Airplanes V2

Here's the long awaited... update? Not another chapter. Sorry. But there's new stuff!

         

Riley

         I am in prison.
         Well, not actual prison. I'm grounded. I'm locked in my room unless my mom says otherwise, but it's basically the same thing.
         I haven't particularly minded being grounded, honestly, I enjoy my solitude. It would be nice to have the option, however.
         I've burned through all the books in my room multiple times, so lately I've had absolutely nothing to do except stare at a wall. Books have always been important to me; they've always been my way of feeling seen, if not by my parents, then perhaps by the author.
         My guilty pleasure is reading those Hallmark-esque romance novels. Not the smut, but the cheesy ones. The kind where everyone falls in love in the rain and nobody dies. They're heartwarming.
         I've also been drawing--a lot. I draw my favorite anime characters, my versions of people from books I've read, or just whatever random thing pops into my head. My iPad got confiscated, now I've got paper everywhere--little sketches and half-finished doodles carpeting my floor like dust.
         I'm drawing at my desk when I glance out the window. A speck of white pops in a sea of green. Moving to my window, I squint to take a closer look.
         It's a folded piece of paper. Is that a paper airplane?
         A paper airplane basking in the sun on the freshly cut grass. I'm desperate enough for entertainment; my curiosity gets the better of me, which, by the way, didn't kill me. I'm also not a cat, so I guess that doesn't mean much.
         I slip on a hoodie and tug the hood low over my face before heading out. I push my door so the suction doesn't create a sound and slowly pull it open. Making sure the coast is clear, I peek my head out and glance around. I have the creaky floorboards memorized and avoid them like a spy. (Maybe I am a cat?)
         Creeping down the stairs, I listen for any noise. My mom is home; however, her location is currently unknown. I move past the kitchen that leads directly into the living room. My mom insisted the house have an 'open plan' when we were shopping around a few years back.
         I open the front door as silently as possible and think about ninja rolling, but decide against it.
         Walking over to the paper airplane, I gingerly pick it up like it's on the verge of exploding. Slipping it into the pocket, I retrace my steps, shutting my door, relieved I didn't get caught.
         Immediately, I throw off my hoodie; it's too hot to wear one all the time. Just when I go outside.
         I place it on my desk, unfold it, and smooth it out before reading the neat pink print.




Hi!
My dad said your mom told him that you're grounded.
I am too hahahahaha.
I just moved in about a month ago.
If you don't want to write back, you don't have to.
No pressure!
This is me saying hello.
So, hi!
         Jamie


         I smile to myself a bit. What if this is some weirdo? Why would a weirdo use paper airplanes as communication? They probably use the internet. Right?
         That was sweet of her, I decide I should be polite and write back. I grab my favorite black pen and write back to Jamie.




Hey!
I'm Riley. That's kinda crazy, we're both grounded at the same time!
How did my mom talk to your dad?
I've never heard of you. No offense!
What I'd love to hear more about you!
         Riley          :)


         I finish the note and read it a few times to check for spelling mistakes. It looks good--mostly--and just as I'm folding it into a paper airplane, a thought hits me: I have no idea where Jamie lives.
         Maybe I can throw it in my yard and hope for the best.
         Yeah. That sounds like a terrible idea.
         I do it anyway.
         I open my window, lift the screen, and toss the plane.
         It drifts down like a feather and lands right in the middle of my front lawn.
         Or at least that's what I intended.
         It developed a mind of its own and swerved directly into the hedges in my yard. I'm about to go retrieve it when I hear my mom shuffling around in the house. My plan was busted. Welp. I let it stay, hoping Riley would be able to see the plane lodged in the bush.
         I watch for a while, like she's going to swoop in and grab it like Superman.
         Or... Superwoman? Is that a thing?
         Note to self: Google that when I'm free again.
         I turn back to my sketch of Mob from Mob Psycho 100. Not my favorite, it's too weird, but something about Mob's blank stare feels relatable.
         While I'm drawing, my stomach growls, and I go downstairs to make myself a sandwich. The stairs creak beneath my feet as I enter the stainless steel kitchen where my mom stands cooking. I turn away slightly and open the fridge. I can hear her turn around.
         "Oh hey, Riley! How's being grounded?"
         I grit my teeth and ignore her antagonizing comment. "Fine."
         "Well, it's your fault. I wanted you to enjoy your summer, driver's training, get a job, maybe a life, but you'll be punished all summer."
         I ignore her and grab my favorite sandwich fixings.
         Hard salami, my #1.
         Unless there's bacon, which is rare.
         I would marry bacon if it were legal. Just saying.
         My thoughts drift to this Jamie.
         If she's as pretty as her handwriting, I'll be happy.
         And I bet if she saw me, she'd never want anything to do with me.
         But, maybe, just maybe she feels the same way.
         

Jamie

         
         I stare at the paper airplane sitting on my bed.
         It's folded kind of sloppily, the edges uneven. It's also wrinkled, like, all over. I think he tried to fold this 20 times, it's horrible. But it's the thought that counts. RIght?
         I don't even know him yet. Not really.
         But something about the way he wrote back--kind of awkward, kind of funny--made my chest feel kind of tight.
         I'm excited to have a new friend.
         Is that weird?
         I think I'm being weird.
         Staring at the note far longer than I need to, I toss it on my floor among the other detritus that litters my room. It floats gracefully to the floor. I, however, in complete contrast flop onto my bed, which is shoved into the corner of my room to make room for all of my clutter, and grab a textbook to write on.


         Hey Riley!
         Thanks for replying to my letter!
         I hope this airplane finds you well. (As well as you can be, I guess)
         My dad was going to work, and your mom struck up a conversation.
         Our parents thought we'd have quite a bit in common.
         I don't know how it came up.
         I like watching anime, but I can't really do that, though haha.
         Outside of that, I play soccer sometimes. My dad lets me play even though I'm grounded. He thinks I'm gonna get a scholarship for it, it'd be cool, but it's not likely.
         I collect shoes, I have a pretty sizeable sizable sizeable? (whatever) I have a pretty big collection. Fun Fact: We're called Sneakerheads.
         I collect comics too. I have a bunch of Marvel and DC.
         I promise I'm more entertaining, I'm just blanking right now.


         Jamie


         I read over my letter a dozen times, making sure I sounded as normal as possible. I fold it into a paper airplane and toss it out my window, watching it glide gracefully into his yard. My room window faces his house which is next to mine. It's a perfect angle.
         Wait, that sounds weird. Not like to stalk him or anything. I mean I can see into his living room, but I'm not trying to. It just happens. It's a perfect angle to throw a paper airplane into his lawn.
         I stare at his lawn like he's going to swoop in and grab it, like Superman rescuing Lois Lane.          
         Rifling through my closet, I toss dirty clothes over my shoulder and grab my soccer ball to distract myself and bounce it from foot to foot for a while before getting bored. The soft thud it makes sends me into a hypnotic trance for a while, before I get too hypnotic and knock it into a picture of my mom on the wall.
         It falls down with a sharp crack. My heart skips a few beats as I rush to the frame like an EMT. It's lying face-down, and when I turn it over there's a bit of glass in the carpet and a large crack running between her sparkling green eyes. Or our sparkling green eyes, rather.
         I take a deep breath, doing my best to control my anger before putting her back where she belongs. Blinking tears away, I plop down on my bed like a starfish, staring at my not-glowing plastic stars on the ceiling.
         I think about Jamie, as to not think about my mom. Which is still mildly distressing, because hormones or whatever.
         What if he doesn't write back?
         Well, he has to; he did it once.
         What if it gets taken before he gets it, and he thinks I ignored him?
         I shove my face into my pillow and groan because I can't scream.
         Shut up, brain.
         I glance at the window at his lawn.
         The airplane's still there.
         At least it isn't gone.
         I decide to go outside and distract myself for a while. Opening my creaky door, I jog down the somehow creakier stairs and I'm greeted by my father snoring on the couch. Frankly, I can't tell if that's a drunk-passed-out, or a tired-passed-out.
         To his credit, he works long demanding hours to support me. My eyes spot a beer in his hand so I quickly figure out what kind of sleeping he's doing. I sneakily move over to him and pry the bottle gently from his fingers and set it on the table so he doesn't spill it on the ground.
         I go to the kitchen which has a sliding glass door to the backyard, I give him a look before exiting the house.
         The Sun is already beating down on me and I just got outside. I don't mind it though, there's nothing I love more than a good sweat. I spend what feels like hours practicing shooting in my goal, there's no goalie, but the goal is smaller than a real one so it makes up for it I think.
         By the end of my practice session I'm caked in sweat. I bring my ball back onto the back deck before coming back inside. I can see my father in the kitchen through the door. I sigh, before opening it. It closes gently behind me.
         He turns to me and I can see the sticky liquid in his unkempt beard. I must show some disappointed in my eyes, because he comments on it.
         Well I assume, I didn't exactly hear him, because I noticed through the kitchen window a figure in a hoodie climbing out of a window. But I could tell by his eyes.
         Suddenly, his eyebrows furrow and his mouth moves a few more times, but at this point I'm already spaced out, thinking about the letter.
         He shakes my shoulder, not hard, but enough to snap me out of it
         "Were you even listening?" He snaps, his face turning red.
         I stammer a bit and he cuts me off before I can speak.
         "Go to your room!" He yells at me.
         I happily comply, looking to sneak out as soon as I get in there. Jogging up the stairs three at a time, using my long legs to my advantage, I throw open my door and shut it, with perhaps too much enthusiasm, as it slams. Hurrying to the window, I see a blank, green, perfectly mowed slate.
         The airplane's gone.
         Sliding open the window as quietly as I can, and slip out onto the roof. The shingles are hot under my palms. I scoot down, dangle for a second, then drop into the grass with a soft thud.
         I spot a new airplane in my yard. It's wrinkled, just like the last one was. I snatch it up, and keep it in my hand, I don't want to wrinkle it any more than it already is.
         I step onto my AC unit, which brings me chest height to the overhang of the first-floor roof where I haul myself up to, then through my window and into my room.
         What greets me is my father standing there. I quickly shove the airplane into the back of my pants. He's a rather large dude, and he looks pissed.
         "Why the hell were you gone when I told you to go to your room?"
         "I-Uh, just wanted a breath of fresh air."
         He examines me for a while, with his chest breathing heavily. When I'm nervous I do this thing where my eyes unfocus and my breathing slows. I'm doing this now.
         His face eventually settles into a calmer demeanor, "Just tell me next time. Please."
         I nod hoping he'll leave. He doesn't. He sits on the foot of my bed and spots the cracked photo of my mother.
         His expression shifts back to what it was before, and he storms out of my room. I don't know what that was all about, nor do I care. I'm just glad he's left. I dig the letter out of my pants and unfurl it revealing the deep black ink on the wrinkled paper.

Riley

         I watch the airplane float into her yard.
         I sit there for a minute and stare before turning back to my drawing.
         I've made upwards of 200 drawings already.
         I'm so lost in my doodles, I don't even hear my mom calling until she starts pounding on my door. I jump out of my chair and smash my toe into my desk. I almost yell expletives, but my mother being on the opposite side of the door makes me think better of it. Ignoring the throbbing pain, I limp over to the door and open it warily.
         "Riley, are you deaf?" my mom says, scolding me.
         I resist the temptation to bite back. "Sorry, Mom, what's up?"
         She shifts her Michael Kors purse from one hand to the other. Her face is unreadable behind those oversized sunglasses, juxtaposed against her bleached blonde hair.
         "What's 'up' is you're going to the store with me. I want to hang out with my son. Not like you've got anything better to do."
         "Can't we do something inside? You know I hate going out in public." I point at my scar--a dark, raised gash running from my eyebrow all the way down to my jaw. It's basically a Playboy magazine taped to my face.
         "Riley. C'mon. And get dressed," she says sternly before strutting away like a fashionista.
         I look down at my clothes. I'm wearing a large t-shirt because it's like a bajillion degrees. I throw on some shorts and a hoodie to call it a day.
         I grab my hairbrush and go to war against the Kingdom of Hair. Hair is winning. My black mop that never wants to do what I want. It's kind of a rebellious teen in its way. Maybe I can try grounding it.
         I decided to leave it as it is and join my mom in the garage. Her SUV is idling quietly. I slip on some sandals, open the car door, and slide into the back seat. She doesn't even wait for me to buckle in before she takes off the fastest I've ever seen anyone pull out of a garage.
         My mom peels out at such a speed I'm sure she's leaving tire marks in the driveway. I see a paper airplane fly into my yard. I look up and catch a glimpse of somebody in the window before the curtains get pulled shut. I wonder if that was Jamie.
         My mom's voice snaps me back to reality. "Earth to Riley! Your dad was talking about wanting to see you again."
         I squeeze my eyes shut and internally roll them. I want nothing to do with that man, and she knows it.
         "Oh, c'mon Riley, he loves you and just wants to see you," she pleads.
         I hold my tongue and just make a non-committal noise, but my mom presses. "He hasn't seen you in four years. He misses you, especially because you never visited or wrote."
         I swallow my irritation and say, "You know exactly why I never did."
         She nods. Not in an understanding way, but a nod you give someone when you act like you're listening.
         "Just give him another chance. And besides, I already told him you'd stay at his place for the weekend."
         I jolt up in my seat and absolutely lose it. "You what? How dare you force me to see that man after you know the hell he put me through! You know full well I don't want to see him ever again."
         She pulls the car to the side of the road and turns around. Uh oh.
         "Riley James Madison!" I hate my middle name. It's his first. "You do not speak to me that way, are we clear?"
         I just nod.
         "I said, are we clear?"
         "Yes."
         She instantly switches back to being a 'nice' person.
         "Think of it as an opportunity to get away for the weekend."
         The car simmers in the blazing summer heat. Sweat trickles down my forehead, but I refuse to remove my hoodie.
         "Is your boyfriend coming over?"
         Her brow creases. "Come again?"
         "Is your boyfriend coming over when I'm going there?"
         "Yes, but--"
         "That's what this is about? You want the house to yourself, so you ship me off to his house?" I refuse to call that man my father.
         She goes beet red and puts the car back in drive. "You're seeing your father and that's final!"
         That about kills the conversation.

Jamie

         My relationship with my father isn't the greatest. Don't get me wrong, I love him to death, but he's just unavailable. He used to be an amazing father and incredibly active in my life.
         Not anymore.
         Now he just watches sports and drinks beer. He was forced to become involved when I showed up at the door in handcuffs; we were lucky he was out of beer that day, or I might have been in a home until he got sober.
         I have to do my laundry, he gives me his debit card to go shopping, and cook dinner. I actually enjoy cooking, so that last one isn't bad, and I get to shop for all the ingredients I want to use, it kinda works out in its own twisted way. Doesn't it?
         Speaking of doing my laundry, I forgot to do it, and now I'm wearing my only clean shirt, which is my soccer jersey.
         I grab his wallet and keys and slip them into the back pocket of my shorts. "Dad, I'm going to the store, do you want anything?"
         I wait for him to answer. He grunts. You know how parents can tell what kind of baby's cry is? It's like that for my dad. That was a 'no, now quit bothering me' grunt.
         I think about the confrontation in my room. It was the first time I'd seen him express a real emotion besides rage (that wasn't at a sports game) since before my mom passed.
         I have to make room on the seat due to all the detritus of cans and paper bags in his car.
         The acrid stench of cigarettes clings to the interior leather of the car, and the stale booze wafts in the air like a subtle note in a bad cologne.
         I shove the keys in the ignition and pull out to go to the store.

Riley

          My hoodie and sunglasses are like armor. Just way lamer. But maybe just as blazing. It's like a million degrees, way too hot to be wearing this. The cool air of the store helps a bit, but not enough. It's packed with parents and their kids who are out for the summer.
         I close my eyes and take a deep breath, unable to shake the feeling that their eyes are glued to my face.
         "Can I stand in the freezer aisle and like live there?" I ask, basically begging.
         She ignores me and keeps weaving between aisles.
         I keep my head down and follow her.
         I walk down the drinks aisle and she grabs a few 'health drinks'--the kind with so much yeast they'd probably kill me before curing anything, also, they're just plain gross.
         One of my favorite pop songs, 'Fruitcup,' is playing softly over the store radio. I hum along, quietly as I can.
         She moves with brutal efficiency, having shopped here for over a decade and a half.
         Walking past the clothes section of the store, I catch a glance of myself in the mirror. I look like the Unabomber sketch, and cringe at myself.
         I hear someone clear their throat and turn to see my mom staring at me. Her expression is unreadable behind those sunglasses, but I knew what she wanted. Apparently, my feet had melded into the floor, and I had stopped moving. I catch up to her with that shuffle jog you do when you aren't really committed, but you're trying to be slightly faster.
         Her cart slowly starts to fill up with various organic foodstuffs. I would love to pig out and eat like a normal teenager, but apparently that just isn't possible, it's annoying.
         We walk by a boy with blond hair in a soccer jersey. He examines a melon very closely.
         Wait, didn't Jamie say she plays soccer?
         Maybe he knows her. I should ask. I wish I could. Wishing I could work up the nerve to ask, I just shuffle past him before I lose track of my mom.

Jamie

         I enter the store, and a cool rush of air meets me. There's a mob of parents with their kids. I walk around and pick up chicken. Like four packages, I eat a lot of chicken, there's a lot of good protein. I grab some eggs, too. Fewer than I would like, especially in this economy.
         I live in a small town, so we're lucky there's even a supermarket here. There's also an organic grocery store, but we don't have nearly enough money to shop there. Not anymore anyways.
         Some Billboard-topping song hums quietly as I maneuver my way around this maze of a store. Speaking of maize, I grab some fruits that will probably sit in the fridge until they go bad, but who knows? I pick up a melon and tap it like I know what I'm doing. I don't.
         While I'm pretending to examine it, someone brushes up behind me. I subtly shift my head in their direction to see who it is. Somebody in a hoodie is humming to the music. It's 93 degrees, why are they wearing a hoodie? I almost say something stupid like 'Hot enough for ya?' but decide to let Hoodie Person live.
         I head to the self-checkout, scan everything in record time, and bag my stuff like a pro. I toss it all in the back of my dad's car, return the cart--because I'm not a total menace to society--and hop into the driver's seat. Groceries secured. Mission complete. I crank up the A/C and start the drive home.
         When I pull into my driveway, I see no airplane in his manicured lawn or my overgrown jungle and realize I completely forgot to send one. Hoping he doesn't think I'm ignoring him I swiftly put all the groceries away. I'm about to run upstairs but I'm torn away by an image of my father sobbing.
         I attempt to ignore him and go upstairs, this isn't unusual, but I just can't do it this time. I walk up to him and hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder. He slowly turns his head toward me, his eyes red and puffy.
         "I'm sorry." He chokes out, "You deserve better than me."
         I don't know what to say so I just grit my teeth and stare at him. I wouldn't say I particularly feel bad for him, he's left me like this on numerous occasions, however, I'll be the bigger man and not get my licks in, so I just nod.
         "It's just... Ever since your mother." My heart skips a beat. He never talks about my mom. His wife.
         "She was the breadwinner. She was the support. Now what are we? We're a mess."
         I want to say everything. I want to say you're trying your best. I want to say you're a failure. I don't.
         Instead I clench my jaw harder, surprised my teeth don't crack under the immense pressure. He swallows heavily.
         "I'm trying, really. It's just so hard."
         Then it slips out.
         "No you aren't." My hand flies to my mouth. I didn't mean it. I didn't think about it. I didn't even want to say it. But I did. I stare at him in abject horror as he rises to his surprisingly large height.


         "What did you just say to me?" His voice is a low menacing grumble, the earlier sorrow seemingly vanishing without a trace.
         "I'm sorry, I-I didn't mean it."
         He raises his hand to strike me, and I close my eyes and prepare but it never comes.
         I open them and he's just staring at me. His icy blue eyes boring holes into and through my soul.
         "Get out."
         "What?" I stammer confused.
         "Get out!"
         "W-What do you mean?" I stutter, panicking.
         "Get the hell out of my face! NOW!" He bellows, spittle flying out of his mouth.
         I stand there in shock. Before I know it I'm sprinting upstairs and slamming my door behind me, short of breath, not just because I sprinted, but because I'm losing it.
         My vision starts to go blurry and I collapse onto the ground, the last thing I see is the shared soul between my mom and I. Our sea glass eyes.

Riley

         I hate these organic stores. Most of the people who shop here are just rich brats pretending to be enlightened because they buy gluten-free almond flour. A middle-aged mom with bleached-blonde hair and visible brown roots is yelling at some poor teenage employee like he ruined her kale.
         I'd shoot him a sympathetic look while my mom gets rung up, but you know.. It's a smaller store--no self-checkout, just a few overworked cashiers. We finish paying and load the groceries into the trunk.
         As usual, my mom makes me return the cart. I do it, then slide into the passenger seat without a word.
         The air in the car is filled with an unspoken tension as the car quietly rumbles down the road. I stare outside and watch as the sights blur by and meld together.
         "When am I going?" I ask out of the blue.
         I can see my mom glance at me in the rearview mirror through her dark sunglasses.
         "Next weekend."
         I let her words hang in silence, remembering the old adage, 'If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.' I take this to heart today, even though she absolutely deserves a piece of my mind.
         It's not for quite a bit of time, but I'm already dreading this meeting. What am I supposed to say to him? What if he hasn't changed?
         "Will he... Is he picking me up?" I ask.
         "We're meeting there," my mom says, her eyes never leaving the road.
         I look back at the window as we drive by the Walmart, its parking lot is packed and busy.
         I try to picture what he looks like now. Maybe he's put himself together. The last time I saw him, he was in handcuffs with tracks dotting his arms like a starry night.
         I was 12 years old. That image is burned into my brain: his weathered, haggard face, the red and blue lights, me sobbing. I dream about it sometimes. My mom has constantly asked me to forgive him, saying, "That wasn't him," or "He didn't really mean that." It's not like I haven't tried.
         I won't forgive him for what he did.
         My thoughts are interrupted when the car pulls into the garage.
         I glance at the lawn and see there's no airplane. Did I write something she didn't like? Did she get caught?          
         "Get the groceries, please!" My mom calls from inside the house.
         I ignore her as my heart thrums in my ears in response to my irrational thoughts. My leg bounces subconsciously as I slow down my breathing. I tell myself she's busy.
         "Riley!" My mother's shout sliced through my anxiety.
         I try to respond, but no sound comes up. Taking a deep breath, I begin the task.
         She's acting like she can't help. I make several trips back and forth from the car to the kitchen before getting all the groceries in.
         My shaky hands do their best trying to put everything neatly where it goes, but it's all in vain when she comes into the kitchen and says everything is wrong and puts everything away herself.
         She shoos me back into my room, and I shut the door with probably a little too much attitude.
         At last, I can throw my hoodie into what I call the 'clothes corner,' that's piled about knee high. It was too hot to wear that. My gaze drifts to my Radiohead poster above my bed.

***

         My phone chirps like a cicada, warning me of the time, 4:45. I should be at therapy right now, but instead I'm lying on the rolling hills, Earth's breeze sighing over me.
         I'd rather listen to the songs of the birds than the droning of a therapist.
         The sun wraps around my shoulders, warm and patient, nothing like the cold office I'm supposed to be in.
         Dr. Theones' office is always chilly--something I theorize to be a manipulation tactic. He even keeps a fan running, as if the silence between us isn't loud enough.
         I shift in the grass, stretching, soaking in the heat. The blades tickle my neck softly, a lone fly loops overhead before losing itself in the forest of wildflowers.
         To my left, a lizard lounges on a sun-warmed rock, perfectly still.
"Rock on, lil' bro," I murmur with a laugh.
         He doesn't move.
         I turn my gaze to the gentle sprinkling of clouds in the sky.
         I convince myself missing one session of therapy can't hurt. In fact this is therapy. It's nature therapy. Dr. Theones told me to go outside more anyhow. I don't like to because of my scar, but nobody's out here so I should be fine. I decide it's time I should go home, slowly, I rise from Mother Nature's embrace and brush the dirt and grass off myself and out of my hair.
         Giving one last glance at that lizard, I take a deep breath and start my journey home. My mom dropped me off at the therapist, and I went to the back which has a bunch of beautiful rolling fields.
         Sneaking around to the front I sit down on the bench. I mess around on my phone until my mom gets here. She pulls up in her sleek, white SUV, she faces forward and doesn't turn to me.
         When I get into the car, she turns towards me and doesn't drive away, her eyes hidden behind those dark sunglasses of hers.
         "Where were you?"
"Therapy," I lie.
She gives me that look. Every kid knows it. The 'don't insult my intelligence' look
My hands start to prickle. I wipe them on my pants, trying not to be obvious. Her eyes follow the movement, then snap back to mine
"The truth."
"I just couldn't go today. Okay?"
         "You think I want you to go to therapy?" she snaps. "I don't. I pay for it because you need it. And you damn well better go."
         She holds out her hand. "Phone. Now."
         I hand it over. Arguing won't help.
         "You're locked in all summer unless I say otherwise. No games. No TV. No friends. No anything."
         She starts the car and takes off. The entire ride is silent and awkward. I dare not even glance at her, in fear of incurring her wrath. When we get home my mom gets in the car before I do, I follow her inside.
         Sulking to my room, I drag my feet. I'm careful to close my door carefully so as not to make her think I have an attitude.
         I collapse onto my bed, face buried in the pillow, and cry until the pillowcase is soaked--a river no one will ever see.