The Zodiac Collector by Laura Diamond

Author:Laura Diamond
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: The Zodiac Collector
ISBN: 9781937053719
Publisher: Spencer Hill Press
Published: 2014-03-03T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

“Girls? Is dinner ready? I’m famished.” Mom calls for us just as we put on our matching black hoodies. I scowl.

“It’s ten o’clock. She wants dinner now?” Mary unzips her hoodie and has it half off before I grab the sleeve.

“She can eat leftovers. William’s waiting for us.”

“So we’re going to sneak out of the house, just like that? She’ll catch us on the porch or something.”

I sigh. She’s right.

“We can scramble some eggs. It’ll only take a few minutes.” She wraps her hoodie around her waist.

“All right.”

We file into the kitchen.

Mom’s butt sticks out of the refrigerator. She’s half-dancing, half-scrounging, so her backside wiggles back and forth in an awkward rhythm. A strand of gold embroidery thread sticks to her pants. It snakes from her hip all the way down to her knee.

I glance at Mary. Her eyes are already affixed to the metallic strand. Her face is contorted in an “I really need to pick it off her pants” expression. We’ve been through this too many times before. Medicated Mom would be appreciative, but Manic Mom will just blow up at her for being too “particular.”

I grab her wrist.

She bites her lip and tugs at her hair.

“Mom. Want some eggs?” I walk ahead, announcing our presence with as light a tone as possible. I pull a bowl out of the cupboard while Mary paws through the utensil drawer for a whisk.

“Hmmm?” Mom twists around to face us. A broad smile is plastered across her face. Her hair is kinky and her clothes are more wrinkled than Great-Aunt Edna’s face.

I come within inches of her to pluck the carton of eggs from the fridge and immediately regret it. She reeks of stale smoke and body odor. “Um, why don’t you hop in the shower? Mary and I’ll make eggs and home fries.”

She lights a cigarette and takes a long drag before answering. “What? You sayin’ I stink? Nice way to treat your mother. I should make you drink dish soap.”

Mary ducks her head into the pantry cabinet and returns with a large potato, keeping her back to Mom while she cuts it into even strips, sniffing every now and then.

What gives Mom the right to treat us this way? Turning into a Grendel because she doesn’t want to take medicine? Totally unfair.

I gave up crying about Mom’s mood swings a long time ago. Anger rears its scalded, pimple-covered face and urges me to smash her over the head with the frying pan. Then it whispers a plan. Drag her unconscious body to the backyard, douse her in dish soap, and set the sprinklers on her. Lost in the fantasy, I burn my finger on the side of the pan. That’s what I get for imagining something so gruesome. I suck on the burned skin, but it only intensifies the scratchy pain.

“Have you been drinking the ale again?” Mom shoves my shoulder and laughs. It sounds like steel grating on concrete.

“No, I don’t like the taste,” I retort, scrambling the eggs as they cook.

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