Chapter Eighteen. Sarah Lynn
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SARAH LYNN
Mom’s in a good mood after grabbing drinks with Iggy.
She’s curled on the sofa, bare feet tucked under her, a glass of chardonnay on the coffee table.
We’re putting together the welcome bags for orientation, and she’s humming Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ La Vida Loca” as she drops gold pens into each bag.
“That was the song for our opening number. Can you believe that?” she says.
Dad’s on yet another business trip. Kayden got home a few minutes ago and went straight to the media room to play Call of Duty on the theater screen. The muffled sounds of a war zone come from behind the wall. But, tonight, Mom doesn’t seem to mind.
“What did you think of Hannah’s makeover?” I ask, taking advantage of her geniality.
She smiles, eyes on the gold ribbon she ties around the neck of a gift bag. “I like seeing you take initiative, sweetheart. That’s what separates winners.”
My chest loosens, just a little.
Then she says, “Olivia, though…” and clicks her tongue. “We’ll need to stay ahead of that problem.”
“She’s not a problem, Mom. Really. She’s sweet.”
“Yeah, well.” She picks up a pair of scissors from the coffee table, uses the open blade to curl the ribbon, then sets the scissors back down. “Some poisons are sweet, Sarah Lynn.”
I let out a sigh that I swear is silent, but Mom misses nothing.
She catches my hand. “Look at me,” she says, and I obey. “We have worked too hard for this. I’m not about to let some little girl swoop in and steal this from us. Especially the daughter of someone like Cat Dennis, for heaven’s sake. Do you understand me?”
“Olivia’s never been in a pageant. She literally has no idea what she’s doing.
” I move to slip my hand from hers, but she tightens her grip.
Her face is calm, serene, as she tilts her thumb and presses down.
The edge of her nail sinks into my skin, a small, perfect puncture of pain. I don’t move. I hold her gaze.
“Do you understand me?” she repeats.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
She releases my hand. The mark stings—just a shallow crescent, already fading. I rub it once, then drop my hand to my lap.
We sit in silence for a heartbeat, and then a knock sounds at the door. Mom hops up to answer it, and I follow behind. Despite the late hour, she is presentable, still in the zebra-print dress she wore to the bar, hair curled and makeup in place from the luxury setting spray she buys for us.
She slips her heels back on and opens the door with a bright smile, and there’s good old Sheriff Ryan on our front porch. He takes off that ten-gallon hat of his and holds it in his hands. “Kennedy Claire,” he says.
“Sheriff, how nice to see you.” Sheriff Ryan, aka Dudley Do-Right, makes it a point to drop by once every few weeks to have coffee with Dad, and checks in on us whenever he’s out of town.
I used to think Mom was a busybody, but old people are worse.
They have the least amount of time left on this earth, but still somehow too much time on their hands.
“Look, Kennedy Claire, this isn’t a social visit.
” He lets out a sigh like he won’t be enjoying what he’s about to say.
“I’m here as a courtesy to you, and to your family.
Hi, darling,” he says to me. I give him my prettiest smile.
Then his attention is back on Mom. “I received a call this evening from Miss Cat Dennis. She’s been staying up at the model home at the new Sherman Ranch development.
Apparently, Kayden and some of his friends were causing a bit of a disturbance down there at The Hollow. ”
“Cat Dennis said this?” Mom says, her voice flattening on the name like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.
“Yes, ma’am. She said the boys were drinking, leaving trash, using some vulgar language. Seems Kayden got into a bit of an altercation with Cat, called her, well…” He trails off for a moment, looking to the side, then says it quiet. “The C-word.”
Mom clasps her chest and gasps, as if someone spit in her face. “That doesn’t sound like my Kayden,” she says, shaking her head.
It sounds exactly like Kayden, but Mom is true ride or die, family first, and you’ve gotta love her for it. Love the acting.
“Besides,” she says, “he’s been here all night.” She tips her head toward the sounds of enemy fire.
Sheriff Ryan nods. No way he buys the lie, but he has to respect it. “I’m only here to say that it might be best if the kids stay away from The Hollow, at least for now. Despite new ownership, it is still private property and an active construction site. Could be dangerous.”
“Well, thank you for your concern,” she says sweetly—you catch more flies with honey. “Honestly, Sheriff, what would we do without you? You sure you don’t want to come in? I’m happy to set out some snacks.”
“Not tonight,” he says, putting the hat back on his head. “I best be on my way.”
Mom shuts the door, gives the sheriff enough time to leave the porch, then she turns and makes a beeline for the media room. She swings the door open, and we are immersed in Kayden’s war, the surround sound and subwoofers rat-tat-tatting, machine-gunning bullets.
“Turn that shit off.”
The game is loud, but Mom’s louder. Kayden jolts, whips his head around.
His little commando dude on the screen gets sniped out of existence.
He rolls his eyes, pushes a button on the controller to pause the game.
That’s not good enough. Mom marches to the screen, reaching deep into the entertainment center to pull the cords out of the back of the Xbox.
The room goes dark, but there’s enough light from the doorway to see her turn and face Kayden, arms crossed.
Now there is just the sound of Mom rat-tat-tatting the toe of her high heel on the hardwood floor.
“Sheriff just came by.”
Kayden gets up, brushing past her and into the foyer. Mom follows him, and I follow her.
“What in the hell is this business about you getting into it with Cat Dennis? That woman will be telling half the town by morning. What is wrong with you?”
Mom’s been asking that question since he was a little boy.
I’d be all dressed and ready to go, and Mom would tell him to put on his shoes, and it would be like that one instruction flipped a switch in his toddler brain, like fuck shoes, you know?
And he’d go red-faced, refusing to breathe, kicking Mom’s shins.
She’d grab him by both arms, shaking him, screaming in his face: What is wrong with you?
I used to think her question was fair. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just behave?
But sometimes, now, when I pass the photo of Kayden at three, wearing cowboy boots and a pull-up, a grin taking up half his face, my heart cracks a little.
Because he was so small. And because he would put on his shoes, actually, if you gave him the time to get the toe seams on his socks just right.
And maybe there hadn’t been anything wrong with him at all.
Back then, Kayden couldn’t get attention from Mom in the ways that I could. So he found other ways. Now, they are trapped in a well-worn groove. It’s like Mom says: Motivation fades. Habits don’t.
Kayden’s fists are clenched at his side. “Billy and Teddy wanted to float the river like you guys used to do back in high school. That’s all. She was being a bitch.”
Mom levels her eyes at him. If looks could kill, he’d be stone-cold dead.
Then, like pulling the pin from a grenade, he adds, “A bitch just like you.”
Mom closes the distance between them. My money’s on her merking him right where he stands. She might actually slap him.
“You haven’t begun to see what kind of bitch I can be, young man.”
Kayden starts climbing the steps. He’s halfway to the second floor before Mom says the words she knows will stop him in his tracks.
“Your father is going to hear about this.”
She’s bullshitting. At least, I think she is.
Mom always hides Kayden’s shenanigans from Dad, because his constant screwups are a particular kind of thorn in Dad’s ass.
With his shitty grades and worse behavior, Kayden would already be in military school if Mom hadn’t begged Dad not to send him off.
He peers over his shoulder now, down at her, calling her bluff. “Go ahead. Fucking tell him.” Then he bolts up the remaining steps, and his bedroom door slams shut.
Mom heads back to the living room, downing the rest of her chardonnay in one swallow. “Calling the sheriff,” she says with derision. “Can you believe that?” She moves to the kitchen, pulling champagne bottles from the wine fridge and lining them up on the counter. “She’ll regret it,” she mutters.
Cat just fed sweet Olivia to the wolves. I don’t know what exactly my mother is planning.
But it isn’t good.