alter the entire course of my crappy teenage existence, it could be argued that not answering them does too. At least I know what to expect.
So I decide to delete my entry.
Every last word.
I frantically hit the Back button, trying to return to the previous screen, but nothing happens. The rainbow cursor keeps spinning. I slam at all the keys, but the screen is completely frozen, leaving me no choice but to reboot the computer. By the time I get it up and running and log back onto Amanda’s website, the count is now up to four hundred and seventy three, and I have absolutely no way of knowing if my entry is one of them.
Well, isn’t that perfect.
12
The last time I ate at someone else's house was after my mom and Mickey died. Some lady from church invited Dad and me over for dinner. He made me wear a stiff, uncomfortable collared shirt and lectured me that I’d better eat every single thing that was put in front of me or it would be disrespectful to this kind lady’s hospitality.
I had no appetite whatsoever, but I was too scared to protest so I ended up sitting alone in the kitchen and eating six times my weight in turkey tetrazzini casserole, while the woman from church “comforted” my dad. I got the feeling she’d been “comforting” him for some time, even before my mother died. I’m not sure if it was that epiphany or the turkey tetrazzini, but I spent the entire night doubled over the toilet puking my guts out.
My mother would have massaged my back or brought me a cool washcloth. Hell, even Mickey would have climbed out of bed and said, “Hey, buddy, can I get you anything? Glass of cold water?” But my dad never even checked on me. He just sat in a chair downstairs, staring into space until the sun came up.
Thumbing through my closet, I see the shirt still hanging there toward the back. It’s tiny because it is meant for a twelve-year-old, and if my mother were still here, it would have long since been donated. All I have at this point is a bunch of well-worn T-shirts, sweatshirts, and one faded-looking navy button-down flannel, but at least it has a collar, so I decide it will be decent enough to wear to Nick’s.
Nick lives in the nicer part of town, where the houses are bigger and not sagging at the corners, and the cars in the driveways are actually from this decade and not on blocks. I am a little intimidated when I first see his house. It’s a two-story brick monster with tall, white columns and black shutters on either side of the windows. It is set back from the street and surrounded by a wrought iron gate with a little camera turned on the entrance to the driveway.
As soon as I roll up on my bike, it’s like they can see me because the gates creak open, then close after me as I pedal in. People in “waste management” make a hell of a lot more money than I expected.
I park my bike behind a sweet-looking older model Mercedes with tinted windows. I can’t help it; I imagine a body, gagged and bound, stuffed in the trunk. I swallow hard and resolve to be extra polite so that’s not me at the end of the night.
Nick opens the door and greets me with a big smile, ushering me into the foyer. He’s all suited up for the occasion, and I feel underdressed but grateful I’m wearing a shirt with buttons.
“Fancy,” I say.
“Peyton just got here,” he tells me and wiggles his eyebrows. “So far, so good. She dug the suit. Chicks are into suits. I hope you’re hungry because my mother made enough food for an army.”
“I’m starved,” I tell him, and it isn’t even a lie. My stomach has been rumbling with anticipation for hours. Not to mention that this could be the last decent meal I get for a while, so I need to store it up like a camel.
“Now remember, we eat, and after dinner, once Peyton loosens up, I’ll give you the signal and you can go. Say you have to pick up something for your dad or whatever.”
“Pick up something. Got it.” I flash him a thumbs-up.
“Thanks for doing this, buddy. I owe you one.” He gives me a smack on the back. “C’mon, everyone’s in the kitchen.” I follow him down a hallway