The Chance You Won't Return by Annie Cardi Read Free Book Online Page B

something so big. I imagined the car veering off the road of its own accord; the air bag would detonate; the alarm would blare. The car would start to flip, and all I would see would be the ground, the sky, the ground, as the car turned over and over, until the windows cracked and the metal frame crumpled as easily as a tin can.
    I had to turn away from the parking lot.
    The halls were empty by the time Mom rushed in. She held the folded note from this morning as if she would have forgotten without the details in front of her. She wore a button-down shirt and a pair of baggy khaki pants held up by a leather belt. My mother was a tall woman, but the pants seemed odd somehow. After a second, I realized they were cut wrong — they were men’s trousers. The linen scarf from yesterday was tossed over her shoulder, and she readjusted it when she saw me.
    “All set?” she said cheerfully.
    I was glad the halls were empty. “What are you wearing?”
    She glanced down at her outfit. “What’s the matter with it?”
    “Those aren’t your pants,” I hissed, in case anyone was within earshot. “And where is Dad?”
    She held out a note for me. “Your father . . . David . . . called earlier. He can’t get out of work.”
    I took the piece of paper from her and saw her choppy handwriting, first the time and location of the meeting I’d dictated that morning, and then an addition below:
David at work, not able to get away, talk to Alex later.
I read the note three times before crumpling it in my palm. Mom watched me, smiling benignly. I wanted to shove her away. I couldn’t believe Dad. He had talked to me about driving, sounded sympathetic, been willing to work out a plan, and now he disappeared at the last minute. Was the town suddenly mad for stamps? Did a package need to be delivered immediately or someone wouldn’t get a heart transplant? How could he have left me like this? Looking at my mother in my father’s pants, I wanted to push her out the front door and lie to Mr. Kane about why neither of my parents was present.
    “Alex? Mrs. Winchester?” Mr. Kane was striding toward us.
    Shit. “Hey, Mr. Kane.”
    He stuck out his hand at my mother. “Thank you so much for meeting with me today,” he said.
    “My pleasure,” Mom said.
    “Are we still waiting for Mr. Winchester?”
    “He’s not coming,” I said. “Mom, are you feeling okay?” It was one chance to avoid all of this, at least until Dad could be there, too. I hoped it would be enough of a hint for her.
    But she chuckled. “Never better.”
    Mr. Kane glanced at me, straining to smile. “I hope we can get all this worked out. My office is just down this way.”
    Mr. Kane shared an office with the Latin teacher and one of the English teachers. Three desks were crammed into a room not much bigger than a supply closet, with one frosted window at the far end. A few posters encouraging kids to read were tacked up on the wall. The office smelled like Wite-Out and generic soap. Mr. Kane’s desk was the most cluttered of the three, covered with papers not yet graded and books of audition monologues. On the edge of his desk was a half-eaten sandwich on crusty Italian bread — brought from home, obviously. He even had a plant, although it looked like the soil was dry and the plant was resigning itself to a short life.
    “Please, sit down,” he said, dragging over the other teachers’ chairs. Mom sat with her elbow propped on one arm of her chair. In a stiff wooden chair, I felt trapped. My heart thudded as I watched Mr. Kane shuffle a few papers around before he found the clipboard from driver’s ed.
    “So, Mrs. Winchester,” he said, “as you know, Alex has a bit of a problem when it comes to driving.”
    His voice was so solemn and sympathetic that I knew he must have rehearsed this. There was none of the edge that he had when I drove onto the football field.
    “That’s unfortunate,” Mom said. “But certainly there are lessons.”
    Mr. Kane eyed