Flyaway Read Free Page B

High: "Ms. Calhoun, we need to discuss Stevie's attendance, blah, blah, blah ...
Delete.
    And then Tonya's voice comes blaring out at me: "Stevie, it's me. Guess what ? Mike's going out of town. You know what that means, so call me back, okay? And get yourself a cell already."
    Yes, I know what that means: Tonya and her caveman brother, Doug, are throwing another drunken party. Last time he barfed all over the back deck. No, thanks.
Delete.
    I move away from the phone and notice a couple of unopened bills lying on the floor below the mail slot, including one stamped "Past Due" in big red letters. Whenever Mom starts getting bills like that, it's not long before we have to find a new place to live.
    I'm about to leave when I notice Mom's bedroom door is shut. I'm positive I left it open when I went in to get the vacuum. I stand there not knowing what to do. If she's asleep, the last thing I want to do is wake her up. And if she's awake, she might not be in the mood for a visitor.
    But then again, I'm sure she'd want to see me. She might even perk up and say, "Well, there you are, honey pie. Come give your old mom a hug."
    I knock on the door. "Mom?" There's no answer, so I crack it open.
    The room is dark and empty, but the covers on Mom's bed are rumpled. I lay my cheek against her pillow and breathe in her scent. She's been here; at least I know she's alive.
    Then I notice the drawer of the little table by her bed is open. I slide it out a hair further. The dog-eared envelope where she stashes the grocery money sits on top of her lacy bras and panties. It's empty.
    I get this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I just know I have to check. I go into my bedroom and feel under the bed till I find the heart-shaped metal box where I keep my treasures: a reddish rock from Grandpa's ranch in Montana, a shell I found on the beach in Carkeek Park, a bird's egg wrapped in cotton. And my money. I had forty-five dollars I'd saved up from babysitting in there. Now it's gone. Not only that, the egg is broken and the inside of the box is coated with yellow slime.
    For a second I'm so pissed I want to slam the box against the wall. But only for a second. Mom never takes my money unless there's a good reason, like that time she borrowed fifty bucks to cover rent. She probably needed it for one of those bills, and she'll pay me right back as soon as she gets her check. Or maybe they accepted her application to sell jewelry at the street fair, and she needed it to pay for a booth or something. It's me I should be pissed at, blaming Mom when all she's trying to do is make things better for us. Still the sick feeling won't leave me, and I wish my money was still there.
    I rinse out the box in the bathroom sink, tuck it under my arm, and slip out the front door, locking it behind me. It's gotten even cooler outside, and the two guys are still poking around under the hood of the truck. I sprint to the bus stop just in time to catch the number 48. I make the transfer downtown, but I'm working so hard to come up with other reasons my money might be gone, I miss the stop in Wedgewood and have to walk five blocks back to Aunt Mindy's.
    She wasn't supposed to be home till six-thirty. But here it is, the middle of the afternoon, and her spotless white Camry is parked in the driveway.

CHAPTER 4
    Aunt Mindy is waiting for me on the living room couch with her arms crossed and her mouth pressed into a thin line. She's changed out of her workout gear into a pair of designer jeans and a tight blue T-shirt. The heat's cranked up to about ninety degrees, and little half-moons of sweat peek from under her arms.
    "Hi," I say over my shoulder, as I head for the guest room, trying to sound cool and casual.
    "Stop right there. Where have you been?"
    "Where do you think? School."
    She crosses her arms over her chest. "School."
    "I was feeling better, so I took the bus."
    "That's interesting, because your counselor says you haven't been to school all week."
    I