The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco by Laura DiSilverio

Author:Laura DiSilverio
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2015-03-18T04:00:00+00:00

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I drove off and parked around the corner to pound on the steering wheel. Troy and I had never been best buddies—I’d thought he was stuck-up and snotty in high school, and the way he knuckled under to his parents on every important issue since he and Brooke got married drove me batty—but I’d thought he respected me, a little, and my friendship with Brooke, and I’d always respected their relationship. Saying I was making stuff up about Ivy because I craved attention, implying that Doug getting married had caused me so much stress I needed a vacation— Ooh! I banged the steering wheel one more time, took a deep breath, and resumed driving.

I drove for a couple of blocks before realizing I didn’t have a destination in mind. I was a little bit nervous about going home, although obviously I’d have to do so eventually. I could go to Maud’s. She’d believe me about the note—she’d be eager to believe me, and immediately start spinning conspiracy theories to account for it. I wasn’t in the mood. Should I take it to the police? It was a threat, after all. I shook my head. No. I wasn’t going to run the risk that the police would think as Troy did, that I was some sort of unbalanced woman, looking for attention. I’d already been to the police station twice in the last forty-eight hours; I wasn’t going back.

I realized that while I was thinking, the van had steered itself toward my parents’ house, a rambling two-story on the east end of Heaven, and I remembered my new resolution from the memorial service to connect with my folks this weekend. The house had flaking gray paint, an overgrown yard with apple trees, and a detached two-car garage. Neither Mom nor Dad was much for home maintenance. Mom thought of it as man’s work, and Dad was so engrossed in trying to solve unsolvable mathematical equations that he wouldn’t notice if a meteor hurtled into his study, never mind if the driveway was more green than black due to the weeds growing through cracks in the asphalt. I pulled into the sprouting driveway with a feeling of relief. At least being with them would take my mind off my troubles.

Not bothering to knock, I opened the screen door and let it slap shut behind me. The noise called to mind my mother’s constant reminders of “Don’t let the screen door bang” from my childhood.

“Hey, guys, it’s just me,” I called. The air smelled faintly of books from the shelves lining every wall—and I mean every wall—and more strongly of corned beef and cabbage in the slow cooker. I decided I would stay for dinner.

“Out here, dear.”

As if I didn’t know where my mother was. In the summer, she spent approximately 90 percent of her waking hours at the patio table in the backyard, stack of books in a chair beside her, and a laptop and a bag of corn chips on the table.

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