Liar
“Wake up.” Mom’s voice entered my head, her hands shaking my shoulder. “Luke, wake up.” Her voice was cracking and I felt a tear drip onto my face. “We need to leave now.” My eyes opened to the familiar ceiling, except in front of it was Mom’s make up stained face. She pulled my arm, almost making me fall out of bed. “Pack your stuff, we’re not coming back.”

I guess it didn’t really matter too much at the time and, in a way, I had expected this to happen. After school, Mom would pick me up crying about how we were going to leave. She would talk to her friends on the phone about bruises that she said she hid under her clothes. He kept it so secret; I wouldn’t have known if she hadn’t said something. She would yell at him, trying to stand up for herself, but I guess it didn’t work even though he never yelled back.
We left the night Mom woke me up. I packed all my clothes and my x-box. I wanted to ask why and if I really had to go with her, but instead I got in the car and kept my mouth shut. I didn’t get to see my dad before I left.
The highway was lined with hives of lights until we broke out into trees, hills, and pastures. We drove for three hours until she finally stopped at a gas station to call someone. She drank a beer on the front of the car while she talked. I kept wondering if she was talking to dad or if we’d just turn around and go back. When she got back in the car there were no more calls. Once the sun started rising, she seemed to have calmed down. I took a deep breath, gathering my courage, and asked her where we were going.

“New Orleans,” she said as her mouth tensed up.

“Why did we leave?”

“It wasn’t safe, honey. We’ll be better off going this way,” she glanced over at me and smiled for a brief moment, “I know a man who is going to help us out.”

I slept for a while after that, keeping my questions to a minimum. I knew that she must have been just as crushed as I was and it’s always better to keep quiet. I woke up at a stoplight to the smell of her cigarettes. She looked over at me as she sipped on a daiquiri and leaned a little, her eyes all heavy like they get when she drinks. She took her hand off the wheel and put it on the top of my head. “I love you, my little boy,” She smiled at me and I heard the person behind us honk.
“Mom, the light is green.”

She giggled and drove ahead, eventually pulling into the driveway of a large, two-story house. The lawn was big and the neighborhood was so suburban, I felt like I should have been riding my bike with the five other kids that rode along the sidewalk next to our car. I grabbed the two bags that I packed and mom stumbled out of the car. I went to go help her up but two large arms hooked under hers and pulled her up, supporting her along the stepping stones to the house. The arms were connected to a large guy with dark hair. He said nothing to me as he carried my mom to the front door. Apparently we were in the right place. The man brought her up the stairs and called down to me before slamming his door, “Your room is to the left.”
It was kind of dark and a little stuffy, like it hadn’t been opened in a long time. The realization of what had just happened was starting to sink in as quickly as I did into the mattress. No dad, no familiar school, most of my stuff was gone, and I was in that stupid room with f***ng frilly, pink sheets. I wanted to scream and understand what was happening. Instead, I lay on the frilly, pink sheets and listened to my mom giggle in the room above me.

That giggling continued and those sheets never moved. I never crawled underneath them even after my mom stopped to breathe long enough to put me into a school. The man never said a word to me during the months that had passed. We didn’t eat meals together anymore; dad had always been the cook, and I started walking to school because mom couldn’t wake up in the morning to take me. It wasn’t that much different than home though. She still cried when I would come home from school. She talked about leaving still and how close we were to being able to afford our own apartment even though she never left the house.

I started playing baseball with the kids on my block. I was a good pitcher and could throw really well. This helped them accept me even though they thought I was so weird and quiet. I practiced a lot after school and went from playing with the kids on the street to joining the team at my school.

It was our first game night. I was doing so well that even the announcers commented on my throwing and the other team kept missing because I threw so fast. I felt amazing when the last inning passed and I looked at the scoreboard announcing our victory. I jumped and when I screamed out to my team I could feel my voice stretch across the field.

That pride followed me to the man’s house, where I itched to tell my mother of my success. I walked into the door and sprinted into the kitchen where I saw the man over my mom on the kitchen table. Their hands were clasped around a roll of money as he sweated over her, her fingers trying to get it out of his hand. My face got hot and my stomach got sick and all my pride just turned into anger.

“What is that,” I heard myself ask. My voice cracked and the banging stopped. The man stumbled back and pulled up his pants, dropping the wad of cash onto the floor. My mother pulled her robe around her and staggered down to snatch the money. She pulled herself up using the table and glared up at me, her eyes hung low. “What’s what?”

“What’s going on? What is this?” I could feel my heart beating so fast; it was like the bones were going to break from the inside out. She stepped toward me and put her hand under my chin, squeezing my cheeks tight. I could feel her fingers pressed hard against my teeth, making it hard to open my mouth.

“Who are you,” she asked me as she looked down on me, her eyes so low I felt like I was on the ground. The answer to this question was always the same, “Your son.” But I was tired of wishing I was home and wondering what I was even doing there. I was so tired of being taught to not understand. The frilly pink sheets clouded my vision and all my questions were embroidered on it.

“No, who are you?”

Her hand raised and slapped me across the face before she pushed me into the wall. Her other hand had me pinned by the neck but she was wobbly. I pulled her arm off me and pushed her back into the kitchen table that she soiled. I ran down the hall and swung open the front door. I could hear her knocking things over and scattering out of the kitchen like a dog with socks on its feet. I ran.

The air outside felt like chards of ice sliding under my skin and I couldn’t breathe because they pushed deep into my lungs. I kept running until I realized no one was coming after me. The street was completely empty. All the suburban families had fallen asleep or curled up for a late-night movie. I was so tired. I reached a stop sign and sat down, rested my back, and closed my eyes. I felt like everything was a dream, everything was amplified and unreal. Mom had always been a drinker and overly stern but she never would have done this.

The back of my eyelids lit up and I felt a tap on my shoulder. I opened my eyes and before I could adjust, a man pulled me up and snapped metal bracelets on my wrists. I heard one man starting to talk but I couldn’t hear him over the rumbling of the car. My heart was beating fast still and everything was moving slow. I tried to ask them if they knew about my Mom and I started to tell them what happened but I heard one say, “You’re being arrested for attempted arson.” Oh. Arson? Burning things, right? When did I do that?
The ceiling of the cop car moved to the ceiling of an interrogation room. I saw my mom outside the little door window talking to some cops, her robe was singed on the edges. She was dabbing her eyes and crying into the shoulder of the man who looked unscathed. She glanced over to the room I was in and saw me. For a split second, I saw her eyes hang low, boring back at me. I guess I do know who Mom is. I should have kept my mouth shut.