Bull's Eye Read Online Free PDF Page B

next to me on the bus opens a
People
magazine the minute she sits down. For a second I miss Tina and her particular brand of nosiness. I’m starting to worry about all the school I’ve missed. Eight days off school in grade twelve is a lot, and the possibility of notgraduating is truly horrifying. Another year with the un-mom? No way that’s gonna happen. I’ll just have to work my butt off and get out of there. Maybe Tina and I will share a place in Vancouver. Maybe I’ll travel a bit. Maybe I’ll take a bartending course and learn how to make drinks with ridiculous names. All I know for sure is that I’ll be gone—somewhere.
    When I get home, it’s dinnertime and Sandra is out. Probably off having a good time with her friends. The really weird thing is that the house is a mess. There are take-out containers everywhere, dirty clothes piled on top of the washer, gunk on the kitchen floor. Sandra hates sticky floors—she says they make her feel like a fly on flypaper. The mess must mean that she’s either 1) sick, 2) dead or 3) moved away and rented the house to someone whose housekeeping skills are pretty sketchy.
    I unglue myself from the kitchen floor and run upstairs. I’m still mad at her, but Idon’t want her dead. Not really. The house is going to be a bitch to clean even without a dead body to deal with.
    She isn’t lying in a pool of her own blood in her bedroom, nor is she passed out in her office or lying in the tub with the toaster, but there are mugs with cold tea in them on almost every surface. They are on the desk beside her computer, on top of the books on the night table, on the windowsills, on the dresser, on the file cabinet, on the back of the toilet. I even find one in the medicine cabinet next to a half-empty bottle of Ativan. When the un-mom is stressed, she drinks tea, lots and lots of tea. She only takes tranquilizers when she has to fly, and she never lets mold grow in her tea mugs. Not that I know of, anyway. But then there are obviously lots of things I don’t know about Sandra.
    I gather up as many mugs as I can, take them downstairs and start cleaning up the kitchen. I’ve done two loads of dishes and one load of laundry (my own—I’m not a saint), and I’m just filling a pail with soapywater when the back door opens and Sandra walks in. She doesn’t look as if she’s been out having a good time. She looks as if she hasn’t showered, brushed her hair (or her teeth) or changed her clothes since I went away. She could easily generate some extra income bumming change downtown.
    â€œEmily,” she says. “You’re back.” Her voice is soft, and her eyes look sort of blurry. Maybe it’s the drugs. Maybe she’s just really tired.
    â€œYup,” I say. “I’ve missed enough school. I need to graduate if I’m gonna get out of here.”
    â€œYou do,” she says, and I can’t tell if it’s a statement or a question. “Are you okay?” she asks.
    â€œBetter than you,” I reply. I put the pail of soapy water down on the kitchen floor. “This place is a sty.”
    She shrugs and takes off her coat. As she crosses the floor, her muddy shoes leave black marks on the grimy floor.
    â€œIt just didn’t seem that important,” she says. “The cleaning, I mean.”
    â€œYeah, I can see that. You could make penicillin from the crap I found floating in your mugs.”
    She smiles at me and for a second it feels like old times—me and Mom, kidding around in the kitchen. Except the kitchen is filthy and she’s not my mom.
    â€œAt least take your shoes off,” I say as I wring out the mop.
    As she bends down to take off her shoes, I can see that her roots need touching up. I usually do that for her, but when I think about putting my hands in her hair, I want to puke into the sink. I concentrate on washing the floor, changing the water