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looks.”
    “How what looks?” my mother questions.
    He shoves the bag into his suit coat pocket. The thrash of his pounding heart is loud enough to shatter glass. His mind is empty. He has nothing to say. He can’t stop thinking: There is no way to explain what I’ve done.
    “How what looks?” Mom repeats herself.
    “Casey found something inside of Jill,” Jayne says, uncertainty flashes across her face.
    “ Inside ?” A barrage of thoughts run through her mind and her face doesn’t hide what she’s thinking.
    “Mom, he found part of a crayon in her private part.” Jayne blushes. She can’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. She knows this going to cause attention the family doesn’t need.
    “Oh, brother.” Mom pulls on her coat. “I could’ve gone the rest of my life without picturing that.”
    “Pardon?” Casey is speechless at her reaction.
    “Well, we all know Jill wasn’t getting any.”
    What?
    Casey furrows his brow. “I don’t think I quite follow what you’re saying.”
    “Mom,” Jayne says, understanding what Mom's thinking.
    “Fat girls don’t get attention from boys,” Mom says it loud enough everyone in the room can hear. “They—they take care of themselves.”
    Are you kidding me? You think I put it there?
    “Gross.” Martha looks up from her cell phone.
    Billy can’t stop thinking of all the times I was alone in my room and what I was doing. He shudders.
    “It’s time to go home,” Jayne says, holding back tears. “I am so sick of our family making fools of ourselves.”
    “Damn it, Jayne.” Mom lunges toward her, but Casey holds Mom back. “That’s the second time in an hour you’ve pulled this shit on me.”
    “Mom, I just—”
    Mr. Mason interrupts, “I think it’s time for everyone to leave.” He lifts his brow and gives Casey one of those see-what-I-mean looks.
    I’m mortified.
    I want to crawl under a rock and die, except I’m already dead.
    Leave it to my mother to find a way to humiliate me even after my death.

Six
    I beat them home from the mortuary. Mom is probably taking her sweet time at Sinclair grabbing a six-pack. My hopes are high she won’t start drinking before they get to the house. I need to vent, which requires her full concentration.
    The old Pontiac Grand Prix pulls into the drive.
    They slowly get out. Much too slow for my liking. I’m ready. Fired up with all sorts of ammunition. Stuff I’ve had on my chest for years.
    Mom slouches as her feet hit the concrete under the carport.
    I take a whiff.
    She’s not drunk. Yet.
    She shudders from the cold and Jayne helps her in the house like an old crippled lady. I can’t stand how helpless she chooses to be. She doesn’t deserve a kid as good as Jayne. She deserves Billy and Martha. All the lies, drama, and bullshit they put her through. That’s what she deserves.
    Mom twists the plastic sack from her wrist and sets it down next to the couch. She settles against the lime-and-brown flowered armrest and then drops to the cushions before she wrestles to get her coat off.
    “Here, let me help,” Jayne says, setting mom free. “Can I get you anything?”
    Don’t get her crap, Jayne; she doesn’t deserve it.
    “The remote.” Mom twists the ribbed cap off her 40-ounce Bud Light.
    Yeah, go for the big boys tonight. Pretend they’ll take you away. Maybe they won’t hurt you as bad as the real men you made a name with in town. Hide in here like nobody knows a thing about your life.
    They know, Mom.
    “The whole damn town knows.” I scream at the top of my lungs.
    Jayne crosses in front of me and drapes my mother in a dull orange afghan. Probably something my mother made when she was a kid. It reeks of sweat and vodka.
    What’s that? You hate that your blanket stinks? Oh, I’m sorry, Jayne doesn’t have time to take care of your crap since she slaves away cleaning up Johnny’s.
    Oh, Jayne didn’t tell you? Well then, let me. You know that sweet little receptionist job