Page 65 of Mark & Don't Tell

Pressing my lips into a thin line, I shrug and look away, cringing when I spot Marco standing in the doorway, watching us with trepidation.

She gives the bag a stern look before heading toward the house. “Come in, then.”

Heaving out a breath filled with disappointment and broken wishes, I slowly follow her inside. The house smells stale, so I leave the main door open, letting air flow through the broken screen door.

Marco is chewing on his nails and leaning against the wall that leads to the short hallway. “Hey, Daria.”

I smile at him. “Now you can play,” I tell him, handing the bag to him.

He takes it and nods, shooting a worried look at our mom when she slams the fridge door. Beer bottles rattle inside, and she cracks open a fresh one, the cheapest beer money can buy. She side-eyes me as she takes a drink.

Averting my gaze, I gently punch Marco’s arm. “How’s school?”

“Fine. They don’t really make us do much the first few weeks.”

“Live it up while you can,” I tell him, like the wise older sister that I am. “Soon, you’ll be suffering as they prep you for standardized testing.”

“You gonna pretend like I’m not here?” Mom snaps.

I glance at her. “Uh, no.” Forcing a smile, I ask, “How’s it going?”

She scoffs and slams her beer bottle on the counter. “Don’t act like you care.”

That’s the thing, though—I do. I’ve cared my entire life, and all it’s ever gotten me is this.

“Ma—”

“Where’s my present, hmm?” She points at Marco. “Your dads got him a gift but didn’t think to get me one?”

“Marco needed cleats. I paid the bills,” I say softly, letting her know she’s technically already gotten a gift. She’s not getting evicted.

She huffs. “And what about the groceries?”

My stomach drops. I don’t have any money for my own groceries. Does she really expect me to pay for hers too? “What happened to your job?”

“They made me work too hard.”

“It was a laundromat,” I say before I can think better of it.

Something in her shifts. It’s subtle, but in a millisecond, she’s not just annoyed—she’s angry. It radiates from her, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. The little girl who used to cower in the corner of her room while my mother screamed at me suddenly takes my place. Marco grabs my forearm, like he can somehow protect me from what comes next, but if anything, I should be protecting him.

“You think you’re so smart now that you have a job?” she asks, prowling toward me with a dark glint in her eyes.

I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been telling you to shut your trap for years, and you never listened.” Stopping in front of me, she pinches my arm, hard.

I smack her hand away. “Don’t.” My voice wavers. I hate that. I hate that, after all these years, I still feel like a child when she gets like this. I hate that I want to run and hide under the bed.

“Don’t. Don’t,” she mocks.

“Mom—” Marco stops short as her pissed-off gaze zeroes in on him.

“You’re on her side?” She snatches the bag from his hand.

I lunge for it, but she swings it, the boxes connecting with my stomach, and I grunt. In the moments it takes me to recover, she runs into the kitchen and yanks a drawer open.

“Mom,” Marco says, eyes widening as she pulls out a knife.

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