The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,60

knows them, I’m sure. And they’ll know him too. I lean on the counter to steady myself. I feel physically sick.

“It’s terrible,” I say.

“I know, I know. But the way some of those ladies go on about it, you’d think they were never in high school themselves. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not condoning anything. Still, you have to admit, there are worse things those kids could be into. Look at your houseguest from the other day.”

“I feel for their parents.”

“Yeah, you have a point there. They’ll have a hard time showing their faces at church. It shouldn’t be that way, though, if you ask me.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” I say, too emphatically.

When I get off the phone, all I can think is, That could have been Eli. The bad part is, I’ve known for days and still haven’t said anything. I wanted confirmation. I imagined him denying everything and then rebelling. Or worse, pretending to mend his ways only to hatch more sophisticated plans for deceiving me.

What he needs is a wake-up call. Maybe these suspensions will do the trick. Then again, maybe not. There has to be something I can do, something to make sure he never touches the stuff again.

“You saved that girl,” Mother Zacchaeus says. I feel the pain in my chest again.

“Thank you,” I say aloud. She’s absolutely right, and she’s given me an idea.

So that’s how the trouble started.

No Cool Mom sunglasses for me. I let Eli get a good look at my baby browns. Steely and merciless. Impossible to question. He puts his bike in the back, careful not to scratch his new Brooks saddle. When he slips into the passenger seat, he looks uneasy.

“What’s going on?”

“You’ll see,” I tell him. “Trust me.”

As we drive south into town, Eli’s earphones come out of the bag. He cranks some tunes and starts slapping out the rhythm on his thigh. I smile. This show of absorption has the opposite effect of what he intends.

“You’re trying too hard,” I say.

He pretends not to hear me.

Soon enough, his hands go still. He tugs on the white wire snaking up his chest, popping the earbuds free.

He knows.

He knows I know about the marijuana. He knows the reckoning is about to come. And I’m pretty sure it’s dawned on him where we’re going. His brows furrow in concentration. No doubt he is working on his defense, trying to come up with the best strategy for dealing with whatever I have in store for him. He doesn’t say anything, though, and neither do I. We’re waiting each other out.

Finding Mission Up isn’t easy. The first time I visited, I wasn’t paying close attention to the route. Plus, this grid of huddled inner-city blocks all looks the same to me. Once I get us to the general vicinity, we cruise up and down the streets in search of the telltale pink accents and the hand-lettered sign. Eli keeps craning his neck at the sights.

“Did you see that?” he says as we roll through an intersection. “Those guys back there?”

“What’s the matter? Never seen a deal go down?”

He laughs nervously. “Not out in the open like that.”

I’m already past Mission Up before I realize we’ve found it. As I double back, Eli double-checks that the VW’s doors are locked.

“We’re not getting out,” he says.

“That’s where we’re going, right across the street.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere. Are you crazy? Do you realize where we are?”

“I know exactly where we are. That’s the place I found Sam, the girl who crashed your birthday party. Come on, Eli. Don’t be afraid.”

But he isn’t budging.

“Come on,” I say, popping the lock on my door.

He reaches across to grab my forearm. “Just stop it, okay? You’re always pulling stuff like this, and I’m tired of it.”

“Stuff like what, Eli?”

“Like this! Like the Rent-a-Mob thing. Whenever I say something you don’t like, whenever I do something . . . you get this look in your eye and all the sudden, it’s Scared Straight time.”

I really shouldn’t, but his anxiety makes me laugh. “Scared Straight?”

“You know what I’m talking about. You act like I don’t know the way things really are, and you’re gonna teach me by dragging me into some awkward situation—‘Hey, son, let’s go meet the hippies!’ ‘Hey, look, son! This is where the junkies shoot up! Let’s have a look!’ Stop laughing at me, Mom. I’m serious. You think you’re making things better, but you’re not. You’re screwing them up.” He slumps in his