Page 10 of Kings Don't Break
I mount my bike, revving my engine, aviator shades disguising any emotion from my face. Then I blast off, speeding by Korine as she stands stranded on the side of the road.
Leaving my dream girl in the dust.
3
KORINE
“Baby, hurry up and hop in. This ride slows down for nobody!” Mama simpers as she slams on the brake. She’s sitting behind the wheel with bright, guileless eyes and her fuzzy slippers on the pedals.
I gape at her for a second before rushing over to the driver’s side door. “Mama, you didn’t even put your seatbelt on.”
“Hmm? Oh. Seatbelt. I could’ve sworn…”
“You’re not supposed to be driving,” I say gently, grabbing her hand, and leading her from the seat. “How’d you get the keys to Ken’s Escalade?”
She pauses, a blank look developing on her plump, round-cheeked face. “Well… you know… I’m not sure. Hey, how about we go eat at Krispy Krunchy?! I could go for some tenders with that dipping sauce.”
“Maybe next time, Mama. You know, when we’re back in Houston.”
“And that’s not where we are now?”
I leave her question hanging in the air unanswered. I’m more concerned with buckling her in on the passenger side, double-checking the seatbelt as if I’m childproofing. I might as well be considering Mama’s condition. Walking back around to the driver side, I cast a parting look at my dead Geo Metro and sigh.
This can’t be good.
It can’t be good at all.
Driving home feels like I’m marching off to war. My stomach sours and I can’t focus on any of Mom’s attempts at conversation.
She points out the scenic harvest decorations on the front lawn of the O’Neal’s home, then aims such an innocent smile at me, my heart aches.
It aches because I want to smile back—I want to gush over the pretty pumpkins and leafy golden wreaths too.
But how can I when I’ve failed?
I had a simple set of instructions, a specific timetable to follow them, and I failed.
I didn’t even make it to the butcher. Which means no special order rump roast.
…which means tonight’s big, impressive dinner won’t be so big and impressive anymore. It’ll be a huge flop.
Everything’s ruined.
As I make the last turn onto our block, I feel sick. I feel even sicker when our house slips into view and there’s a squad car parked in the drive of our two-car garage.
Mama points it out. “Oh, look. Wonder if there’s a cop around catching some bad guys!”
“Maybe, Mama,” I humor, pulling the key out the ignition and undoing my seatbelt. “C’mon, I’ve got to help you to your room.”
“My room? Oh, our house! It looks so different. When did we add an extra story?”
I neglect to point out the fact that Mama’s thinking about the wrong house. She means my childhood home several blocks away. The house that, to this day, symbolizes the happiest time in my life.
Before I grew up and learned you can’t survive off hopes and dreams.
Mama pokes me in the side as I walk her up the front path and tells me I’m too skinny. “I’m gonna fix you up your favorite. Catfish and cheesy grits. Extra on the cheese and butter.”
I’m more concerned with listening for sounds. I carefully unlock the door and peer down the entry hall.
