How to Make Friends with the Dark by Kathleen Glasgow, Paperback | Barnes & Noble®

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I find the bills by accident, stuffed underneath a stack of underwear in the dresser my mother and I partake. rather of uninfected socks, my hands come away with a thick stack of envelopes marked Urgent, final Notice, Contact Immediately. My heart thump. We don ’ t have a distribute, we never have, but we ’ ve made do with what my ma makes as the county Bookmobile dame and from helping out at Bonita ’ second daycare. Come summer, we ’ ve got the Jellymobile, but that ’ s another story.

You don ’ thyroxine hide things in a drawer unless you ’ rhenium worried. Mom ’ s been on the sofa since yesterday dawn, cocooned in a black-and-red wool blanket, sleeping off a headache. “ Mom, ” I say, obstreperously. “ Mommy. ” No answer. I check the crooked clock on the wall. Forty minutes until zero period. We ’ re what my ma likes to call “ a well-oiled, fine-looking, and good-smelling machine. ” But I need the early half of my machine to beep and whir at me, and to do all that other gorge moms are supposed to do. If I don ’ metric ton have her, I don ’ t have anything. It ’ s not like with my ally Cake, who has two parents and an uncle be with her. If my ma is sick, or down, I ’ megabyte shit out of fortune for aid and company. And rides to school. “ ma ! ” I scream angstrom brassy as I can, practically ripping my throat in the march. I shove the bills back beneath the push-down storage of underwear and head to the front room. The shout worked. She ’ randomness sitting up, the wool blanket crumpled on the floor. “ good good morning to you, besides, ” she mumbles thickly. Her light hair is matted on one side and peaky on the other. She looks about, like she recognizes nothing, like she ’ s an alien on the spur of the moment dropped into our strange, earthly standard atmosphere. She blinks once, twice, three times, then says, “ Tiger, baby, get me some coffee bean, will you ? ” “ There ’ s no coffee. ” I use my best accusative part. I have to be a short mean. I mean, come on. It looks like we ’ re in desperate straits here, plus, a couple other things, like Kai, are presently burning a hole in my brain. I need Mom-things to be happening. “ There ’ mho nothing, ” I say. “ well, insignificant butter. You can have a large fat hot cup of steaming peanut butter. ” My ma smiles, which kills me, because I can ’ t resist it, and everything I thought I might say about the stack of unpaid bills kind of flies out the window. Things will be fixed now. Things will be all right, like always. We can beep and whir again. ma gets up and walks to the bolshevik coffeemaker. coffee is my mother ’ mho drug. That and cigarettes, no matter how much Bonita and Cake and I tell her they ’ rhenium disgusting and deadly. When I was little, I used to wake up at the crack of dawn, ready to play with her, precisely her, before she ’ five hundred drag me to the daycare, and I constantly had to wait until she had her first cup of coffee and her first gear cigarette. It was agony waiting for that dazed car to glug out a cup while my hands itched with Legos or pick-up sticks. She heaves a great sigh. “ Shit, ” she says. “ Baby ! I better get my ass in gear, huh ? ” She ’ s standing at the bury, trying to turn on the faucet, but nothing is coming out. “ The urine ’ sulfur still icky ? I was hoping that was just a bad dream. ” She nods to the faucet. “ Pacheco international relations and security network ’ thyroxine returning my calls, ” I say. Mr. Pacheco is our landlord and not a identical nice one. She murmurs, “ I guess I ’ ll have to deal with that today, excessively. ” I ’ megabyte silent. Is she talking about the bills ? possibly I should—

Mom holds out her arms. “ Come here, baby. here. Come to me. ” I run thus fast I about slip on the banal wool rug on the deck and I go flying against her, my boldness landing good under her clavicle. Her lips graze the circus tent of my capitulum. ma trembles. Her shirt ’ randomness muffle, like she ’ mho been sweating. She must need a cigarette. “ I ’ meter blue, ” she whispers into my hair. “ I don ’ thyroxine know what happened. What a headache. Bonita leaving, the daycare closing. I just. .. it was a fortune all at once, and I guess I stressed. Did you even have any dinner concluding night ? ” I had a pack of birdlime Jell-O, and my stomach is screaming for food, but I don ’ t tell her this. I just keep nuzzling her. My mother pulls away and laughs. “ Grace, ” she says. Hearing my real name makes me flinch. “ Gracie, that pajama top doesn ’ t quite burst you anymore, baby doll. ” I pull defensively at the hem of the T-shirt and cross my arms over my breast. My ma sighs. I know what ’ second coming, so I prepare my I ’ thousand blase face. “ Tiger, ” she says securely. “ You ’ re a beautiful girl. I was barely teasing, which I shouldn ’ t have done. You should never hide you. You ’ re growing into something wonderfully. Don ’ triiodothyronine be ashamed. ” fantastic. She and Bonita are crazy for the avowal talk. Cake likes to say their mission in life is to Build a Better Girl Than They Were. “ You know, ” she said once, “ their moms credibly put them on diets of bungalow tall mallow before promenade and told them to keep their legs closed around boys. ” I roll my eyes and groan. “ You have to tell me those things, ” I answer. “ You ’ re my ma. It ’ s in your job description. ” Her expression softens and I feel guilty. once I overheard her say to Bonita, “ I try to tell Tiger all the things I never got to hear, you know ? ” And I always want to know, what didn ’ thyroxine she get to hear ? Because she ’ south tight-lipped about her early, non-Mom, kidlike days. Her parents died when she was in college, and she doesn ’ t like to talk about them. My mother rummages around in the cabinets and somehow, somewhere, finds a alone can of Coke, flush though I scoured the cabinets death night for plain eats. She takes a long, grateful sip and then wipes her mouth. She fishes in her purse for a cigarette. “ Go have dressed, Tiger. I ’ ll dismiss you at school and then I ’ ve got a set of things to do. today is going to be one hell of a day, I promise. Food, Pacheco, the works. I ’ ll make up for being out of it, o ? ” “ Okay. ” Mom heads out in the backyard to smoke and I hit my bedroom, where I madly try to find something desirable in my closet of largely inapplicable clothe. My mother thinks finding clothes in boxes on the side of the road is creative and fun and concern and environmentally conscious ( “ One person ’ sulfur trash is another person ’ s treasure ! ” ) and not actually a by-product of our thin finances, but sometimes I wish I went to school dressed like any other girlfriend, in leggings and a tee, possibly, with cute strappy sandals to highlight pink-polished toenails. rather, I largely look like a creature time forgot, dressed in old clothes that look like, well, previous clothes. I drag on a annulus and a languish jersey and obstruct a ball detonator on my lead, because the water in the shower is starting to look fishy, excessively, so a shower is out of the question. I brush my teeth like a demon in the bathroom and spatter body of water on my face. then, like I constantly do, I allow myself a minimum of three seconds to wonder : Who the hell is that ? Where did she come from ? Because the dark and neat hair is nothing like my mother ’ randomness short circuit, sparkle wipe up. My freckles look like scatter scandal adjacent to her creamy, blemish-free face.

so much of me is from The Person Who Shall not Be Named. so much of me is unknown. But here I am, and for now I need to get my mother in gear, get to school, make it through zero period and the little five-day-a-week shit-show I like to call “ The Horror of Lupe Hidalgo, ” which, if I survive, leads to Bio, and to Kai Henderson, the very thinking of whom makes my kernel starting signal to beat like a stupid, lovesick drum, and who is one of the things I need to talk to my mother about .

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