Melanie Allen examines a wound in the center of her son Chuck’s forehead that is healing nicely. The hole where a small caliber bullet entered three weeks ago is now an angry pink mark, somewhat indented but no longer scabbed over. She gently raps her knuckles on Chuck’s skull as if expecting a rattle or clanging metal echo.
“I told you not to hang out with that kid,” she says, setting a plate of toaster waffles on the kitchen table in front of her distracted teen. He swipes and scrolls over the cracked display on his phone.
“What? Oh, yeah. He’s my friend Mom. It was an accident,” he says, though he knows it wasn’t. The truth would just make things worse.
“You could’ve been killed,” she says, “Accidentally.”
“I know. You’ve said that a million times.” Chuck pours syrup slowly onto his waffles, filling all the little dented squares with viscous brown liquid. Dents like the one on his head.
Melanie tosses back two Tylenol tablets, gulps them down with a glass of orange juice and grabs her car keys from the counter. She is a single mother, struggling to balance work and the solo parenting of two teenagers.
“I’m late. See you after school.”
“Mmkay,” Chuck responds absently.
Brenda is easy, Melanie thinks, casting a lingering glance at the blonde curls on the back of Chuck’s head as she turns and hurries toward the screen door to the carport. And he’s not a bad kid. He just needs better influences, like maybe a part time job next year to get him away from that Maynard kid.
Each morning renews a sense of dread over what the day may bring in her absence. Things that are out of her control, but that does not lessen the nagging anxiety she carries as part of her emotional baggage.
“Bye Bren, she shouts down the hallway. Have a good one!”
“Bye Mom,” comes a muffled voice from the bathroom.
Chuck is peripherally aware of the receding sound of his mother’s car, rumbling away from the house and toward town. He cleaves large bites of syrup-soaked toasted dough with the edge of his fork and shovels oversized bites into his mouth, washing them down with milk and without fully chewing.
Seventeen year old Brenda rushes into the kitchen, tossing her backpack onto the table. She searches an upper cabinet for two protein bars.
“Yuck, how do you eat those?” she wrinkles her nose at the mess on Chuck's plate.
“The syrup makes ‘em good,” says Chuck. “And at least I eat food,” he nods toward her minimal snack.
“Gotta go,” says Brenda, her eyes widening at the approaching sound of her school bus. Chuck’s bus comes ten minutes after hers. Four grades apart, she is grateful that they attend different schools.
The kitchen landline rings, jolting Chuck to attention. He looks at Brenda.
“Can’t” she says, and ducks out the door.
Chuck rises slowly, runs some water on his plate in the sink and answers the phone.
“Hello?” he says, expecting it to be for his mom.
“Hey asshole.” It’s Johnny. “What are we gonna do today?”
“Um, school…” says Chuck. “Obviously.”
“Don’t be boring. School is every day. You wanna learn all about maaaath, he mocks.”
“Not really.”
“Okay, come on over. I’ve got something really cool to show you.”
Chuck takes a deep breath. His mother’s voice echoes briefly in his head. His stomach knots a bit with a sensation that accompanies poor choices, just enough to notice but not a redirecting force.
“Come ON Allen,” demands Johnny. “It’s really cool!”
The boys talk for a few more minutes. Chuck’s bus arrives, hesitates, honks twice and then slowly drives on.