explanation as to why she’s not told you the truth.”
Reggie’s right. I need to talk to Mom.
The doorbell rings, and I glance at my bedside clock. Who’d be here at eight a.m. on a Saturday morning?
“Lane!” Victor yells up. “For you.”
I hang up with Reggie and go downstairs. There’s a short black girl standing at my door.
“Yes?” I say.
She smiles. “Are you Lane?”
I nod. Obviously or I wouldn’t have been called down.
“I’m Belinda,” she tells me, and waits like I’m supposed to know who she is. “Zach’s girlfriend?” She laughs. “Or ex-girlfriend, I should say.”
The delinquent who keyed my car. Lovely.
The differences between us are almost ridiculous. She is just as short as I am tall, as black as I am white, and all smiles where I am anything but.
Her smile grows even larger. “I wanted to meet you.”
“Why?”
She laughs again. “Any friend of Zach’s is a friend of mine.”
“I don’t want to be your friend.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “Okay, then. At least we met.”
“That we did,” I agree.
“So, are you and Zach planning on going to the football game?”
Football game? I don’t go to football games. That’s Daisy’s scene. “Listen, I said I don’t want to be your friend.”
“That’s fine, but you can at least be civil and answer my question.”
“No, I can’t. Good-bye.” I close the door in her face.
“She seems nice,” Victor cautiously comments.
“Don’t let that act fool you.”
“You could’ve been a little friendlier.”
I flip the lock on our door. “Have you seen my keyed Jeep?”
He nods.
“She did that.”
He sighs. “What’s her name? I’m going to call her parents.”
“Please let me handle this. Trust me?”
He doesn’t immediately respond. Then, “Okay. I’ll give you thirty days. If she hasn’t made right her wrongs, I’m contacting her parents. Fair?”
“Fair.” This is the good thing about my parents. They really do trust me.
Daisy comes down the stairs dressed in her cheerleading warm-ups. “Who’s the chick?”
I go to the coffee. “Friend of Zach’s.”
“What’s she want with you?”
“To say hi.”
Victor grabs his keys. “Let’s go, Daisy.”
I pour milk into my mug as he and my sister head out to her Saturday cheerleading camp.
Mom comes downstairs. “Morning.”
“Good morning.” I take my first sip and watch her putter around the kitchen.
How to bring up my real dad circles around in my brain. I can’t ask her about 4 Buchold Place because then I’ll have to explain how I know about the address. And what am I supposed to say?
Mom, the Decapitator has been communicating with me, and I think he wanted to meet me last night at Four Buchold Place?
“Tell me about Dad,” I say instead, giving her a chance to come clean with the lie. “My real dad.”
She doesn’t miss an FBI-trained beat. “Why do you ask?”
“Been studying about family trees in school,” I say. “And it got me thinking. . . .”
Mom opens the bacon and starts laying it out on the skillet. “We met in the marines at Quantico. I got pregnant with you. We never married. Before I even had a chance to tell him I was pregnant, he was killed while kayaking.”
These are all the things she’s told me before. “Mom, every time I bring him up, you tell me the exact same things. Please give me some solid details.”
Mom grabs tongs and turns to me. “He was handsome. Intelligent. Liked to play golf. Dry sense of humor. Quiet man. Tall. Red hair.”
“What attracted you to him?”
Mom smiles. “Great listener. True listener. One of those people who look deeply into your eyes and absorb every word you’re saying.”
I sip some more. “How did you all wind up together?”
Mom goes back to the bacon and flips a few. A bit of grease pops out. “He’d recently lost his dad, and I’d broken up with a boyfriend. We comforted each other. He had to go home to deal with family stuff and
Reggie’s right. I need to talk to Mom.
The doorbell rings, and I glance at my bedside clock. Who’d be here at eight a.m. on a Saturday morning?
“Lane!” Victor yells up. “For you.”
I hang up with Reggie and go downstairs. There’s a short black girl standing at my door.
“Yes?” I say.
She smiles. “Are you Lane?”
I nod. Obviously or I wouldn’t have been called down.
“I’m Belinda,” she tells me, and waits like I’m supposed to know who she is. “Zach’s girlfriend?” She laughs. “Or ex-girlfriend, I should say.”
The delinquent who keyed my car. Lovely.
The differences between us are almost ridiculous. She is just as short as I am tall, as black as I am white, and all smiles where I am anything but.
Her smile grows even larger. “I wanted to meet you.”
“Why?”
She laughs again. “Any friend of Zach’s is a friend of mine.”
“I don’t want to be your friend.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “Okay, then. At least we met.”
“That we did,” I agree.
“So, are you and Zach planning on going to the football game?”
Football game? I don’t go to football games. That’s Daisy’s scene. “Listen, I said I don’t want to be your friend.”
“That’s fine, but you can at least be civil and answer my question.”
“No, I can’t. Good-bye.” I close the door in her face.
“She seems nice,” Victor cautiously comments.
“Don’t let that act fool you.”
“You could’ve been a little friendlier.”
I flip the lock on our door. “Have you seen my keyed Jeep?”
He nods.
“She did that.”
He sighs. “What’s her name? I’m going to call her parents.”
“Please let me handle this. Trust me?”
He doesn’t immediately respond. Then, “Okay. I’ll give you thirty days. If she hasn’t made right her wrongs, I’m contacting her parents. Fair?”
“Fair.” This is the good thing about my parents. They really do trust me.
Daisy comes down the stairs dressed in her cheerleading warm-ups. “Who’s the chick?”
I go to the coffee. “Friend of Zach’s.”
“What’s she want with you?”
“To say hi.”
Victor grabs his keys. “Let’s go, Daisy.”
I pour milk into my mug as he and my sister head out to her Saturday cheerleading camp.
Mom comes downstairs. “Morning.”
“Good morning.” I take my first sip and watch her putter around the kitchen.
How to bring up my real dad circles around in my brain. I can’t ask her about 4 Buchold Place because then I’ll have to explain how I know about the address. And what am I supposed to say?
Mom, the Decapitator has been communicating with me, and I think he wanted to meet me last night at Four Buchold Place?
“Tell me about Dad,” I say instead, giving her a chance to come clean with the lie. “My real dad.”
She doesn’t miss an FBI-trained beat. “Why do you ask?”
“Been studying about family trees in school,” I say. “And it got me thinking. . . .”
Mom opens the bacon and starts laying it out on the skillet. “We met in the marines at Quantico. I got pregnant with you. We never married. Before I even had a chance to tell him I was pregnant, he was killed while kayaking.”
These are all the things she’s told me before. “Mom, every time I bring him up, you tell me the exact same things. Please give me some solid details.”
Mom grabs tongs and turns to me. “He was handsome. Intelligent. Liked to play golf. Dry sense of humor. Quiet man. Tall. Red hair.”
“What attracted you to him?”
Mom smiles. “Great listener. True listener. One of those people who look deeply into your eyes and absorb every word you’re saying.”
I sip some more. “How did you all wind up together?”
Mom goes back to the bacon and flips a few. A bit of grease pops out. “He’d recently lost his dad, and I’d broken up with a boyfriend. We comforted each other. He had to go home to deal with family stuff and
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