Page 22 of The Intruder
Ella?”
My mother’s voice floats in from the front door. I exchange looks with Anton, who seems to understand my panic. He mouths the words, “Back door?”
I quickly point in the direction of the back.
Anton leaps off the couch, and with surprising speed given the mess in the living room, he disappears through the kitchen. I hear the back door swing shut just as my mother materializes in the living room.
That was close. It’s an unspoken rule between us that I’m not allowed to have visitors over, and I don’t know what my mom would’ve done if she caught a bruised, green-haired boy sitting with me smoking on the mattress sofa.
Mom comes into the living room, a frown pulling at her lips.
I act all casual, like I didn’t just have someone here with me.
She’s got on her uniform from work, which is an ugly green blouse and khaki slacks.
She’s holding a shopping bag filled with junk, probably from the thrift shop.
I wish somebody would burn the place down.
“Ella!” There is a sharp edge to her voice that makes me really nervous. “What were you just doing?”
I glance in the direction of the back door and then back at my mother. Does she know Anton was here? He took his shirt with him, so as far as I can see, there’s no sign of him. Except…
Oh no.
The cigarette. It’s still smoking in the ashtray.
“Were you smoking?” she shrieks at me.
I don’t know why she looks so upset. She smokes all the time. It’s pretty much all she does. And anyway, I wasn’t. But the truth is much worse, so I’ll have to lie for my own sake. “I just wanted to try it,” I say.
She drops the shopping bag on the floor. “And?”
“I didn’t like it,” I say quickly. “And I’ll never do it again.”
My mother’s brown eyes are still laser focused on that smoking cigarette butt. She comes around the side of the coffee table and picks it up. “You know, this is only for adults.”
“I know, Mom.”
“I don’t want to ever see you doing this again.” Her eyes flash. “Ever.”
I know she’s only telling me not to smoke because she cares about me, but my mom can be scary sometimes. Right now is one of those times. “I won’t. I swear, Mom.”
“No, you won’t,” she agrees. “You’re going to learn your lesson today.”
My mother picks up the cigarette butt from the ashtray and grabs my arm with her other hand. I squirm to get away.
“This is for your own good, Ella,” she says in a firm voice. “You don’t want to pick up this nasty habit.”
Then she grinds the lit end of the cigarette into the tender skin of my forearm.
The pain is instant and blinding—I feel it all the way down to the bone.
I cry out involuntarily and try to yank my arm away, but my mother holds me there for a second before releasing me.
Except even after the cigarette is no longer touching me, it still feels like my arm is burning.
I’ve started crying without even realizing it.
“Next time,” she says, “it’ll be your face.”
She wouldn’t really burn my face, would she? Because if she did, then everyone would see it. Then again, I’m not sure what my mother would do sometimes.
All I know is that I’m going to stay far away from her cigarettes from now on.