Chapter 1
One
Pen
“Are you not entertained?” I mutter, as I squint into the void that has become my view and try to pinpoint when it all went wrong. I’m not lost; I know exactly where I’m going. But that’s just geography. My life however, is another story.
I push back on the swell of worry that threatens, and concentrate on the music throbbing all around the cocoon of my little car.
If you grew up in my house, you would have heard my mom listening to Nirvana.
She’d blast it on those rare occasions she cooked dinner, and our town house would pulse with frenetic guitar licks, Kurt Cobain’s biting sarcasm slicing air thick with the heat of the stove and redolent with soffritto and garlic.
To this day, if I catch a whiff of ragù, I want to shout out, Entertain us.
Mom says that, despite her generation’s demand to be entertained, they never expected it from anyone and made their own fun. My generation, on the other hand, has entertainment at the ready, 24/7 at the tap of a screen.
Given the utter glut of sensory riches we have, you’d think we’d grow tired of it all. But no, we thirst for more. Always more. Maybe that’s why some people act out the way they do; a desperate need to provide us with more.
I think of this. Of my mother. Of inebriated chicken-dancing yahoos and .
. . other things, as I wind my way down a road that is too narrow and too dark for comfort.
It’s my fault for taking an alternate route out of Boston to beat the traffic that flows into the suburbs.
I’ve never been this way before. Darkness and the heavy rain are disorienting me.
My stomach has a nice little clench-and-unclench rhythm going that’s picking up speed.
With a huff, I forward “Smells Like Teen Spirit” in search of something a little calmer. U2’s “Bad” fills the small space of the car for about twenty seconds before it’s interrupted by the shrill sound of my phone ringing.
Despite white knuckling it through the night, my lips quirk. I hit the answer button on my steering wheel. “Speak of the devil.”
“And she shall appear,” my mom finishes happily, her voice coming at me through the car’s speakers. “Were you thinking of me, Penny Lane?”
“Hard not to when someone loaded a ‘Don’t Forget to Call Your Mother’ playlist on my phone.”
She chuckles, and the clenching in my stomach eases a bit at the familiar sound. “And yet here I am calling you.”
“I was too busy listening to ancient Complaint Rock.”
“Horrible child!”
I snicker then turn on my windshield wipers. What was once a light mist has gone full-on rain. Great. “What’s up?”
“What’s that noise?” Mom says over me.
“Mother Nature’s wrath. It’s raining like hellfire now.”
“Maybe you should get off the road.”
“I’m in the middle of nowhere. I’m not getting off until I’m there.”
“Why on earth are you in the middle of nowhere? The house is in the suburbs.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to my map app. I’ve been sent a weird-ass circuitous route to avoid an accident backup.”
Mom’s voice grows tight. “Now I’ll worry about you until you’re there.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you?” By the quiet concern in her voice, I know she’s not asking about my driving anymore.
My hands tighten on the wheel. “I’m fine, Mom. There’s nothing more to talk about.”
We’d said all there was to say without totally devolving into a full-on fight. And I’m not eager to continue.
The windshield wipers squeak-squawk as tension stretches between us. But then she sighs in resignation.
“At least tell me you’re close.”
I glance at the little map on my car’s screen.
I might not have my own place at the moment, but thanks to my mom, I’ve had a nice car to drive while visiting her in Boston for the week before my final semester of college begins.
I am not even a little ashamed. It’s keeping me safe and dry right now. “About five minutes out. What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing.” Mom sounds way too casual.
“Uh-huh.”
“I was just wondering if you saw the news about Luck.”
That clenching in my stomach? It returns full force. I glare into the dark blur of the night. “Luck?”
Mom’s not fooled for an instant. She’s my mom, after all. “Little Augie Luck?”
He’s not so little now. And he’s never been “Augie” to me.
Sweat-slicked skin, ripped muscles framed by that ridiculous purple faux fur coat. Are you not entertained?
Jackass.
My fingers flex on the wheel. When had they grown so sweaty? Ick. “No, I haven’t seen the news.”
There’s a beat in which Mom absorbs my lie and lets it pass.
I shoot a defiant glare in the direction of the phone. I do not need to talk about August Jackass Luck and his increasing list of frankly baffling tom-fuckery moves. It’s hard enough to get away from it in normal life. And given where I’m headed? My mother bringing up “Augie” is just too much.
“I only ask because—”
“Mom, I’m driving in a rainstorm on some spooky haunted house lane. The last thing I want to talk about is August. The guy gets enough attention as it is. I don’t care enough to know, honestly, and—”
“Penelope.”
Just that. In that tone. My mother and I may be friends but she’s still my mother. Sassing is not allowed. Evasion, on the other hand?
“Where’s your compassion?” she asks in that famous dramatic, hand-wringing fashion of hers that has theater attendees at the edge of their seats. As for me? I’m immune to it; she is my mother, after all.
Scoffing, I flick on my turn signal and make a right. “Ma, you’ve got to be kidding. August Luck has the world in the palm of his hand.”
“He’s falling apart, Pen.”
My mind’s eye sees that perfectly formed chest glistening under hot lights, tight abs moving in exertion. Dark hair falling over wild silver eyes, diamond bright smile. Disgrace looks good on August.
Frowning, I push the image away. And stay there, damn it.
“He’ll be fine.” Will he? Something is definitely wrong there. He’s only two games into his rookie season and is acting like an attention seeking fool. Does it matter? I’ve never been involved in his life, never will be. “He always is.”
“That’s my point. This isn’t like the boy.” (I scoff here at the term “boy.”) “He’s the levelheaded one. When he was little, he used to separate his Froot Loops by color.”
No, I will not smile. Luck is charming enough as it is without adding onto it.
“He saves the instructions to everything, did you know? Who does that?”
“Total rebels.”
“Smart-ass.”
Luckily, she can’t see me rolling my eyes. “Look, Mom. This August retrospective has been great and all, but maybe you should call him if you’re so worried.”
“Ooh, I knew you were still mad. You’re being smarmy.”
How well she knows me.
“I just don’t understand why we have to talk about him.”
Yes, she knows me well, and yet she’s never picked up that I shy away from August as a topic of discussion. Even now, she digs in.
“It’s important—” She pauses when I make a contrary noise. Then speaks louder. “You should empathize with him because—”
“It’s getting a little dicey here. I’m gonna have to let you go and call back when I get there.”
“Pen.” It’s a sigh that says I’m being childish.
Like I don’t know that. Frankly, I feel a bit like a child at the moment. Then again, I’m twenty-two; it’s not as though she can revoke my car privileges . . .
“Okay, Mom?” I say as though fighting with a faulty phone connection. “Call you later, bye!”
“Penelope Jane—”
I cut her off before she can finish. “Kisses and hugs. Love you!”
And then I hang up.
Oh, that’s going to come back to haunt me.
“I don’t care,” I mutter, then stick my tongue out at my phone. The fact that she hasn’t immediately called me back means I’m not in total trouble. Friction is to be expected at any rate.
Mom and I are dancing around a very awkward place right now. Neither of us has budged our stance on Pegs and Pops’s house, and okay, I might still be a little salty about it.
“Shit.” I need to concentrate better because there’s the turn. I switch on my blinker, even though there’s no one behind me; one does not ignore the rules just because they can get away with it.
Oh, but how I wish I could.