School was a pain in my ass, but it was more interesting than staying home, so that was the only reason I kept going. I enjoyed listening to some of my teachers, my social studies and history teachers in particular, because hearing about what people from the past lived through somehow made my life seem less shitty.
I especially loved my tenth-grade U.S. history teacher because he actually had a sense of humor and always told the best stories. Everyone paid attention in his class. Sometimes, I’d hang out after the bell to ask questions about the topic he lectured on that day. I think he was one of the few teachers who liked me, too.
Sometimes, I even wished he was my dad and wondered how different my life would be if he were. We wouldn’t be rich, but maybe Mom wouldn’t feel like she needed to work two jobs, and we wouldn’t live in Maple Village, and maybe I’d have more friends than just the boy who lived next door. I begged my mom to go to parent-teacher conferences that spring, hoping, by some miracle, sparks would fly between the two of them. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, so we all assumed he was single, but Mom had to work that night, and she’d never cared about my grades much anyway. Why would she suddenly start?
As Becka and I cross over the Tennessee-Arkansas border, that same empty feeling plagues me now. I don’t care. Not about anything. Least of all my lying-ass mother.
Becka has been driving for most of the return trip. She probably doesn’t trust me in this state, and I don’t blame her. I’m not sure I would either. She’s also been nicer about all of this than I would have guessed. I figured she’d only hate me more, but that doesn’t seem like the case.
Pine trees line the two-lane highway, and I try to focus on the scenery instead of my reflection in the window. My hair is sticking up in places, and I look like hell. God knows, I could use a cigarette right now. My phone vibrates, and I check the screen. Another missed call from Mom. The third one today. I haven’t talked to her since we were in the Keys. Since before we learned the news. She’s probably pacing the living room right now. Or rearranging the dishes in the cupboard. I let the anger churn inside me. Let her think I’m dead in a ditch. Serves her right. If she really wanted to know if I was all right, she could pick up the phone and call her sister.
Becka texted RaeLynn not long ago to let her know where we were. I shoot Carter a quick text and ask if I can crash at his place tonight. I have no intention of staying at home, but I do plan to confront my mom because she is going to own up to this. She has to.
When I look out the window again, the forest has been replaced by farm fields of golden wheat. Funny how fast the landscape changes. Kind of like my life. One second, I think I know who I am, and the next, I realize I have absolutely no idea at all.
It’s dark and windy by the time I pull into the mobile home park that night, after having dropped Becka off at her own house. I don’t bother getting my bags out of the car since I won’t be staying long. The yellow glow of the living room lamp shines in the window. I know I’ll find my mom sitting by it.
The front door is unlocked, and Mom looks up from her chair as I cross the threshold. She rises to her feet, her wringing hands a dead giveaway that she’s been stressing the fuck out.
“K. J.” She takes a tentative step toward me, looking half relieved, half ready to smack me into tomorrow.
I hold up a hand to stop her. “Stay away from me.”
Her eyebrows shoot upward. “Excuse me? What makes you think you can talk to me like that? Especially after you haven’t bothered to answer my calls or texts?”
For some reason this makes me laugh. The way I’m talking to her is about to be the least of her concerns.
She frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s going on with you? Why are you laughing?”
“I didn’t answer you because I was pissed, Mom. Still am. We’ve got something we need to talk about.”
A shadow of something like fear darkens her features. “Okay.” She clears her throat. “What is it?”
“Who’s my father?” I ask point-blank.
Her eyes turn away from mine, like they usually do any time I mention my dad. “You know who your father is. Robert Huller.”
“So why haven’t I ever met him?”
“I don’t know where he is. He wouldn’t be a good father anyway. He left us, remember?” It’s the same line I’ve heard time and time again.
I suck in my cheeks, chew on one for a second. “So Samuel Cowles isn’t my father?”
Her face pales, but she recovers quickly and pretends to look offended. “What? No! Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Oh, just Grandpa. His last letter told us about a little secret you and RaeLynn have been keeping.”
Her eyes widen, and I can’t tell whether it’s from anger or shock. Maybe both. She moves into the kitchen to get a glass from the cupboard. Filling it with water from the tap, she takes a long sip before turning to look at me from across the counter. “Your grandpa was sick, K. J. You know that. He was probably confused.”
I shove my hands into my pockets and shake my head. “I don’t think so. He seemed pretty on top of things to set up all these trips for me and Becka. And out of all his letters, why would he start to lie to us
