Tangled by Carolyn Mackler Page A

lifting the phone to my ear.
    “You got in some trouble this morning,” she said.
    Leave it to Melinda Evans to state the obvious.
    “Your father and I talked,” she said. “It sounds like things are getting out of control for you. We both decided you need a change of scenery.”
    Oh, Jesus , I thought, wondering where this was headed.
    “You’re going to stay with your grandparents for the week that you’re suspended. No protests.”
    I held my breath, hoping she’d say my Idaho grandparents. They’re clueless, but okay. Unlike my mom’s parents, who are downright assholes.
    “I’ll drive you to Knolls Landing at nine tomorrow,” my mom added.
    There were a million things running through my head, like how could they send me to Pauline and Bill’s, who don’t like me, who barely like her ?
    “Can’t I just drive myself?” I asked.
    “Your father didn’t tell you?”
    “Tell me what?”
    “He’s taking away your car,” my mom said.
    I inhaled sharply. After all the shitty things that had happened today, I hadn’t realized it could get worse.
    “See you tomorrow,” she added. “Be ready.”

seven
    When my mom pulled into the driveway the next morning, she honked twice. My dad was still sleeping. He didn’t work last night, but he keeps the same hours seven days a week. I grabbed my bag, checked to make sure I’d remembered my iPod, and then headed outside. My mom was in the driver’s seat, her blazer neatly pressed, her brown hair pulled in a low ponytail.
    She popped the trunk. I threw in my stuff. As I was buckling my seat belt, she pointed her manicured finger in my direction and said, “I am not happy with you right now.”
    “It’s great to see you, too,” I said as she reversed onto Meadowview Drive.
    I wasn’t exactly in the best mood. The guys on the team kept texting last night, giving me hell for fuckingup baseball season. And then, when I called Wegmans to tell my manager I’d be away for the week, he said he couldn’t guarantee my shifts when I returned.
    For the first half hour of the drive, my mom didn’t say a word to me. Her phone kept ringing. By the third call, she clipped on her earpiece and answered it. It sounded like some woman she exercises with because my mom apologized for missing her at the gym. “A small problem came up,” my mom said. “I’ll be there next Saturday.”
    So that’s what I was to her. A small problem.
    After she hung up, my mom hit a button on her phone. “Hey, Owen,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure you found that cinnamon roll I left on the counter.”
    She checks to see if my brother eats breakfast? He’s fifteen, for God’s sake.
    My mom proceeded to tell Owen there was grapefruit juice in the fridge and cash on the table. I was just wondering whether she was going to instruct him to shake his dick after he pissed when she said, “And don’t stay in front of that computer all day. It’s a beautiful spring morning. Take a bike ride or something.”
    She tells him to take a bike ride?
    As soon as my mom hung up, I said, “You need to letup on Owen. You baby him too much. You need to let him take care of himself more, become a man.”
    “Thanks,” my mom said, “but I’ll pass on your parenting advice.”
    “As long as you’re okay having a wuss for a son.”
    “Leave Owen alone,” my mom snapped, turning on the radio. “He’s doing fine.”
    Leave Owen alone. That was a phrase I’d heard my entire life. Owen was only two and a half years younger than me, but my mom was so protective of him you’d think he was an infant. He’d always been on the scrawny side, not particularly athletic. My dad used to get mad at him for never wanting to play ball with us. That was back when we all lived together. Sometimes, when Owen and I argued, I’d knock him around a little. But as soon as my mom showed up she’d scramble to my brother’s defense, grounding me without even hearing both sides of the story.
    A few minutes