A Season for Fireflies Read Free Page A

but with my help she pulls herself up and stumbles to the stairs. She struggles against me. “Stop!” she yells. “Give me my wine.” Her eyes focus, her eyebrows are angular and V-shaped.
    Bettie’s voice barely touches the air when I cut her off. “Bettie. It’s my mom. She’s—”
    â€œI’m coming. I’m coming,” she says, and hangs up.
    â€œMy drink. Where is it?” Mom says, though it’s slurred.
    â€œSorry, but there isn’t any left,” I lie, and we make our way up the stairs. Mom leans on me, but I push her forward so she doesn’t fall back.
    â€œ You broke the bottle . . .” Mom starts, but doesn’t finish. When we get to her bedroom she collapses onto the bed and crawls on all fours toward her pillows.
    â€œYou’re so difficult ,” Mom says as she slumps against them. She’s frowning, her eyes are unfocused. She always says I’m difficult. “You’re too much” is her favorite expression.
    â€œ The stress of your endless demands .” Some spit flies out of her mouth into an arc in the air.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” I say.
    â€œAlways so demanding .”
    There’s that word again.
    â€œ Relentless. You just need me all the time.”
    â€œI have rehearsal,” I say, trying to stop her tirade. I back away toward the stair landing.
    â€œFired because of you . Drink because of you .” A little spittle flies out again. “If you weren’t so difficult, I wouldn’t have to relax. I just need five minutes to myself,” she mumbles. I want to defend myself—want to tell her she’s wrong. But then I think about how each time we fight about something stupid—clothes I need for school, rehearsal schedules—she gets a headache and has to go lie down. She always grabs a bottle of wine on her way. Is it me? Did I really drive her to this?
    Somewhere inside my head, a voice whispers . . . yes .
    â€œPenny?” Bettie’s voice rings out from the kitchen.
    Mom’s eyes are already closed and she’s curled her knees to her chest. She’s mumbling but I can’t hear it, thank god.
    I pass Bettie on the stairs. She stops me with a strong hand on my shoulder.
    I don’t want to look at her watery blue eyes or her unkempt, off-hours hair. I really don’t want her to see me right now. “Is she okay?” she asks.
    I search the fibers in the carpet beneath my feet to try to answer that question.
    â€œI have rehearsal,” is all I get out. Bettie reaches out to me, but I pull away. “Is it okay that I go?” She answers me with an “Of course,” and I will thank her for this help, not at all in herjob description, in my usual way. A small note and doing extra chores.
    I walk to my car and place my theater bag in the passenger seat.
    If you weren’t so difficult.
    I illegally drive the 2.1 miles to school.
    Because of you.
    It’s warm out and twilight threatens the sunny Saturday afternoon as I walk into the theater.
    â€œPenny!” May calls from the stage.
    â€œWe’re saved!” Panda cries, and everyone laughs. I search for Wes briefly but I don’t see him. Everyone is in costume.
    Taft flies down the aisle at me, curls bouncing.
    â€œHallway,” she says, and points at the door I came through.
    When we’re on the other side of the door, Taft crosses her arms. “What is going on?”
    There are crisscrosses in the pattern of the linoleum beneath my feet.
    â€œWhat happened? This isn’t like you, I’m worried,” she presses. “We’ve all seen the news. Is everything okay at home?”
    I look up into her eyes, but don’t have the words to say what’s happened. I am glad Bettie’s helping to pick up the pieces now. But it won’t end there. It will still be tech week, then performance, and Mom will still think I am demanding.