyes are glossy, and I should probably drop my edge and step into her with a hug right now, but what she just said sticks a little. I cock my head slightly and narrow my eyes on her.
“You sure?” I’m slipping into one of those conversations I can’t take back, and I don’t like that I am. Nevertheless, I can’t stop.
“I’m sorry?” Her voice has elevated into yelling. This is the voice she used with my dad when he came home late.
“I’m just saying, me and you . . . we don’t hold things back from each other. Is that what you’re saying?”
An intense quiet builds between us for a few seconds before she answers with a booming “Yes!”
I slowly nod and turn to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. I’m so thirsty. I pull the lid off and drink nearly half of it before recapping it and holding it to my side as I let the fridge door close and turn back to face my mom.
“Okay, then,” I say. “I was out with Lucas. We had sex. I’m going to bed.” I march past her, knowing she’s stunned by that little bomb, and I take the time it bought me all the way upstairs, where I proceed to lock my bedroom door, set my water on my night stand, close my shutters, and crawl under my velvet blue blanket with my phone.
I don’t want to talk to anyone except Lucas, so I shoot my bestie a short text so she knows I’m alive and epic shit went down, but I can’t tell her until tomorrow. She responds instantly with about four lines of exclamation points, but she follows it up with two hearts, so I know Abby and I are good.
I toss my phone to the side and pull my blanket up over my head, and for the next two hours I remember every single spot that Lucas touched me. Somewhere in my best daydreams, I fall asleep and don’t crack a lid open until early evening, when my phone buzzes at my side with a text from Lucas.
Hi.
Chapter Eighteen
In many ways, it’s another typical Monday morning. Abby is waiting in my driveway blasting some song she texted me was super hype and dropped late last night. I rush around my room searching for a T-shirt that’s not too wrinkled to wear because I traded time to shower and prep a normal look for the day for thirty extra minutes of sleep. I’ve lived this morning before. It’s my normal mode. My Groundhog Day. I’m always a bit disheveled, not great with sticking to a morning routine, and my haphazard style makes my supermodel best friend mental. But this dose of chaos, it works for me. Usually.
Today, my mom is waiting downstairs in the kitchen and there is an invisible brick wall between us that she’ll expect me to climb over before I leave. I don’t feel much for climbing. At least, not that wall. Lucas always made the trip up my porch roof look easy. I’m nowhere near as strong as he is, but down has to be easier than up. The thought struck me before I fell asleep again at about four this morning, mid-text with Lucas as we went over the plan for today. I juggled between messaging him and FaceTiming Abby so I could give her a full deposition of all things drama that is my life. Not surprisingly, most of her questions weren’t about the gossip about my mother but instead were centered around my first time and details of Lucas’s, umm, parts. I learned two key things from our talk. One, my best friend has seen way more penises than I have. Seven to my one, to be exact. Also, apparently, Lucas stacks up pretty well in terms of size. The entire conversation made me want to die, especially because I was texting him while having it.
I maybe should have taken Lucas up on his offer to drive me to school—he could have helped me scale down the side of my house—but I didn’t want to risk running into his mom again. I don’t like the way she looks at me, as though I’m guilty. And even though Lucas said he no longer cares what his parents think, deep down he does. He cares that his dad doesn’t like his choices, and he cares that his mom has been hurt.
My mom has been hurt, too. And I care about that, which is the reason I don’t want to face her just yet, or at least that’s what I rationalize. I’m not ready to be civilized, and I don’t know how to word my questions. I need to be prepared for her answers, as well—whether my suspicions are right, that she’s done nothing wrong, or Lucas’s version is true and she’s as much to blame as my father. I need to be mentally prepared to embrace and move forward on either path. Right now, I only want to floor it in reverse.
This brings me to where I stand right now, literally, two feet planted on the tacky surface of the A-frame that covers my porch. I’ve taken myself to the brink of reason, avoiding my mom by roof leaping. The slide down the wall was a longer drop than I thought, and it’s left me a bit frozen here. The drop down from the spot where the A-frame ends, where the gutter drips rainwater into my mom’s flower garden, is about the same distance. My pocket buzzes from my phone so I lean flat against the wall, my backpack strap wrapped tightly around my right wrist, and pull my phone out with my left hand. It’s Abby calling, so I glance up to see her hunched over her steering wheel and staring out her windshield with her mouth agape.
I answer.
“I didn’t think this through,” I say through nervous giggling.
“What the fuck, June!” It’s kinda funny how her mouth moves just a hair before I hear the words in my ear.
“I’m avoiding my mom.” I shrug, the movement making me a little off balance for a blip and I bend my knees, gripping to the surface beneath my feet.
“Yeah, well, you’re probably gonna have to deal with her when you fall and break something and she has to haul your ass to the emergency room.” She leans back in her seat but just a little. My friend is looking from side to side, maybe searching for help. I don’t want any, except for hers. The last thing I need is assistance from the problems I’m hiding from.
“I’m coming down,” I say, my voice quavering as I cautiously lower myself until I’m on my ass, sitting with legs pointing down the slope. God, how I wish this were really a slide.
“I’m coming out,” Abby says.
“No!” I stop her fast. “Don’t. If you come out, my mom will see you and then she’ll come out, and then—”
“And then your ass climbed out a window for nothing. Yeah, I got it. This is fucked up.”
I sigh.
“I know. Just give me a minute. I’m going to scoot.” I drag my butt along the grainy shingles about six inches before stretching my legs out like an inch worm to do it again.
“You look ridiculous,” my friend says.
“You better not be filming me,” I fire back.
“I’m not, but I took a picture. You know, for my collection of June in her moods.” She’s amused by this, but all I can focus on is not dying. I end our call and slip my phone back into my pocket.
In reality, I’m not that high, but maybe I have a fear of heights I was never fully aware of. Being up here has my heart racing and sweat pouring from every part of my body. I scoot and work my feet in a rhythm, quickening my pace until I finally reach the edge of the eave and am able to slide forward enough that my legs dangle. Our living room windows are just to my right. This is the corner where we usually put our Christmas tree. There’s a lamp there now, which helps to mask the view of me. My mom was in the kitchen before I left. I snuck a quick view down the stairs to see her sitting on one of the stools by the counter closest to the side door. If I can be silent with this, I might just make it out without her hearing.