Foreign Objects

08 • Lete

"Oh, alright. Glad you guys are still friends," she says. "I'll fix you something before you finish getting ready."

I pause. "No that's okay mom, I don't wanna stress you."

Some mornings, I complain of having to always eat cereal or having to always order takeouts or be subjected to my bad cooking but, the thought of having something different today, isn't really settling well with me.

"Stress is having to spend hours at the hospital with no breaks," she chuckles. "Making eggs and toast for my daughter shouldn't be a big deal."

And she's off before I can protest any further.

Sighing, I look back to the mirror and untie my scarf, proceeding to put my locs into a half updo, at least the one part of my look today that I planned beforehand.

My phone makes notification noises. I peer at it, seeing that I got new messages from Mike.

I take a break from getting ready to read his texts.

Mike T:
Just hear me out okay?

Mike T:
Read them with an open mind.

And the other messages are just links to articles.

I click on one and when the page opens and I see the article topic, I huff.

"He's gotta be kidding me."

-

"It is Tuesday, October first and Police have found evidence that Clarke Lopez was abusive to his now deceased wife, Lilian Lopez," BIT's News anchor reports. "Gomez is on the scene and she will take it from here."

The screen switches to said Gomez who has a microphone to her mouth as she stands in front of a deserted area with yellow tapes behind her. She starts saying more about the case.

"Are you seeing this?" My mom scoffs from the kitchen, fry pan sizzling in front of her. "This man claimed his wife was abducted by aliens and whole time, he murdered her and kept her body in a bag and was just using the alien story as cover up."

Wasn't this the story Mike was telling us about last week?

Now, they're showing us a video of the bag her body was kept in, the visual blurred.

"Abusive asshole." My mom tuts. "Hope he rots."

So Peyton was right. The asshole really was using the current situation as a means of getting away with murder.

"Hope he ends up at the hottest part of hell," I echo, going to sit down on a stool in front of the kitchen counter, just in time as my mom places some scrambled eggs on a plate in front of me.

"So, how's school going?" she asks me as I start eating.

I give a nod and answer with a mouth full, "It's going well."

It's silent for a bit and then she proceeds to open up the can. "I got a call from your principal."

Oh. Now it all makes sense.

"Ah, so that's why you're here?" I ask, dropping my fork. "So you can scold me about getting bad grades?"

She gives me an incredulous look. "I'm here because I'm off from work."

"Exactly," I say, "You're off from work a lot of times, but you usually don't spend it at home."

She quirks an eyebrow. "And what are you trying to say?"

"Bowcreek's a small town mom, of course someone's gonna spot you at Jack Dickson's house-"

"Delilah!" Her nose flares and it's as if I can just see the steam leaving through them. "Watch your mouth."