Cut by Layla Harding Page A

every time I tried to talk to her, and the strap on my backpack broke during lunch. In the grand scheme of things, they were minor irritations. But they were enough to bring me to breaking point even before Mom called.
    “Hey, Mom, what’s up?”
    “I need you to come straight home after school. No sneaking off to wherever you have been hiding out the past few weeks. Straight home, young lady.” What the hell?
    “Uh, sure. What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
    “We need to talk about a few things.” Well shit, now what had I done?
    “Ten four. On my way then.” No goodbye, drive carefully or I love you. Just the click of the phone. She obviously had her temper up about something. God only knew what.
    When I walked in the door, she was perched on the edge of the couch, hands clenching and unclenching.
    “So what exactly have you been doing?”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Oh, I’m sure you should be sorry. Now you tell me what you’re sorry for.”
    “I don’t have a clue. Really, Mom. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “I am well aware of the fact you have been sneaking off somewhere after school. I also know you have been out overnight—without permission, I might add—at least twice in the past week. So once again, what exactly have you been doing?”
    Holy hell, he had done it again. My father’s favorite trick was to bitch and complain to Mom about something until she finally had enough and came after me. It kept us in an almost constant state of conflict, focused on each other instead of him. I should have known I hadn’t shut him down—he’d sent in the reserve troops.
    “Mom, I haven’t been doing anything. I may not have been in bed when Dad came down, but I was just out walking. I wasn’t gone overnight.”
    “At three in the morning? Do you think I’m stupid?” Obviously Dad didn’t give her much credit for intelligence if he actually admitted to being in my room at three in the morning. Why didn’t she question him on what he was doing there in the first place?
    “Mom, calm down. I really haven’t been doing anything wrong. I promise. I don’t know what Dad has told you—”
    “Your father has nothing to do with this.” Yeah right. “I am capable of being a parent without his help.” Actually you’re a better parent when he isn’t helping. You’re a better you, for that matter. But that was something I could only think and not say, unfortunately.
    “I know, Mom. That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying if Dad thinks I’ve been out overnight he’s wrong. As for where I go after school, I’m out with friends, like I always am.”
    “Persephone Ann Daniels, I am going to give you one last chance to come clean with me. I think you have some boy you’re hiding and lying about, and I will not have it.” How funny she was so close to the truth, except “the boy” was a seventy year old man.
    “Mom, there is no boy. I haven’t been on a date in at least six months, and you know it.” It was true. Between combating home life, trying to maintain my grades to ensure graduation, and now Ken, a boyfriend was a distraction I didn’t need at that moment. Plus I never kept a boy around for long—maybe three months if he was really lucky.
    I learned the hard way my sophomore year that after three months, relationships got too intense for my liking. Don’t get me wrong, the kissing was nice, as long as he realized he didn’t need to imitate a puppy and slobber all over my face. But around the ninety day mark, feeling me up under my shirt wasn’t good enough. He wanted full access, and why did I keep pushing his hand away every time it trailed below my waistline? God, the way a high school boy whined could put a two-year-old to shame.
    The boy I dated my sophomore year actually remained patient until well into the fifth month. I knew it wasn’t love, but it was the closest thing two fifteen-year-olds could feel to love. He made me feel special. He was gentle.