Page 40 of Bad Boys Don’t Date Clumsy Girls

Chapter Fifteen

I stare into the empty refrigerator as if something will magically appear, or I will suddenly figure out how to make a meal out of half a jar of green olives—which is probably two years old—half a stick of butter, and the dregs in a jar of grape jelly. Grandma has always been the one to take care of the shopping, but she’s gotten increasingly worse at it over the past year. I open the carton of milk with an expiration date that passed two days ago and take a tentative sniff. Still good. Looks like I’m having cereal for dinner again.

I trudge to the cupboard and pull out a bowl, fill it to the brim with sugary, cardboardy flakes, and dump some milk in. Grabbing a spoon from the drawer, I sit at the old, Formica-topped kitchen table. Chewing a spoonful of cereal, I pull out my phone to scroll through social media while I eat.

I freeze, like a deer in the headlights, when Mom enters the kitchen, rubbing her face. Not noticing me, she gets a glass from the cupboard and fills it with water. She pops a couple pills she’s clutching into her mouth and washes them down with water.

I glance at the time on my phone. It’s early for Mom to be awake. She usually rolls out of bed with barely enough time to get to her 11:00 pm shift, unless she goes out first. Then she’s out of the house by about 5:00 p.m. I say a silent prayer that she’ll simply leave the kitchen and return to her room.

Today is not my lucky day. Grandma pushes through the basement door. Mom turns toward the sound and startles when she sees me sitting at the table. Grandma ignores both of us and stomps over to the pantry, snatching a can of soup.

“Ava, you should eat healthier food,” Mom says. Her voice is not only hoarse, but a bit warbly like she needs to clear a lump from her throat.

I don’t want to spark an argument, so I nod in agreement.

Unfortunately, Mom persists. “Why are you eating cereal? Didn’t you want to cook something? Should I make something for you?”

“No! That’s okay,” I rush to say, hoping to avoid Mom opening the fridge.

“I haven’t cooked for you in forever.” Mom smiles in my direction but doesn’t meet my eyes. She rarely does.

My heart shatters when Mom stumbles a little on her way across the kitchen. She’s either still drunk or already drunk. There doesn’t seem to be a difference anymore.

“Let me do this for you,” Mom slurs.

“No, it’s totally…” But Mom swings the refrigerator door open and gawks. “What the…there’s no food!”

I close my eyes against what I know is coming. Already Mom’s volume ratchets up. If Grandma responds, there will be no stopping the argument that will explode between them.

“Oh, there’s plenty,” Grandma says. “Ava just doesn’t know how to cook.”

That isn’t true, but I never do it with them around because I work so hard to avoid them.

“What would she even cook?” Mom points inside the fridge. “There is nothing in here.”

“I’ve been busy,” Grandma snaps. “I don’t see you spending your money on anything other than your booze and pills. How about a trip to the grocery store to make sure your own children can eat? Never!”

“I’m busy too. I work all night. You don’t even work anymore!”

The volume is already eardrum splitting. I want to sneak out, but they stand between me and the exit, so I sit and stare at my cereal, getting soggy in the bowl.

“Don’t give me that excuse. You’ve never taken care of your children. I moved in, worked full time, and cared for your children and you. Plus, I cooked, cleaned, took care of doctor visits, sleepovers, shuttled Joel to and from soccer, did it all while you were off with boyfriends or dealers, or whoever.”

“Why do you always do that? I’ve never had a dealer. I don’t do drugs. You always accuse me of that for no reason.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Excuse me. My mistake.” The sarcasm in Grandma’s tone makes me cringe. “Your dealer is your doctor. Who prescribes you all of those painkillers and sleeping pills and mood enhancers?”

“I need those! I have anxiety. Because of my schedule, I don’t sleep well. My entire life, you’ve accused me of taking drugs or sleeping around. Your accusations started when I was in middle school, before I even knew what drugs or boys were. And thirty years later, you’re still doing it. You wonder why I’m screwed up, Mom? It’s because of you. You’ve always been a horrible mother, and now you’re starving your grandchildren. You’re still a horrible mother.”

“Oh, that’s rich! You calling me a horrible mother. You haven’t even been a mother to these children.” Grandma stomps over to the stove and slams the can of soup onto the counter. She digs through a cupboard until she finds a small saucepan and thumps it onto a burner. The loud clatter makes me wince. I wish I could disappear.

Mom stares at the soup can. Her body sways a little, and her head falls sideways as if she can’t figure out what she’s looking at. Finally, she turns to me, and when she speaks, her airy tone is at odds with the screaming she’d just been doing. I think I feel the air pressure in my ears shift from the reduced volume.

“Ava, there’s soup. You should be eating soup.”

My mouth gapes, my reply refusing to find a voice.

Behind Mom, Grandma sighs. “She doesn’t like pea soup, which you would know if you were a true mother.”

Before they can start fighting about me, I push away from the table and rush from the kitchen.

“Get back here and clear your bowl, young lady,” Grandma yells.

I ignore her and flee to my room, tripping the entire way up the stairs. Slamming my door behind me, I dive onto the bed and bury my face in my pillow.

And sob.

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