Chapter 13
"Mom! How could you?" shouted Cory, bursting in through the kitchen door. Mrs. Towson jumped in her seat at the kitchen table where she was reading the newspaper.
"Good heavens, Cory," she cried. "You nearly scared me to death!"
Cory stood over her, panting hard.
"What, dear?"
"You know! How could you do this? I saw Allen with Mr. Banks!"
Mrs. Towson's eyes grew wide as Cory watched confusion turn to understanding, then shock. "Oh, my lord." She suddenly stood, moving closer to Cory. "Honey, I'm sorry. I was going to tell you."
"Don't touch me!" shouted Cory, as he backed away from her reaching arms. "You knew! And you didn't tell me!" He felt hot. A tiny film of sweat beaded up on his forehead. Words tumbled out of his mouth, aimed at his mother to cause as much hurt as possible.
"You set this up, didn't you? This is your doing! Yours and that boyfriend's! You couldn't let me do something on my own!" Cory stared hard at his mother as his voice rose higher. "All along, at dinner that night. You knew! Both of you!"
"But, honey," his mother said quietly.
"No!" Cory shouted again. "Stay out of my life! You and Allen. Just stay out!"
He stomped off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. A framed set of family photos fell off the wall and crashed to the floor. Mrs. Towson slowly sat back down at the table. She stared after Cory, the sudden silence settling on her like a dark fog. As she stared, tears welled up in her eyes.
Cory kicked his gym bag as hard as he could, sending it flying across the room. It hit the desklamp square on the shade. The lamp hit the back wall and then fell off the desk, hitting the floor with a pop! as the light bulb exploded. He ignored the dented shade and scattered bits of glass on the carpet. Pacing back and forth in front of his bed, the events from the past few weeks flashed through his mind. The connections became clear. Why his mother was so interested in his practices with Tony Banks. Why she suddenly cared about soccer. The sly looks at the dinner table that night. Allen's interest. It was all adding up. But the burning, hateful knowledge that his own mother and Allen knew Tony Banks and set up this whole deal made him sick inside. His stomach churned and soured at the realization.
"Aaaagghh!" He took his pillow and viciously threw it across the room, then hurled himself onto the bed. He buried his face in the covers and yelled. He yelled until he thought his lungs would burst. Throat scratchy and painful, Cory suddenly felt a tightness building in his chest. The pressure built so fast it exploded into tears of anger. At his mom, Allen, Mr. Banks, Gene . . . the whole mess.
It was much later when Cory heard a soft tap on his door. He opened his swollen eyes and rolled over on his back. He could almost feel their redness. The room was pitch black except for the soft glow of a streetlamp making the rug look pale beneath his window. It was nine o'clock p.m. The soft taps came again through the door.
"Cory?"
It was his mother's voice. The fog of sleep lifted, and he remembered. Cory groaned and buried his face in the sheets.
"Cory, I'm setting some dinner outside the door for you." He heard the silverware rattle on the plate. "Honey?" came her voice again. "Please eat something."
Right now, Cory hated that voice. The sound of it. Like it cared for him. Sure, he thought, feed me and try and make up for what you did. He tasted a metallic stickiness in his mouth. As much as he didn't want to acknowledge it, his stomach was aching for food. It only got worse when he remembered his last meal had been breakfast.
Five torturous minutes went by. Cory rolled off his bed and quietly walked to where the small strip of light crept in under his door. He focused on the white strip for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. Then, he quietly cracked open the door. A plate of fried chicken, baked beans, and apple sauce were on the plate. A glass of iced soda was next to it. His mouth watered. It looked delicious.
He opened the door just enough to pull the plate and glass in, then quickly and quietly shut the door. He carefully walked back through the darkness towards his desk. Startled, he realized a small piece of glass bit through one sock. He stopped, backpedaled two steps to avoid any more pieces and wondered if his foot was cut. He moved over to his bed, sat down, and pulled off his sock by stepping on the left toe with his right foot, so he didn't have to use his hands. He carefully placed the plate on his bed and the soda pop on the floor. Then, he felt the bottom of his foot. No cuts. That was good.
Reaching under the bed, he pulled out the flashlight stored there for neighborhood blackouts. In this neigborhood, it happened often. Cory flicked it on and propped it on the bed, shining the narrow light at the plate. Silently, he ate by the skinny beam. The baked beans and apple sauce tasted great, but Cory was careful not to eat the chicken. He nibbled an edge of a drumstick and saved the rest, carefully wrapping the three pieces in his napkin. His mind was made up. He stashed the wrapped chicken in his gym bag.
Looking for warm clothes, Cory found his goalie pants where he'd dropped them earlier in the day. That and his jersey and a sweatshirt, he stuffed in his gym bag. The empty dinner plate he quietly slid onto the carpet outside his door. Back in the darkened room, he pulled up his bedcovers and quickly made up the bed. Now picking up his bag, Cory moved over to the window, careful to avoid the broken glass on the rug. He set the bag down. Reaching up, he unlocked the window latch, then remembered the flashlight on the bed and crossed out of the window's pale light and back into the darkness of his bed.
The flashlight had rolled off the bed onto the carpet and when he leaned to pick it up, the thin line of light at the bottom of his door dimmed where two dark spots appeared. His mother! He fought to control his panic, dropping further to better see under the door. The two dim spots remained. He held his breath. Finally, they moved away, replaced again by the unbroken strip of light. The flashlight clutched in his right hand, Cory stayed on the floor long enough to be sure the feet didn't return. Finally, he stood and moved back into the pale light of the window.
Gripping the bottom of the lower window, he gently pushed it up and open and threw his gym bag through the opening and into a juniper bush. Next, he put his left leg through, feeling for the ground. The branches of the bush pushed his jeans up and scratched him. But, once he felt the ground, he ducked his head through, shifting his weight onto his left leg, and brought his right leg out.
While standing in the bush, Cory stuck his head back in the opening, his hands in a push-up position to keep his chest off the windowsill. Peering into the blackness, trying to think of anything else he might need, he knew he was crossing an imaginary line. In the darkness of this room was the afternoon and his past. Outside the window was the future. The unknown.
He pushed back, pulled down the window and closed it. Out in the night, the desert air was crisp and chilly. Cory was glad to have on two extra sweaters along with what he'd put in the bag. Hugging the side of the house and avoiding the light from the front windows, Cory made his way to the garage. What luck! His mom hadn't closed it yet. Locating a sleeping bag from the shelf by the outside freezer, he tossed it outside on the grass. He picked up his bike, careful not to hit anything, and carried it out of the garage to keep the gears from clicking.
Once in the cul-de-sac, he threw a leg over the seat, straddled the center bar as he tucked the sleeping bag under one arm, his gym bag securely across his back. He turned and took a last look at the house. Through the front window, he could see his mother sitting. She looked to be reading something; a drink, probably hot tea, was on the small table in front of her.
Stepping on the left pedal, Cory started the bicycle rolling. In a few moments, he was speeding down Longview, a slice of moon dancing in and out of the gray ragged clouds of October. Cory felt the night chill bite through the layers of clothing as he rode. He was committed now.