Page 11 of The Intruder

“Well?” she presses me, an edge to her voice. “Are you going to thank me or not?”

She looks at me, the smoke wafting from the cigarette between her fingers. She’s waiting for me to thank her for ruining my desk. And I know the consequences if I don’t do it.

“Thank you, Mommy,” I say softly.

I almost wish I hadn’t said something about it, because now I’ve gotten her attention, which isn’t what I want. Her brown eyes rake over me as her lips curl in disgust. “Where did you get that shirt?”

I tug at the white top I’m wearing, which I got from the depths of one of the drawers in my bedroom. “I don’t know. My room?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Ella,” she snaps at me. “That shirt makes you look like a whore. Everyone will make fun of you, and the boys won’t respect you. Is that what you want?”

I recognize the shirt is a couple of sizes too small, but all the clothes that are my size are lying in a dirty pile in the basement. I can either wear clothes that don’t fit me, wear clothes that are visibly dirty, or go to school naked. But this isn’t an argument that will sway my mother.

“I won’t wear it again,” I promise.

My mother nods, satisfied. She doesn’t ask me to join her on the couch to watch TV together like we used to when I was little, but it’s just as well. There’s only room on the couch for one person now, because the other half has paper stacked on it. I recognize the top paper as an email that the school sent my mother. She likes to print out her emails, because she feels like she won’t lose them that way, even though she loses everything.

“Can you at least help me move the fish tank?” I ask her.

“Later.” Her attention is back on the television screen. “Just store it there for now. I’ll find a use for it.”

Finally, I give up and go back upstairs to my room. I don’t know what to do about the stupid fish tank. It would be one thing if she offered to buy me a fish. That might be cool. But she didn’t do that. And if I asked for one, she probably wouldn’t get it for me. Plus, the tank is full of junk. What would I do with a muffin tin?

Back in my room, I try to lift the fish tank, but it’s really heavy. Even when I take all the junk out of it, it’s still too much for me to lift. I don’t even know how my mom got it up here. She probably got that guy she works with, Wally, to do it for her, because he has a big crush on her. And now neither of us can lift it. This dumb aquarium is going to be on my desk probably until I graduate from high school.

I can’t wait for that day. The second I turn eighteen and have my diploma, I will never come back here.

8

NOW

CASEY

After getting the broken glass cleaned up, I decide to cook myself some dinner while the stove is still functional. I have no problem eating food out of cans, but it’s not my preference.

I use one pot to boil some water for pasta, and then in the other, I add a few chopped tomatoes, tomato paste, and some basil and garlic. It’s not exactly gourmet cooking, but at least the tomato sauce will be fresh.

While I’m stirring the sauce, I gaze out the window. The rain is coming down really hard now—I hope Lee made it home in one piece. (I’m sure he did.) I feel slightly guilty about shutting him down the way I did. I could have been nicer, considering he came all the way out here to see if I was okay. Not that I was rude or anything, but he genuinely seemed like he was trying to help me.

And he has. I let him fix one of my doorknobs that fell off once, after my third attempt to fix it didn’t work. So there’s that.

Even though Lee has been a perfect gentleman, I still don’t trust him. I can’t quite put my finger on why. I just don’t like that he’s around.

If I had a therapist, they would probably quiz me on why I am so determined to keep Lee at arm’s length, even though he seems like a perfectly nice guy. They would also surely quiz me on why I haven’t been involved with any guys at all in over five years—and even that was a relatively superficial relationship that ended with him throwing up his hands in anger that I “never let anyone get close” to me. And once we got through with that, the therapist would probably delve into the fact that I barely have any friends either. The last person I was really close with was my father, and he’s gone now.

But I don’t have a therapist. And that’s why. My gut instinct telling me not to get too close to the man in the cabin down the road is better than the advice of any quack.

I stir the sauce again as the aroma of tomato and basil fills the kitchen. This will be really tasty, even if I have to eat by candlelight. I take a nibble—the sauce is coming together nicely. It just needs another pinch or two of salt.

Just as I am reaching for the salt shaker, the phone starts ringing.

Before I moved here, I had a cell phone like everyone else in the country. But when I came out here, I got rid of it. First of all, the reception out here in the woods is next to zero. Also, it was another expense that I couldn’t afford without a job, especially when I hardly got any calls.

I wipe my hands on the dish towel and get to the phone on the fifth ring. The other line is full of static, but I can still make out Rudy’s deep voice. Great.

“Casey?” he says.

“Yes?” I say, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. He already had a chance to help me tonight, and he didn’t.