As we trundle over the hard-packed mud, a scruffy, tri-colored dog with a bobbed tail and spindle-legs shoots out of the trees and runs alongside the car, all barks and growls like it’s never seen a rusted box on wheels before.
“Beat it, Fido.” I swat at it, but it nearly bites off my hand. “Hey!”
“What?”
“The dog almost bit me!”
Mom looks at me like I’m the problem. “What are you, two? Don’t touch a strange dog.”
Yep. I’m the problem. I slouch back onto my seat. She would side with a mangy animal over her own flesh and blood. I guess that’s what happens when you’re the unwanted son of a teenage runaway.
The dog breaks away when we round a bend cluttered with trees. Mom mutters a few more cuss words. I close my eyes and sigh.
That’s Mom. Do as I say, not as I do.
The car veers to the left, and I crack my eyes open. The wall of trees separates to reveal a half-dozen strange, brightly-painted metal sculptures that belong in one of those modern museums only rich people go to. There’s something disturbing about the way they rise up, twisting and stretching in a macabre, colorful dance.
Behind them, a huge, red barn overlooks a clapboard-sided house. When we bottom out near the top of the drive, a small woman, pail in hand, turns and watches us from her place on the front porch. I push my hood off to get a better look. “Yee-haw. There’s Granny. So where’s Uncle Jed, cousin Jethro, and Elly May?”
“Knock it off.”
I can feel a headache coming on. “Let me get this straight. You can say whatever you want, but I’ve gotta behave?”
“Exactly. Nobody likes a smart ass.”
“That would explain your lack of popularity.”
She blows out the last of the smoke that’s rotting her lungs. “For God sakes, would it kill you to be nice?”
The Road Runner rolls to a stop. Mom hops out with a big, yet wary, smile plastered across her face. I’m not at all eager to meet my maternal kin. Honestly, how great can they be? Mom left when she was barely sixteen. My life sucks and I’m still with my parental unit. What does that say about hers?
The woman drops the bucket, and when it lands on the porch’s wooden planks, the expected clatter is swallowed by the surrounding forest. Her face pales. I recognize disbelief when I see it. Her hands shake as she rubs them down the sides of her worn-out jeans. Granny isn’t exactly old. In fact, she’s downright young-looking. A little weather-beaten, but still kind of attractive. An older version of Mom.
Mom hesitates. “Hey, Mama. Bet you didn’t expect to see me.”
I groan. I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s dragged us all the way up here without telling anyone, but I am. Mom’s never been one to bother with practical matters like informing family we’re coming to live with them indefinitely.
“Dylan,” Mom yells, and motions me forward. “Get out of the car.”
Grandma’s attention shifts to where I’m still sitting in the passenger seat. Her eyes are big and pale blue, almost see-through.
They’re kinda creepy, actually.
“Who’s that?” she asks. “Your boyfriend?”
I’m a big guy. Not, oh-my-God-look-at-that-giant-fat-boy big, but tall and muscular. I’ve been known to walk into a bar or two and not get carded.
“Beautiful,” I mutter. Gritting my teeth, I get out of the car, one hand on the roof, the other on the door and glare at Mom. “She doesn’t know who I am, does she?”
Mom’s eyes widen. She looks like she’s going to cry again, and burning anger starts to rise inside of me. I try to tamp it down, but I can’t. It bubbles over, leaping into my eyes, my mouth, and my heart.
Without another word, I snatch an old army duffel stuffed with my things from the back seat and slam the door. I don’t look back as I retrace my way toward the main road.
“Dylan!”
I ignore Mom’s call.
“Dylan, stop.”
I do, but it’s got nothing to do with her. The crazy dog skids into my path. Its ears are down, and its teeth are showing. Long, mean teeth.
Mom’s fingers clamp onto my shoulder, startling me. The dog leaps toward her, and I kick dirt at it and yell for it to go.
Amazingly it does. I pull out of Mom’s grasp, ignoring the pleading in her eyes. She latches on again. “You can’t go. Please, don’t do this.”
Where does she get off, acting this way? “What do you care whether I’m here or not?”
“You have to stay! If you don’t, it’s going to get worse.”
It sounds like she cares, but I’m not easily fooled. I turn away. “She doesn’t know who I am. You never told her about me.”
“Of course not. I haven’t talked to her since I left.”
I snap around and confront her. “Why are we even here?”
“There’s no other place to go.”
“Bullsh—”
“Don’t cuss.” She glances back and sees Grandma inching her way toward us. “We have to be smart about this. You promised me you’d behave.”
The muscle in my cheek twitches. “People make promises all the time they don’t intend to keep.” Just like she’d promised to quit smoking and drinking and hooking up with men. Promises run cheap in our dysfunctional family.
I will not be like her. I will make something out of my life, even if it kills me.
Panic flushes her face. “Please, Dylan.”
She’s desperate. I can taste it in the air. I should relent, but an unquenchable need to hurt her like she constantly hurts me threatens to hijack my control.
The crunch of gravel stops me from saying something that would push her over the edge. Grandma’s within hearing range, a look of suspicion on her face. “What’s going on, Addison?”
“Addy,” Mom says on a sigh as she turns to face Grandma. “My name is Addy. And nothing is going on. This is my son. Dylan.”
“Your son?” The news is definitely a shocker for her. “But he’s… How old is he?”
“Seventeen,” I say.
Grandma appears dazed and more than confused.
“Yeah,” Mom blurts out. “Do the math. Sixteen and pregnant. Daddy would’ve freaked— I freaked—so I left.”
“What? Your father—” Mom throws her head back and sways side-to-side like a nervous hen that’s been pegged for Sunday dinner. “You know I’m right,” she hollers at the sky.
Shadows flit into Grandma’s eyes. “He would’ve been angry, yes, but that was no reason to leave like you did.”
Mom’s chin trembles, but she regains control. She looks toward the house and into the woods beyond, like she’s searching for something. “Well, we can’t change the past.”
“No. We can’t.” Grandma glances at me. I can tell she wants to move closer for an inspection, but manners—and most likely shock—keep her back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dylan,” she says.
Her gaze lances through me. I get this feeling like I should apologize, but I can’t think what I’ve done wrong, exactly. I don’t especially like the feeling. So instead, I thrust out my hand and throw her a smile laced with sarcasm. “Hey there, Granny.”
There’s a sudden void of sound, like the whole world stops for a millisecond, shocked by my rudeness. It whispers on the wind, “She’s your grandmother. Have a little respect.”
She blinks, and then her mouth cracks open into a wide smile, followed by a sharp laugh. She grabs my hand and squeezes.
“You’re your mother’s child, all right.”
I stiffen. She has no idea how deeply she’s insulted me. Or maybe she does, because the sunlight suddenly splinters in her eyes, and her fingers squeeze mine.
Mom’s fixated on the car, and she’s as jittery as a crack addict. “Can we unpack, now?” she whines, and lights up a cigarette, sucking so hard the tip burns quickly into squiggly ash.