142 Ostriches. April Davila

      “It’s not like it’s boarding school. You’ll be living with family.”

      “I don’t know her,” I said, pointing at Grandma Helen, who was patiently waiting out our discussion.

      My mom sighed. “Well, I do,” she said. “She’s stubborn and old-fashioned, but she’d take care of you.”

      “Right,” I said. “Because she did such a fucking stellar job with you?”

      The smoke from her cigarette trailed up in a perfect, unbroken line. “I’m sick of this shit,” she said. “Go pack your things.”

      “No,” I yelled, pounding the table.

      I swear, she grew three inches. “Go. Pack. Your. Shit,” she said. “I’m done with you.” And she went back to making her coffee.

      Tears threatened, but I refused to cry. Instead, I glared at her with all the anger I could muster. “I hate you.”

      Two hours later, I had packed everything I owned into three giant garbage bags. Grandma Helen helped me load them into the bed of her pickup. I thought about the new boots my mom had bought the month before and the expensive bottle of liquor she’d brought to her friend’s birthday party—bought with money meant for me. The more I mulled over the details, the angrier I became.