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followed.
    His mother was perturbed, on her way out the door that day, waving the damn pink sheet around in the air like a matador for a bull. Her face contorted like she’d smelled something foul, she asked him to explain why he kept woolgathering in class. He didn’t have the heart to be honest and tell her the truth.
    ‘Why? Because it fucking sucks here, that’s why. School is boring and they talk to us like we’re kindergarteners. I’d rather daydream and pretend I’m anywhere than right here, Mama…’
    That would’ve been accurate, but even if he did risk it all and blurt out the opinions hitched onto the wagon of pure, unadulterated honesty, she wouldn’t listen and would kick his ‘truth’ around until the wheels fell off. Matter of fact, she’d undoubtedly accuse him of being an ungrateful little bastard and storm out. Truth was, Mama was afraid of being alone. He could see that, and he owed her. She told him at least once a week how important it was for him to stay home and how lucky he was to have a mother that loved and took care of him. But he was getting older… And there was no man in the house. The ones that did come never stayed with her long, and they sure as hell didn’t pay him any mind. He’d even toyed with the wretched possibility that he may be destined to stay in Monroe for the rest of his miserable life. Maybe then he could pass for the age of sixteen, and help Mama bring in some money. Money was important, the one thing that made her smile, but the lack of it caused them a hell of a lot of grief. His poverty level was his reality, and as certain as the old, tattered, second hand clothing on his body and the growling stomach that was his and his alone, so were his dazzling daydreams of getting his hands on some cash.
    If I’m gonna be stuck here, might as well make it better…
    He made his way back in the galley and gazed out the undersized, cramped kitchen into the living room, staring at the back of his mother’s slumped head. She sat there, leaned against the threadbare muted orange headrest, her freckled arm hanging loosely over the side of the damn thing. Soon, she’d have to be right back up and out the door. He hated that for her. He hated it for him, too. Mama wasn’t no fun anymore. They used to laugh and listen to music when he was younger. She’d even go over his homework every now and again. Sometimes she’d even drive them to Dairy Queen or the local Kmart, for a change of pace. If he was lucky, or she was feeling particularly happy, he’d get a nice big cone of Superman ice cream and some new socks and underwear, but now, he barely saw her and when he did, she was in an ornery mood. But, she was all he had.
    Mama was loyal. She took care of him. He wallowed in a shallow pool of guilt for his continuous aspirations of wishing to flee her, break their chains that strangled his very hopes and dreams. Something about her love was simply too much. It overwhelmed him, suffocated his spirit, and smothered the daylights out of his resolve; he couldn’t breathe in her presence. Turning away from the sight of her, he pulled the sour, yellow sponge off the edge of the basin, then reached for the emerald Palmolive dish soap detergent and used a meager, watered-down dollop to prepare to wash the dishes. The water barely got hot anymore, and it seemed all the scrubbing in the world wouldn’t remove the stuck on frosted flake cereal and hardened pasta from the bottom and sides of the dishes. He slid his hands into the cool water, elbow deep, bringing up a world of suds. His face split into a grin as he imagined that was similar to what deep-sea divers did when looking for treasure. Brent closed his eyes real tight, his smile growing a bit more as his long fingers sprawled around in the wet murkiness.
    He laughed lightly as he grabbed hold of a fork. In his mind, it became a string of pearls—hell, maybe even rubies… No, it was a rare archeological find, an ancient Greek