The Marked Son (Keepers of Life) Read Online Free PDF Page B

instead, I go to the first door and knock softly. Nothing. The next is empty too. At the third, Mom’s sad voice warbles from behind the door. She’s talking to someone on her cell phone. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but it doesn’t sound good. I could either give her the pie, or tell Grandma she’s busy and leave it to her to interrupt the ongoing melodrama. Before I can step away, I hear the hard click of her cell phone closing, and a bang as it hits the door.
    She better not’ve broken it. That phone is my only link back to my friends.
    What am I talking about? What few friends I had have already forgotten about me. When I called Mike the fourth day after we left, it had taken him a whole minute to figure out who I was. Granted, he’s not the brightest bulb, but we’d hung out every day at the skate park after school. It’s almost as if when I’m there, people love me, but when I’m not, they don’t even remember I exist. Mom’s the only exception. She remembers me, only she wishes she didn’t.
    I knock on the door.
    “Go away.”
    “I’ve got pie.”
    The door flies open, and Mom stares at me with a tear-stained face. “Did she spit in it?”
    I thrust the pie at her. “You’re sick, you know that?”
    With a shrug, she takes the plate and begins to eat. “What’re they saying? Wait. Let me guess. Who do they think it is?”
    I don’t get it. Mom’s pretty. She’s smarter than most. And when she’s not going ballistic about a guy, she’s actually fun to be with. So, why can’t she see beyond herself? Doesn’t it even occur to her how much pain she puts people through? Puts me through?
    “Some guy named Kenny,” I say flatly.
    “Kenny Jacks?” She snorts. “I would be so lucky. Dad chased him off before I got a chance.”
    I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to think of her as the town slut. I want a normal mother, one who cooks and cleans and cares for me.
    She stuffs the last of the pie in her mouth. I know my disgust is showing. I can’t help it.
    She swallows and lifts her chin higher. “Don’t look at me like that.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like I’m…”
    I dare her to say it.
    She doesn’t, and quickly thrusts the plate back at me and begins to shut the door. I wedge my foot between the door and the jam, determined this time to get an answer. “I don’t look like you. I don’t look like them. I’ve got to look like someone. I’ve got to be like someone. So, who is it?”
    Her face sinks into an unattractive pinch. “No one they know.”
    I spot her bags, still packed, on the bed. She follows my gaze and whispers, “Don’t push me, Dylan. You’ll know soon enough.”
    Her response catches me so off guard, she’s able to force the door closed. The lock clicks into place, shutting me out for good.
    I think I actually hate her.
    The plates rattle with my pent-up rage. I want to hurl them to the ground. Shake the walls with an anger so fierce, it would send her into a terrified fit, but I don’t. I search for control. I breathe deep. And when my anger calms, I go downstairs.
    I don’t eat my pie. I can’t.
    “I’m not feeling so good,” I say to Grandma, and push the empty plate into her soapy hands. When I set my untouched pie on the counter, she grabs a dishtowel and sneaks a quick glance up the stairs. She doesn’t say anything, but her lips thin.
    “I think I’ll go to bed,” I say.
    She nods and wraps my pie in plastic wrap. “Grandpa will knock on your door when he’s ready to go.”
    That’s right. I’m playing with the sheep tomorrow. Man, my life sucks.
    I peer out the kitchen window. Dark, heavy clouds rush in from the south, and a bunch of fireflies buzz around like they can’t wait for the light show to begin. Weird how they’re so bright even though it isn’t dark out yet. Maybe it’s a good sign. Maybe it’ll storm hard, and Grandpa will decide not to go.
    A guy can hope, can’t he?
    Before I leave, Grandma asks me to put