The Memory Jar by Elissa Janine Hoole

loudly berating him in front of the whole world. I stepped into a pair of flip-flops by the door and chased down the driveway after her.
    â€œMom, what the hell?” I grabbed for her arm, which was greasy with sunscreen.
    â€œYou lying piece of trash.” She yelled at me and shook me off—maybe she pushed me, I don’t know. I told Scott I tripped on my stupid flimsy shoes, and that might be the truth, but I don’t really know. I lost my balance and fell to the driveway, skinned my elbow and bruised my hip. She cried when she saw the blood and instantly we had apologies, a string of explanations, attempts at hugging, endless explanations—she’d been so worried, I could have been killed, what if she’d died of a heart attack and nobody knew where I was? She was stressed, and I had lied to her. I was embarrassed, though.
    Anyway, so she tried to hug me, and I shrugged her off, and she tried to say Scott and I couldn’t possibly go on our picnic, but he was still sitting there, buckled into his stupid seat belt, his face all stony and hard. “Mom, seriously, I’m not a little kid.” I hopped into the passenger seat and rolled down my window as Scott drove away. “You can ground me when I get home,” I shouted. She folded her arms.
    See, though? Scott didn’t wait for me to buckle my seat belt before he spun tires getting out of my mom’s driveway. He wasn’t always Mr. Safety, not when he was angry. It was tense for like three blocks, and we didn’t talk. Scott slammed on the brakes at each stop sign and then accelerated equally aggressively when crossing each intersection. Finally, he pulled to a stop and parked, stomping on the emergency brake.
    â€œWhy are you freaking out?” I said. I mean, sure, my mom yelled at him, but she yells at everybody—at the kids at the beach who are throwing stones, at the people letting their dogs run in the park without a leash. And anyway, it wasn’t like she was his mom. “It’s fine, honestly. I’ll deal with her when I get home.” I reached for his hand, but he pushed it away—not angrily, but like my hand was a sad moth in the window and he was setting it free.
    â€œI’m not freaking out. Taylor, that was not okay.” He put both hands on the steering wheel.
    I sat there for like a minute without saying anything, pulling the shoulder strap of my seat belt over me and then letting it retract, again and again.
    â€œWhat do you want me to say?” I didn’t really understand what was making him so angry—me or my mom.
    â€œShe can’t treat you like that,” he said. He was still gripping the wheel, still looking straight ahead with his jaws clenched tight. “I want you to tell me she’s never acted like that before, that you’re traumatized a little by that, maybe, or at least upset about what just happened.”
    We got caught , that’s what happened. “I’m not sure how you expected her to respond.”

Now
    When the police officer mentions the reporter, all I can think about is the ring I left lying on Scott’s hospital room floor. I picture all kinds of stupid scenes out of movies and TV shows, the badass investigative reporter throwing me curveball questions that will somehow crack my façade, pull repressed memories out of my psyche like candy from a piñata. Joey walks away from the hospital with a purpose, and I follow because I have a small suspicion that he may be walking to the gas station to buy some cigarettes, and if he does, I’m going to make him give me one.
    â€œYour mom sounds like a piece of work,” Joey says. He walks with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.
    â€œShut up.” If he can listen to my story and that’s all he can come up with, who can waste time and energy talking to him? Get some layers, Joey.
    â€œI get it,” he says. We pick our way across a patch of slush