Effortless With You Read Online Free PDF

blazing around my bicep. Whoa. She’s never done that before. I search her face. Her mouth is slightly open, her eyes wet.
    “Excuse me,” she says as she passes me and pushes the gate open. I stand alone for a few moments, trying to collect myself before following her. I hear a girl mutter that I should never go home. Others just shake their heads and whisper.
    But I follow her. I have to know if she is alright.
     I find Mom sitting in the driver’s seat of her green Toyota Avalon. Her head is down on the steering wheel. I don’t know what to say. Yes, I snuck out. Did that warrant being embarrassed and hurt in front of everyone? No. Maybe a nasty voicemail message or, at worse, just showing up and quietly telling me it was time to go.
    Her social illiteracy will be the death of me.
    The car purrs to life. Good, she hasn’t shut down. We’ve avoided a total collapse. I can’t deal with that tonight. I never want to deal with that again.
    My first memory is of Mom. I wandered into our living room and picked up her bowl of dried noodles off the floor. I was probably three years old. She stared, dead eyes, as I approached her at her permanent station on the couch. I handed it to her and she patted my head before looking back up at the ceiling.
     “Lucy, baby. Mommy’s resting. Let’s play outside,” Dad said as his hand covered mine, leading me away from Mom.
    Mom was always resting.
     
    ***
     
    I awake to the inevitable tap on my door. “Lucinda,” Dad says sternly. “It’s time to talk. Downstairs in five.” I groan, rolling over and looking at the clock. Seven twenty-six a.m. Can’t this wait until at least nine? “Now.” Dad answers my thoughts. Apparently not.
    I grab my favorite pair of sweats and brush my teeth first. I'm at least going to be comfortable. Mom waits at the bottom of the stairs, her steaming cup of coffee in hand. I refuse to look her in the eye. She turns, walking into the living room. I follow.
    I’ve grown to hate our living room. Being there belittles me; it’s like my time-out spot, the place I go to receive my punishments. I’d sit in the blue checkered chair while my parents had the honor of dealing the final blow—usually not being able to go out with Marissa that night, a temporary grounding situation, or, so far the worst, having my car privileges revoked after skipping class to hang out at a college cafe. That was a mistake, definitely not worth the latte.
    I haven’t driven for two months.
    I plop down on the chair, pulling my feet up under me. Mom hates it when we have feet on the living-room furniture. Her eyebrow twitches. She doesn’t say anything. If nothing else, I at least have this small victory.
    Mom takes a deep breath. I brace . “Lucinda Jane,” she says. I flinch. I hate my middle name—it’s boring. “We’ve never been so disappointed in you.”
    This is no new news to me. I want to say Great, so now I’m your biggest disappointment in life, but I stop myself, remembering my revelation before falling asleep. I'm not going to give them the advantage of knowing my thoughts. I'm going to be in control. Instead of talking, I meet Mom’s eyes with a steady, serious gaze. She doesn’t flinch. Excellent. I rock at staring contests.
    Dad crosses between us, cutting off our eye contact. “Lucy, we have given you opportunities to redeem yourself.” Really? Being grounded nearly every other day hardly seems like an opportunity.
    “You no longer have our trust. It will be a long road to regain it,” Mom adds, already pacing back and forth. My silence is creeping her out. Dad doesn’t seem to notice. He probably thinks I care about what they have to say. But I have Mom moving. This may work after all.
    “Your mother and I stayed up all night discussing what we should do with you …” he trails off, taking a deep breath before dealing the blow. He looks to Mom.
    Mom walks up to me, putting her hand on the wingbacks of my chair. “We’re monitoring