perfume still hung in the air. Dancing with dust motes.
I dropped my backpack on my oval rope rug and crossed the room to my workbench. I flipped the switch to one of Audreyâs glass insulator lamps and stared at a project Iâd been working on for Craig, a kid in my Biology class. For a hundred bucks, I was supposed to modify his DVD player into a smartphone dock and wire it to stream internet movies to his TV.
I didnât ask which kinds of movies heâd be streaming. A hundred bucks was a hundred bucks.
I cranked open the casement window next to my bench and got to work. The scent of burning leaves curled in and wrapped around my shoulders. The whir of distant leaf blowers and the rhythmic whoosh of cars passing by lulled me into a sort of hazy stupor while I worked. Every now and then leaves scuttled across the pavement in a gust of wind.
I heard the front door open and close when Mom got home, but I kept my nose down. I didnât even stop when the smell of lasagna baking in the oven made my stomach tumble and growl.
I simply worked.
And waited for the gavel.
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MOM
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It was dark outside and the crickets were chirruping by the time Mom climbed the steps to the attic. She carried a plate of lasagna and salad with both hands. Her long, pencil-straight chestnut hair was tied back at the base of her neck, but a few sleek strands had fallen out. They brushed her cheeks. Her glasses hung from a chain around her neck. The great shadow of disappointment stood behind her, hands in his pockets, head hung low, a little to the right.
She slid the dinner plate in front of me, sort of like a peace offering, then sat on my bed and folded her bare feet under her long legs. The mattress coils squeaked. She frowned down at the quilt Gran made for me and traced the stitching with her slender fingers. The shadow traced it too.
We sat in silence for a long while, the light from Audreyâs lamp casting a blue prism across Momâs hair. We sat until steam no longer rose from my dinner.
Finally Mom spoke. Her voice was thin. Tired. âI canât help but wonder if youâre trying to punish me, Bean.â
Her words were so unlike anything I expected that I swiveled around to face her full on. âWhat do you mean? Why would I want to punish you?â I sounded more like a child than I meant to.
Her eyes remained fixed on the quilt. âFor working so much. For not being here.â She swallowed. âFor not finding a cure.â Her voice cracked on the last word, and in an instant I was at her side. I folded her in my arms. Her shoulders shuddered. I felt her warm tears slip down my neck.
Is that what she thought? That I got in trouble to get her attention? That I resented her for slaving away day and night, searching for Audreyâs cure? How could she think I was that selfish? If I was the best cancer researcher at the AIDA Institute, Iâd slave away too. Gran said it was Momâs destiny, and I believed it. If anyone could find a cure for Audrey, it was Mom. And I would support her every step of the way. Even if that meant giving her up to her research.
I thought she knew that.
She pulled away to wipe her nose with the back of her hand. The blue prism swam in her eyes. âItâs just, youâve been acting out so much lately. And getting suspended? That goes on your record.â She shook her head and sniffed. âIt makes me wonder if I had been here for you â if you couldâve talked to me â you wouldnât have taken your frustration out on your teacher.â
I looked down at my feet. They were so heavy the floorboards groaned beneath them.
It killed me that she thought it was her fault.
The thing was, I had wanted to tell her about my visions for years, tell her they werenât just daydreams, but I didnât want her to think I was crazy.
I didnât want her to feel she had to find a cure for me too.
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THE DIAGNOSIS
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After
S. A. Archer, S. Ravynheart
Stephen - Scully 10 Cannell