Page 1 of Facet

“Mama will be home later, baby. There’s TV dinners in the freezer and microwave popcorn if you want snacks. Only one soda, though. Okay?” Mama leaned down to look me in the eye as I sat on the couch.

I nodded.

A car honked outside, and her attention quickly left me. “I gotta go, baby. No friends over and lights out by nine-thirty. Be a good boy and don’t answer the door to anyone. You hear?”

Again, I nodded.

She kissed me on the head, then in a cloud of expensive perfume, she rushed out the door that loosely rattled as she slammed it. Once I heard the car drive off from the apartment building, I rolled my eyes.

Then I hopped off the couch and went into the kitchen. I pulled out two cans of soda, because who was she kidding? She didn’t know how many there were to begin with, and she wouldn’t be paying any attention to how many were left by the time she came back.

Opening the freezer, I eyed the stack of dinners. Gross. Instead, I preheated the oven and pulled out a frozen pizza. My mom acted like because I was only eleven that I didn’t know how to read directions.

The phone rang.

When I looked at the caller ID, I saw it was my friend Josh.

“What’s up?” I rested the receiver between my ear and shoulder as I removed the plastic to put the pizza on the pan.

“Yo dude, whatcha doin?’”

“Nothin.’ Gonna make a pizza and watch a movie. Maybe play some GTA.”

“Your mom there?”

I scoffed. It was a Friday night. He knew damn well she wasn’t.

“Right. I’ll be over in fifteen.”

“Sure.” I hung up and poured both cans of soda into a large glass with some ice.

Once the oven beeped, I shoved the pan in and set the little plastic timer. Then I shuffled to the living room, turned on the TV, and fired up my game.

There was a knock on the window, then the door. “Open up, dickhead!”

Josh was such a little prick, but he was my friend, and he didn’t judge me for my mom. I let him in, and he sauntered in with a paper bag rolled up at the top.

“I come bearing gifts!” he announced with a wicked grin before he blew his red curls out of his eyes.

“What did you bring? I already have pizza and soda.”

He made a grand production out of pulling out two cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a joint with a flourish. “Eh? Whataya say?”

“Dude, I don’t have a lighter.” Part of me was nervous that we’d get caught, but the rebellious part of me was mad at my mom for going off and leaving me alone—as usual.

“Are you freaking serious? With all these candles your mom has, you don’t have a lighter?” He threw his arms wide and spun around.

Therewerecandles everywhere, but they were her spell candles. The matches she used were specific. Not just your average grocery store matchbook.

Then I realized I was home alone at eleven years old, like always, and I was mad. “You know what? You’re right.”

On a mission, I went into my mom’s room and opened her dresser drawer where she kept all her altar supplies. I snagged the box of matches.

“Let’s go.”

“Umm, dude. You have a pizza in the oven.”

My determination fizzled. “You’re right. Then let’s eat first.”

---