recognize the yellowish pallor in your skin tone." She pinches my cheeks. "My grandson has anemia. When's the last time you ate?"
"Um." I think back on my day. "Breakfast?"
"Shame on you." The old lady scolds. "Kids today don't eat enough healthy food. Too many video games. Too much junk food."
I inch away. Hopefully, Jetta still wears her red bow. I scan the tops of heads but see nothing but a couple St. Patty's Day faux glitter top hats and balloon animals.
A strong grip yanks me back. "Didn't your mother teach you any manners, young man?"
I babble out a few words. Man, this lady is like the Incredible Hulk. I'll have bruises on my arm.
She shoves a bar into my hand. "Eat this. It's my own concoction. It will give you enough energy for the rest of the day."
It looks like a cross between a burnt cookie and a dog turd. "Thanks. I'll eat it later."
"No." She stares at me as if controlling my brain, and maybe, she is.
I lift the bar to my mouth and nibble on the side, desperate to get away. The old lady rambles on about today's youth and the food pyramid. Then, through the crowds, I see a red bow and black hair. I shove the bar into his mouth and mumble thanks. I pull away and rub my arm as I half-walk half-run through the people. "Jetta!"
She doesn't hear me with my mouth stuffed full. I run through the tables.
My throat seizes and I gag. The sharp edges of the health bar jab into the insides of my throat and I can't get it to go up or down. It tastes like a dried-up, year-old turd. I crash into a table lined with glass blowing sculptures. They rattle and one falls over. It knocks into the next and so on and so on until most of the sculptures are shattered. I fall to the ground.
Grass tickles my ears. On my back, I stare up at blurry faces. I panic as my chest hiccups and I can't breathe. An older man pounces and jams his elbow into my stomach. The crowds don't see a rebellious boy shattering art. They see a boy choking and staggering into the table. Instead of outrage, they feel compassion.
I cough and spit out the health bar. I roll onto my knees and suck in air, gasping. Finally, I stand, wavering a bit. "I'm okay, thanks," I whisper.
They pat my back, and then I stumble away, looking for Jetta. I find her almost right away and take off sprinting. Two hulk-like men are pushing her into the back seat of the car. The door slams. The engine bursts to life and the tires screech. I almost collapse, my hands on my knees. My insides are screaming, the sound echoing in my head. For the second time in a row, I fail.
"Jack!"
I whirl around. Mom. At least, I think it's her. I stand shocked into paralysis.
4:25 p.m.
Mom rushes to my side. "Kyle and I saw what happened from a distance. Are you okay?"
She runs her fingers through my hair like she hasn't done since I was a kid. Then she pulls me in for a quick hug. My body tenses, awkward with the unexpected show of affection.
Her cheeks are rosy and her eyes have a brightness I haven't seen in months, more like years. A light lilac perfume lingers in the air around her. But even more, she has compassion in her voice. She asked if I'm okay. She cares.
Tears prick my eyes and my throat swells. I don't know what to do with the sudden rush of emotion.
She laughs, a beautiful sound, like bells from the choir at church. "What happened?"
"Mom." I fall into her arms, allowing her to hold me close.
"My, oh my. You really must not feel well to let me hug you in public. Aren't you afraid your friends might learn you have a mother?"
"I don't care," I say into her shoulder. I want to enjoy this happier, more caring mom.
Then a man asks if I need anything. It's a familiar voice that I can't place right away. I pull away from Mom.
Mr. Kronin?
He rubs Mom's back in a way that doesn't suggest friendship. She smiles at him with a twinkle in her eye.
"What are you doing here?" The words shoot out.
I glare at Mr. Kronin. His warm smile and presence smothers me. Just yesterday, Dad was denied parole. Today, Mom is out with another man? Except, okay, my world has changed, but Dad hasn't been in jail that long. A separate thought cripples me. Dad must still be in prison. Mom's happy for all the wrong reasons.
Mr. Kronin chuckles, an awful sound that reminds me of Gollum from The Lord of the Rings.
"What sand bank did you crawl out from?" I ask. I've found solid ground but struggle to keep the venom from my voice.
"Jack Brodie," Mom scolds, her cheeks turning pink. "What's wrong with you?"
I point at Mr. Kronin. "He's what wrong with me." I turn my ferocious glare on her. "How could you betray Dad like this?"
I have plenty more to say but the reality of my life and what I've caused catches up to me. A sob fills my throat, so I run. I'm sixteen but I feel like I'm eight, running away from my problems instead of dealing with them like a man. Good thing Dad isn't here to see me.
Mom calls but I ignore the hurt in her voice and focus on my breath entering in and out, my feet hitting the pavement, and the string of curses running through me, blaming me for everything. Tears blind my vision and I let the crowds fold in around me, hiding me. Finally, I stop and lean against a lamppost, tearing the strips of streamers but not caring.
The Gardner, with its castle-like turrets stabbing the sky and eye-like windows, mock me. The joke's on me.
10:18 p.m.
Bright streams of moonlight leave me exposed. I slump against the front step. Anyone walking by would look at me and know to stay away, muttering, "trouble maker."
I need the storm clouds to roll in, smothering the light and the calm evening. I want the air to be charged and lightning to flash to match the storm raging inside me that has been building all day.
Stick won't be coming out to talk, and there probably aren't any midnight walks through Southie. For once, I'm glad to not see my friends. Too much has changed. And that makes me more than sad.
I can't bear to think about Mom. I close my eyes and remember her smile, the love in her eyes, and the warmth of her hug. It's been months since she cared about anything, never mind me. And now that I have her back, Kronin has somehow wormed his way into our lives.
Jetta lingers in my thoughts but I press those down. The guilt builds, and I don't know how to fix my life, her life.
My neck prickles. I stare into the darkness.
The feeling is back. Someone's watching.
Someone left me a note this morning. Warning me to make the right choice. And now. They're back.
I can tell. Shadows shift and move. Eyes gleam. Again, whoever it is stands on the edge of truth. On the edge of being seen. I stare, challenging this ghost who haunts me like a coward. Daring him to show his face.
"I know you're there." I shout. "Coward!"
He doesn't respond. The wind blows through, a smattering of rain hitting me. The air smells like a storm. Thunder rolls in the distance. It's coming.
I stand, my hand on the front door. One last look back. I like puzzles. I can put them together, piece by piece. Sometimes, it takes longer to find pieces, but I know they're there. My life, on the other hand, has pieces missing, and I don't know where to look for them.
I can't help Jetta. I can't finish that puzzle, but I can make things right with Mom. The idea of facing her, after yelling at her, kept me on the streets after I left the art festival. I slip inside.
A candle flickers on a side table. A roast beef sandwich waits for me. She waits for me. My eyes burn. Everything else about this day sucks, but having Mom back, whole and healthy, is a layer of salve on the raw wounds. Some of the pain and heartache fades.
"Thought you might be hungry."
I sit across from her. Still not used to the curly Q tables. "Nice tables."
She gives me a funny look, then asks, "How was school today?"
"Fine." I poke at my sandwich.
"Kyle said you got in a fight with your friends."
I shrug
. "Yeah. Stick and I had a fight. No big deal."
"It's not a big deal to you, but I don't like the path you're heading down." She holds up her hand so I can't argue. "I don't care for the company you keep. I know you're smarter than your grades show. And you've been getting into trouble."
I drink in Mom's words. They aren't words of praise, but they're proof she cares. She purses her lips and taps the table with her fingernails.
"What?" I ask. "You're not saying something."
"First, eat. Then I'll talk."
I wolf down the roast beef sandwich with lettuce and tomato. I haven't eaten much all day, so it tastes incredible. As I pop the last bite into my mouth and then drain a glass of milk, Mom smiles.
"You must've been hungry. It's like I don't feed you."
"Nah. It's just been a long day."
I study the wall. There's a new painting.
"You like it? We bought it today at the festival. I love Jetta's idea of sprucing up the neighborhood with quality art. She's quite a gem. Lucky I met her."
"Yeah." I play with crumbs on my plate to fill the awkward silence. Jetta won't be back the next morning. "I'm sorry about today. I didn't mean to yell at you. I was just surprised. I mean, it hasn't been that long."
Her brow furrows, deepening the lines on her forehead. "Was it hard to be near the Gardner Museum today? I know you don't often go to that part of town."
I freeze. I don't want to admit I lost Dad's leather jacket, and there's no way to track down the kids who probably have it from years ago. I force the words. "I'm sorry. I lost Dad's jacket outside of the museum. I promise. I'll find it."
A small gasp escapes her lips. In the