Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
It wasn’t bad work. Most of the time, you could get lost in the rows and rows of wood, helping people find what they needed, trimming it for them, and loading it onto trucks. It was manual labor, with a bit of customer service thrown in. I was good at it. Even after I did my time, the customers responded well to my charms. I asked them about their farms, about their harvests and their families. They hardly ever brought up my criminal record, and even then, it was mostly to commiserate and say how much they disapproved of the law.
I couldn’t let my parents catch me chatting up the customers too much, though. They had a puritanical focus on work—at least my mom did. Anytime I wasn’t hauling or cutting lumber, she eyed me suspiciously. Things had never been the same between us after I went away. I had hoped that she would be the one person on my side, but she proved that town gossip was more important to her than her son. I spent my days ignoring her, ignoring my past, and trying to figure out a way to escape.
It wasn’t going to happen tonight, though. I had killed my only option for a good time and had nothing better to do than watch television in my room. There was a set of outdoor steps that ran from the driveway to my apartment, and I had just mounted the first stair when I heard a shrill voice.
“Michael?” My mother held the kitchen door open, peering out into the twilight.
I stepped around so she could see me. “Yes?”
She motioned me inside, shutting the door and retreating to the kitchen before I had a chance to comply. I sighed. I really didn’t want to talk to her; I wasn’t in the mood. I felt like I owed my parents a huge debt, giving me a place to live and a job, which, after a drug conviction, could be hard to come by. I knew they cared, and I didn’t want to seem like a spoiled teenager, but sometimes the attitude was more than I could take. I held my breath, pulled off my hat, and stepped inside.
My mom’s kitchen was small and butter yellow. It had been renovated in the 1970s to what had then been a modern color scheme. They hadn’t touched it since, and through the years it had sunk deeper and deeper into the past. My mom looked like she belonged there too, with her calf-length skirt and white apron. I kissed her obligingly on the cheek, maneuvering past ancient appliances to find my dad reading a newspaper at the table. I pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Where were you?” my mom asked.
“The Lucky Lady,” I said, throwing my hat onto the table.
“Care for some dinner?” Dad asked, peeking out over his sports section. “Pot roast.”
“Sure.” I shrugged. My mom’s cooking was fine; I just wasn’t very hungry.
Mom went to a cabinet and pulled out something that wasn’t a plate. It was a cardboard box with the drug store logo on it. She set it down in front of me with a commanding air. I picked it up, reading the text that was stamped into its generic packaging. Drug test, good for cocaine, marijuana, heroin, methamphetamines, and nine other illegal substances.
“What?” I said, setting the box down.
“Take it,” Mom said, gesturing toward the bathroom. “Go pee in the cup.”
“All I had was a beer,” I protested.
“That’s all you say you had,” Mom argued. “But you went to jail for drugs.”
That hurt. More than any bartender or drunk ex-friend, hearing this same rhetoric from my mom really hit home. How could she raise me for eighteen years, get to know me as a young man, and believe that I would really sell drugs? Shouldn’t she have some kind of sixth sense where I was concerned? Shouldn’t she know that I had taken the fall for someone else, that I was really a stand-up guy?
“What if I refuse?” I said tersely.
“You want to live in our house. You live by our rules,” Mom said.
“I am not on drugs,” I snapped.
“Take the test!” Mom yelled.
“Son.” Dad put his paper down. “Just take the test. Make your mother happy.”
I grabbed the box from the table and stalked into the bathroom. I was so angry. It was hard to get my pants down. I ripped the cardboard open and unscrewed the collection cup. Luckily that half a beer from the bar was sitting on my bladder, so I could do my duty. I screwed the cap back on, left the box with all its testing instruments on top of the toilet, and stormed out.
On the way past, I saw my mother straighten. She thought she was doing what was right. She had no idea how to handle a drug-addicted child, and somebody had probably told her that testing was the answer. I read it in an instant, and it did nothing to ease the betrayal I was feeling. I saw my mom getting her hair done, discussing my “criminal career” with her girlfriends. The image almost made me want to be exactly who everyone thought I was already. I wouldn’t do that, of course. I wanted to keep my head down, finish out my probation, and get the hell out of Singer’s Ridge as fast as possible. I broke free of the kitchen, out into the night, and up the stairs to my own space.