Unhappy Mother, Unhappy Life

I stare at Aiden, wondering if he's just trying to make me feel good. But I can't forget that compliment. It warmed me. "I'm remarkable? How exactly?"

A crazy grin lights his face. "You can amplify."

"Amplify what?"

"The power. Channeling. Make other people stronger, or make it easier for the novices to control. It's incredible, Kate. You have no idea—"

"Yes, but what did I do?"

Aiden cuts off, shakes his head.

"What, Aiden? Why am I sure something bad happened? What have I been doing?"

He scowls. "It was nothing. It's not important."

I impress myself with the derisive snort I'm able to shove out, like I'm totally normal and in control, and not on the verge of crapping my pants. "It's important to me."

He shakes his head, still not meeting my eyes. "You were . . . feeding people," he says carefully.

"Feeding them what?"

"The power. That's what I mean, Kate. You haven't been through the process. You know nothing. If you did, you'd understand: Even Shades who've channeled for years can't amplify like that. You made everyone stronger." He grins and shakes his head.

"Where—"

"It's called Sunset Point, but people kill themselves jumping off that cliff onto the rocks almost every year. So we all call it Dead Man's Beach."

I drop my face in my hands. "And why did we go there?"

"You wanted to party. A bunch of us decided to ditch the bonfire. It's the place we go when we want to get away from the wannabes."

"But I'm not a Shade."

He snorts. "You might as well have been. You should have seen their faces—everyone'll want you after that," he says like the thought is delicious. "You made them more powerful. Kate, relax." He takes my hand and I let him. "This is a good thing. This is fantastic."

I want to believe him, want to sit back and enjoy the afterglow of the binding.

But every time I start to, I look at the light edging up on the horizon, turning the parking lot to a hazy gray.

"I have to go."

Like I didn't even speak, Aiden grins. "We'll have to be more careful next time."

"Next time?" I shake my head and take a step back. "No. This is never happening again."

Aiden's lips curl just enough to look patronizing. "Well, if you change your mind, we'll have to talk about it. I don't want keep you under too long again if you're worried about curfews."

Shit. Curfew. My parents. I look at the sky. It's lighter already. "Where's my car?"

He points over my shoulder. I dig in the pocket of my jacket for my keys, but

Aiden jingles them in front of my face. "Go north a couple miles, you'll see the exit for Barnett Street."

I snatch them and turn for the car.

"See you Monday!"

His lightheartedness irritates me. That was big. That was huge. That was . . . I don't know what that was. But it was like nothing I've ever experienced before.

I don't want to do it again.

I don't.

*****

Half an hour later I'm at the crochet-covered table in the dining room, arms folded, waiting for my mother to run out of steam.

"…so incredibly irresponsible and-and immature! Do you have any idea how worried we were? No, of course you don't. Well, it's got to stop, Kate! I mean, if I'd shown this disregard for my parents . . . "

There's zero point trying to talk when she's like this. I already know how this'll go. She'll make me apologize, ground me, outline what a terrible example I am to Amy. Then ignore me for a few days. By next weekend she'll act like nothing happened.

Been there. Done that.

Yawn.

The only odd thing is Dad, perched against the kitchen counter, staring at me. I don't think he's blinked in the twenty minutes since I got home. His frown etches lines in his face so deep I could stick a corner of paper in there and it'd stay, fluttering against the wind when he walked.

The mental image of Dad walking through the house with pastel yellow flags sticking out of his cheeks makes me laugh. I fight a grin.

Mom cuts herself off mid-tirade. "Are you laughing? Seriously? Dan, our daughter is laughing at me!"

Dad blinks finally, then looks at Mom. "I think she's got the message."

My jaw drops. Did Dad just tell Mom to stop yammering?

Mom's shocked too. The hand she flung toward me to indicate my disrespect is frozen in mid-air. Her mouth is open, but nothing's coming out.

Now I know I've seen everything.

Dad pushes off the counter and takes the seat across the table from me.

"Kate?"

"Yeah?"

"Why did you stay out all night?"

I gape. He's asking? Mom looks so incredulous I wonder if she'll recover.

"I didn't mean to. I was hanging with friends and fell asleep."

Excellent. I haven't lost my ability to baldface lie without flinching. Though my stomach twists.

The addiction program emphasizes how important it is to be honest. Because lying opens the door to hiding—and that's the fastest way to ify getting high. No one will know. It didn't hurt anyone . . .

Dad tips his head down and gives me the flat-lipped I Don't Believe You stare.

"No, seriously. I came home as soon as I woke up." That's mostly true.

His lips twist. But he's hamstrung by my sobriety. The moment I stepped in the door they smelled my breath, checked my eyes, made me pee in a cup.

Mom was pissed when the stick came back negative.

I'm straight, and they know it.

Dad's eyes drop to his fingers laced together on the table. He talks to them instead of me. "Were you . . . with a guy?" He asks the question with such dread in his voice, I can't help the laughter that snorts before I can shove it down. Dad frowns harder at his hands, but doesn't meet my eyes.