Brennan bit back a curse as the car disappeared down the road and whipped his head around to make sure he was alone now, for real. The vibration and noise from his pocket died down.
A few yards away, there was a murky smear of a stain that Brennanknewwas blood. He knew because he couldsmellit. He knew because it washisblood from the other night. It was right at the spot of impact, right where he’d been standing.
There were skid marks from tires. Brennan could almost hear their squeal, the rumbling engine.
“BACKSTREET’S BACK, ALRIGHT!”
Brennan scrambled for his phone. The only person who ever called him was his mom, who worked a Very Important Job that kept her Very Busy, and who would call campus security if Brennan dodged more than one of her calls after everything in March.
His mom’s picture in the caller ID made his stomach clench in an anxiety-guilt hybrid. Instead of processing that, he answered.
“Hey, I have class,” Brennan said, which was not a lie. He should have been in class ten minutes ago, had he not been fleeing the library.
“Oh, don’t worry, I only have a few minutes, too. I have a meeting with a big Harvard guy about me speaking for the environmental conference and of coursetoday’sthe day the coffee place runs out of thegoodrecycled paper cups and is usingplastic.”
“Wow, talk about Murphy’s Law,” Brennan deadpanned.
“It’s really that kind of day,” his mom agreed, his sarcasm so far over her head it was intercepting a flight to Boston Logan. She added, almost as an afterthought, “How are you? How do I make it video again? I want to see your face.”
Ah, yes. That was Brennan’s mom. Meredith Brooks, big-shot academic-slash-activist, running around yelling about the rising oceans and industrial carbon emissions, trying to save the planet. That part was awesome. Always busy, always between meetings or classes, environmental scientist first, mom second. That part was less awesome.
Brennan grimaced and checked in his phone’s reflection to make sure there was no trace of blood on his face. Which was not something he’d ever thought he’d have to do before FaceTiming his mom.
It took a solid minute for his mom to get her own camera on, and then it was their two rectangle images set over each other, with his mom’s perfectly maintained blond hair pulled into a neat ponytail. Shewas all tan and strong, natural energy. It was no wonder she did well in the environmental space. She was so put-together.
And then there was Brennan. With his patchy-bleached hair, pale and gaunt with shadows under his eyes, helookedlike a depressed, zombified shell of a human, which was scary-accurate considering his possibly-not-alive status.
“Oh good,” she said, paused, took in Brennan. Then, “You need a haircut.”
Hedidneed a haircut. But would it even grow out anymore? Another question for his journal. Not quite as high a priority as some others.
“Yeah,” Brennan said. “Soon, yeah, I’m just getting used to the semester.”
“Tell me about it,” his mom said, and Brennan prepared for her to start monologuing. “Kirigan pushed off all the freshman courses to me, and was so condescending about it. But I do really enjoy the younger classes, helping them build that foundation.…”
Brennan tuned her out, focusing instead on the sound of wind rustling the trees. His mom had finally accepted a tenure-track professor position a few months after Brennan started college. Now she was enmeshed and thriving, though still a relative newbie. He was proud of her, obviously, but he couldn’t help resenting her a little. He spent his entire life moving from place to place because she didn’t want to settle down, and as soon as he moved out, she changed her mind.
People would tell Brennan that it took a special kind of person to get a master’s and two PhDs while being a single mother. Brennan disagreed—it tooktwokinds of special people. The first, a self-absorbed, book-smart mother, and the second, an overly self-sufficient latchkey kid cursed to grow up with attachment issues.
“—I’m really just trying to take it a day at a time,” she finished. Brennan hummed along to confirm he was listening, which he was not. “But anyway, you’re keeping up with school? Getting ahead on your readings?”
“Of course,” Brennan said. He’d started reading chapters as soon as his textbooks were available, but even that head start wouldn’t buy him much time with everything else going on.
“And how are you doing?”
He hated this question from her. She always asked it with the demeanor of checking something off her to-do list.
“I’m doing well,” Brennan hedged.
His mom scanned him from the screen, her face so close to the camera that he couldn’t see anything around her. She had two doctorates but didn’t know how to hold a phone so Brennan didn’t have to look directly up her nostrils.
“That’s so good to hear,” she said, and her voice was thick, and no,no,if she started crying Brennan would hang up—
“I’m so glad you’re doing well,” she continued around a sniffle. “You know how I worry and how much last semester scared me.” She started crying. The camera showed her chin from below, perfectly highlighting her trembling lower lip.
“Oh, Mom, I’m—I’m really doing well. This semester will be different, I know it,” he said, instinctively going back to the mantra he’d been telling himself a few days ago. Now it felt like a bold-faced lie.
“I just want you to be happy and do well, okay? I can’t go through something like that again.”
