Page 4 of Endgame

I wasn’t unfamiliar with stepfathers; I’d had plenty of them myself. But none of those had ever put a ring on mom’s finger, or a baby in her stomach.

I shook my head as I thought about my mother, and seriously considered the probability of being switched at birth.

If it weren’t for our uncanny resemblance, I would have sought legal representation.

Sigh. My grey eyes, almost an exact replica of my mother’s, and my olive skin tone, not to mention the C-section scar she liked to hold over my head every year during bathing suit season, were proof enough to douse that tiny flicker of hope out.

One gigantic distinction between us was the fact that Mom was a natural blonde with platinum curls while I was born with the jet-black, poker straight hair I had since grown to the middle of my back. I was also a realist and my mother was a romantic. She loved living in the moment and I thrived on routine. She was aspur of the momentkind of gal, and I was aplan it to the lettertype person.

As much as I wished it to be otherwise, instability was the norm for me, and moving house came as easy to me as packing up my seasonal closet.

It was the way I had been raised.

“Did you call Mr. Randle?” I asked her for what I knew was the fourth time. I had to keep on Mom’s ass about important things. Otherwise, we’d have been living on the streets a long time ago.

“Gabe has taken care of all of that for us,” Mom gushed as she thrummed her slender hands against her protruding stomach.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” I felt like I was a parrot; I’d been repeating the same thing over and over for weeks now. “I have friends in Kansas, Mom. And a job.” And a life. Huffing, I rested an arm on the car door and used the other to steer. “I really think you should reconsider this relocation business.”

“Mercedes, please,” my mother said in a whiney tone of voice. “Do we have to go over this again?”

“Uh, yeah,” I shot back. What was supposed to be my last six weeks of freedom before starting senior year had been ruined by the upheaval of my mother carting me halfway across the country with her so she could shack up with her ‘baby daddy’, and I used the term lightly. “You’re hauling me out of school right before my senior year starts and dragging me across the country with you. We most definitely have to go over this again.”And again, and again until you start to see sense, woman!

“It’s better to move now,” Mom shot back. “You’ll have time to settle in before starting at the Academy.”

“The Academy.” I scrunched my nose up at the thought. Who was she trying to convince? “I wonder ifThe Academyis as pretentious as it sounds?”

“Mercy.”

“Mom.”

“Gabe assured me that it’s a wonderful school.” She smiled excitedly. “And very exclusive.”

“Howfabulous!” I rolled my eyes, unable to stop myself. “News flash, Mom. I don’t fit the private school bill.” Not even close. “I’ve been public schooled my entire life.” Where I belonged. Where it was familiar. “How am I supposed to get along with these people?”Snobs.I meant snobs. I wasn’t a superficial rich kid who rolled around in daddy’s money for two very important reasons. The first; we didn’t have any money. Second; I didn’t have a father. “This is going to suck.”

“Come on, Merc, where’s your spontaneity?” Mom asked, smiling. “Gabe’s a good man with a nice home and a successful business. This is a new adventure for us.”

“No,” I corrected. “This ismooching, Mom.” I shook my head and forced back the urge I had inside of me to rattle my pregnant mother. “Didn’t you learn anything from the Carolina incident?”

Mom cringed and I felt like a tool.

“Fine,” I huffed, throwing my hand up in the air. “I won’t mention the Carolina incident again.” It was hard to stay mad at a woman who reminded you of a child.

“You’re going to love Ocean Bay, Mercy,” Mom gushed. “Think of all that sun.”

“And all the alligators,” I chimed in.

“And shirtless boys.”

“And poisonous snakes,” I rolled out, not missing a beat.

“A whole six weeks of sunbathing and lazing around before school starts?” She smiled hopefully. “Come on. That has to sound more appealing than getting up at the crack of dawn to bus tables at Nancy Joe’s, and spending your nights washing dishes in The Pelican Hotel back home.”

Did she know me at all? “I like to work, Mom,” I shot back. “I like having my own money. You know, beingindependent?”

“Ugh. You’re impossible to please.”

“Not really.”

---