Pitched by Ella Goode
Chapter Five
Colt
“I’m sorry,”laments Mom. If I had a penny for every time she said she was sorry, I wouldn’t need a full ride. “You still love Mommy, don’t you?”
I keep my head down so she doesn’t see the flash of irritation that whips across my face. I hate it when she does the baby talk, mostly because I know that’s the voice she uses with her losers, the guys who she thinks are going to marry her and lift her out of poverty but are really only around to scratch a particular itch. I almost wish she was less pretty. If she was an ugly middle-aged woman, she would be forced to sit at home, watch Wheel of Fortune, and cook dinner for her kids. Instead, she’s thin and pretty and gets off on hearing people say she looks like my older sister and not my mom.
“Baby, I said I was sorry. You’re not mad at me, are you? That was a terrible place to work. I don’t know why they got so mad about a little timecard error.”
“You had your co-worker punch you in for a shift you weren’t going to work.” I toss the scuffed high heels to the side.
“I planned on going, but I just didn’t feel well.”
Because she’d been drinking all night and overslept and then felt guilty and started drinking again. In her mind, it makes sense, so there’s no point in me arguing. I wonder how many other eighteen-year-olds are pouring their mothers into bed at four in the afternoon.
“I know. Get some rest.” I throw the comforter over her sparkly dress and draw the shades. It’s dark. She’s covered, but something seems off. My eyes fall on the nightstand where a nearly empty bottle of cheap whiskey rests. I swipe that and the plastic cups into a trash bin from the bathroom, fill a glass of water and place that on the nightstand along with two aspirin. She’ll need it when she wakes up. I wish I could ground her. I slam my fist against my forehead until the throbbing inside my head is matched by an external pain. Downstairs, I hear the front door slam shut. Tuck’s home. I leave, shutting the door quietly behind me.
Tuck meets me at the bottom of the stairs. “Why’s Mom’s car here?”
“She got sick and had to come home.”
His lip curls. “Drunk, you mean. What a dumb bi—”
My hand whips out and covers his mouth. “Don’t.”
He jerks away from me and swipes an angry fist across his lips. “Or what? You’ll beat me?”
Heart aching, I stare steadily at my brother, the only person in this world I really give a damn about. “Yeah. I’ll beat you.”
We stare at each other for a long moment before he pushes by me, taking the stairs three at a time with his long legs. His door bangs shut, but Mom is passed out, so it doesn’t affect her like he wants it to. Or maybe that’s for me.
I drop down on the stairs and shove my fingers through my hair. It’s getting long. I should shave it all off, go totally buzzed instead of this curly ash blond mop. The only thing that’s stopping me is that I kind of have a phobia of shears, and the only person who can cut my hair unless I’m stoned is my mom. Unfortunately, she likes it long and curly and so she refuses to cut it. I heave a sigh and then push to my feet. Time to make Tuck some dinner. While I throw some pasta in a pot and heat up sauce, I think of excuses to get out of tonight’s party. An alien landed on my roof and is abducting me. Will be back before the semis. A freak electrical storm swept through my part of town and messed up my wheels. I’ve got homework. Netflix released a five-part serial killer documentary. That one I’d actually like to watch.
I toss the food onto the table and text Tuck to get his ass down here and eat. He stomps down the stairs a few seconds later. He’s still mad, but he’s hungry.
“Heard there’s a party at Tommy’s tonight.”
“And you’re not going. Seniors only.”
“That’s bullshit because I know at least ten sophomores who got invited.”
“And you’re a freshman.”
“I’m your brother. If you say I get in, who is turning you down? No one. Colt’s word is law.”
“And my word is that you’re staying home tonight. Mom’s not feeling well and needs someone to watch over her. Besides, I’m thinking of not going at all.”
“Then I’ll go in your place.”
“No.”
My phone buzzes. I ignore it and keep eating. “You do your homework?” I ask.
“You’re not my parent,” Tuck fires at me.
Maybe this is why Mom drinks. “I didn’t say I was. It was just a question. Fail for all I care, but you’ll be stuck here while I’m traveling all over the country.”
“Fuck you, Colt.”
“Love you, too, little bro.” My phone buzzes again. Frustrated, I rub my eyes and then take out my phone.
L no cum
Tommy’s text looks like it’s code for some kind of sex act, but experience says that his text reads Logan isn’t coming to the party. There go my plans to stay home.
I text Logan.
Me: I’ll pick you up in an hour
He shoots a reply right back.
Logan: I’m not interested
Me: I’ll pick you up in an hour
“What’s that all about?” Tuck wants to know.
I tell him because it’s easier than another argument. “Logan needs a distraction from Renoir, and Tommy rounded up some girls from South. He’s backing out, so I’m picking him up.”
“I could pick him up for you,” Tuck offers.
“You can’t drive.”
“I can drive.”
“You can’t drive legally.”
“Give me your ID.”
Like I said, maybe this is why Mom drinks. Tommy and the other guys always wonder why I don’t have a girl, but I can’t handle another person needing shit from me. I have enough on my plate. There isn’t room for even one more person.
