Hunted Read Free Page B

If she’d let me work, too—but schoolwork comes first, that’s what she says. Schoolwork and keeping a low profile.
    The motel owner turns to go.
    Outside, something glistens. I take a step closer to the window and peer out into the gloom. “Mom, there’s a pool!”
    “The pool’s an extra twenty-five a night,” the woman says, holding out her hand again.
    Mom bites her lip.
    “It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I don’t need it.” But Mom knows that I do.
    She opens up her wallet and reluctantly takes out two more bills.
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    HUNTED
    The outdoor pool is grungy. Leaves, twigs, and wrap-pers float along the surface. The tiles are cracked and stained, the diving board browned from years of dirty feet—but I don’t care.
    As soon as I dive into the water, the pain leaves. The voices that grate through my mind become whispers. I relax, muscles unclenching. I’ve never understood why water has that effect on me—it’s not like thoughts are transmitted over sound waves—but I don’t really care why. All I care about is the blessedness of almost quiet, the peace that fills me. It’s like unfolding an extra pocket of time that no one else has, time that’s woven from sunshine and cool breeze, soft grass and laughter. Time that spreads gently through me, massaging my thoughts into jelly-bliss.
    The cool water enfolds me like an embrace. I duck under, so I’m immersed completely, and swim to the other end. I do lap after lap until my muscles protest, until I can’t drag my arms forward anymore, and then I float on my back, water gently lapping against my face.
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CHAPTER 3
    “Do you know of any cheap places for rent?” Mom asks the motel owner standing behind the counter.
    The woman doesn’t look much better in the morning light—her hair is still stringy, her body still scrawny, un-derfed. “You could stay here,” the woman says, and licks her lips.
    Mom shakes her head wearily. “Too expensive.”
    “How much were you thinking to spend?”
    “Five hundred—six at the most.”
    “You can stay here for that,” the woman says, leaning forward.
    “For a month?” Mom sounds surprised. She raises her eyebrow at me.
    I haven’t heard any suspiciousness coming from the woman this morning. Just a need for money—a desperate need.
    “Yeah, for a month,” the woman quickly agrees.
    I decide to push her. “But we were going to get a two-bedroom. So I could, you know, have my own room.” 26
    HUNTED
    The woman looks down at the faded countertop. “I was just being ornery last night. Didn’t like being woken. I got a two-room available.”
    I poke beneath her surface thoughts, but there’s no suspicion, no malice, just worry about money, the bills she owes, the creditors who are after her, a craving for cigarettes and beer, missing Henry. . . .
    “But—but we’d need a kitchen,” Mom says.
    “All our units got bar fridges and microwaves—and I could lend you a hot plate,” the woman says.
    It’s hard to feel her desperation. It presses against me, close and smothering. “Might as well,” I tell Mom. “It’s not like we’ve got another place lined up.”
    “Are you sure?” Mom asks.
    “At least they have a pool,” I say.
    “I’ll knock that off the price, too!” the woman says.
    . . . if Henry had come by—paid his share. All the money I owe—people aren’t gonna wait much longer for it
    . . . The anxiety fills her lungs like phlegm, thick and heavy, and I feel like I’m drowning from the inside.
    I gasp for air. “Even better,” I say, though I know she falsely charged us in the first place.
    Mom exhales loudly. “Fine.”
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    Mom turns to me when we’re alone in our new rooms—two rooms with an adjoining door. “You felt sorry for her, didn’t you?”
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    Cheryl Rainfield
    I shrug. “I guess.”
    “And there was something else. You started to look . . .
    in pain.”
    “She was desperate,” I say.
    “You can’t let other people’s emotions decide what you’re