“Tibby!” mother called, I hated the nickname. There was anger in her voice.
I fell to the floor & scrambled to take my socks off. I managed to pull them off, stood and stuff them into my PJ pockets. But she’d seen.
“What’s that?” she asked. Her old face was a twisted mess of wrinkled highways; too many years of smoking too many Camels. A puff of smoke billowed from her nose as she stared at me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mama?”
“You were outside looking at that Charlie boy weren’t you? He’s nothing but trouble, Tibby,”
I shook my head quickly, “No, I.”
She rose two figures with a cancer-stick squeezed between two nicotine stains, “Don’t you backtalk; don’t start, go to bed”
My mouth clamped shut as I sneaked past Mama to find the stairs.
I slammed the door shut, turned the lights out and made it to my window. With as little scraping as I could, I opened it and stared out at Charlie poking his fire.
“What lovely patterns he draws,” I gushed as Charlie drew faces in the air with his burning stick.