Dangerous Boys

I dreaded and longed for her updates in equal measure. They were a glimpse of the world still outside my reach, and I couldn’t help but imagine myself in the scenes she was painting; where the biggest stress I had to deal with was nerves over a first big term paper, and the frat-boy exploits of the guys down the hall.

Instead, I had filing and telephones, a brown-bag lunch, and Haverford, turning red with fall outside my windows, the same as it had always been.

The department was quiet until after lunch when the younger deputies filed in, still talking smack-talk about a parking-lot pick-up game.

‘Blake?’ I stopped one of the guys as he passed, a younger guy in his twenties with a blonde crew-cut. ‘Your mom called for you.’

There were whoops and jostling. Blake scowled at me. ‘What are you trying to say?’

I blinked. ‘I didn’t . . . I mean, your mom really did call.’ I hurriedly passed him a slip of paper with the scribbled message. ‘She couldn’t reach you on your cell. Says you need to pick up some windshield fluid.’

‘Sorry.’ Blake looked sheepish. He crumpled the message in his fist. ‘I told her not to call here, but she never listens.’ He sighed. ‘Can’t wait ’til I move out and get my own place.’

I looked at him curiously. He’d been a few of years ahead of me in school; a football player, a big-shot as far as Haverford was concerned, which wasn’t much. There had been talk of a football scholarship to college, but nothing ever materialized. Now, he was a deputy, swaggering around town with his hand on his gun, writing up tickets for speeding and parking fines.

‘So what about you?’ he asked, leaning on the counter. ‘You at home with your folks?’

I nodded.

‘Huh, I figured you’d get the hell out of here the first chance you got.’

I shrugged, sorting files. Everyone had been surprised by the news I wasn’t heading out to Connecticut as planned. I’d brushed off their questions with a wry smile, explaining I wanted to take a year to work and travel first, tuition being what it was. Still, I felt their curiosity, looking me up and down. I was one of the good ones, a decent student, never in trouble. Not the kind to stick around Haverford a moment more than necessary. Yet here I was, a month later. Still in town. ‘Plans change,’ I replied lightly.

Blake sighed, restlessly drumming his palms on the counter. ‘Tell me about it. I’m taking some classes over at Rossmore. Figure it can’t hurt.’

‘Where’s that?’ I moved a stack of files aside before Blake tipped them.

‘Community college, about an hour away.’ Blake reached for the bowl we kept on the desk, pulling out a Halloween candy. ‘It’s lame, I know, makes me wanna put a bullet through my brain, but hey, the credits are cheap.’

‘Blake!’ A yell came up from the back of the office. Blake sighed. ‘See ya.’ He took the balled-up message and arced it into the wastepaper basket on the other side of the room. ‘And the crowd goes wild,’ he murmured wistfully as he sauntered away.

I kept filing for another few minutes, but Blake’s comment about college jittered in the back of my mind. I put the paperwork aside, took a seat in front of the battered old computer, and clicked through to a search site.

Rossmore College.

Even the website couldn’t make it look like much. There were no beaming students studying under verdant trees, like all the glossy prospectuses I’d been browsing this time last year, but I forced myself to check the site, looking at the course catalogue and payment plans. We couldn’t afford it, not really, but still, I found myself copying down the details for admissions and financial aid applications. I was grasping at straws here, but even a class or two might be enough; enough to make me feel like my entire life wasn’t on hold. That this – this filing and planning and counting every damn dollar in the aisles at the grocery store – was a temporary detour in my future.

Because otherwise . . .

I shivered. If this was it for me now, if this town dug its claws into me and never let go, I couldn’t bear it.

I didn’t know what I would do.

Ethan came to pick me up as usual after work. I couldn’t stop myself from babbling about the college classes all the way home. ‘I can take them at night, so I don’t have to miss shifts, and the credits will all transfer once I start at Mills again,’ I told him, as we pulled up outside my house.

‘I’m glad you’re happy,’ Ethan grinned.

‘I’m not happy, I’m . . . interested.’ I corrected him. I hadn’t told anyone, not even him, how close we were to the edge financially. He knew the truth about Mom, and that was bad enough, I wasn’t about to let him in on the true extent of my desperation. ‘It’ll work out great,’ I said instead, giving him a quick smile. ‘As long as the Honda doesn’t fall apart on me again.’

‘I can always give you a ride if you need,’ Ethan said.

I shifted, uncomfortable. ‘It’s an hour away. I wouldn’t ask you to do that.’

‘Why not? Think about it. I’m always here. And anyway, it would mean more time with you, for this . . . ’ He leaned in and kissed me slowly until I ducked away.

‘I’ll be right out.’

‘Why can’t I wait inside?’ Ethan sighed. ‘Come on, I feel like a stalker, loitering out here every night.’

I shook my head firmly. ‘It’s too depressing in there. I won’t be long.’

I scrambled down from the truck and headed up the front path, letting myself in. Today, Mom had made it all the way downstairs: I’d found her in the living room, watching TV in her favourite velour bathrobe.

‘How was your day? Did you eat the sandwich I left in the fridge?’ I pulled the drapes and straightened up, fluffing up the pillows on the couch, and setting an extra blanket on Mom’s lap.

Mom’s eyes drifted briefly to me. ‘Marybeth is out of a coma,’ she replied, engrossed in the show. ‘But Gustav kidnapped her baby, and switched it with the kid they found on the church steps.’

‘Good!’ I cheered, my voice bright. ‘I’m going to heat up that lasagne from last night, I’ll just fix your plate.’

I went into the kitchen and quickly made up a tray. It had taken a while, but I’d worked out a system to keep Mom fed and washed, at the very least. Breakfast was always a battle, but I refused to leave for work until she managed a few bites of toast. I left a packed lunch in the fridge, fixed us dinner every night. Mom had found a routine too: coming downstairs in time to watch her favourite soaps on TV in the afternoon, even reading a little when I managed to get to the library for the thick romance novels she liked. I could almost tell myself it was good, that we had a pattern to our days now. Routine, stability. It was only when I let myself think about it that the bleak reality seemed so laughable: that Mom managing to take a bath would count as a good day; that any time I came home to find her conscious would be a victory.