Page 19 of The Intruder

“I had detention.”

“Of course. It would be too much to ask for you to keep from getting in trouble.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I’m going out tonight.”

Going out? That must mean my mother has a date, which is her first date in practically a year. That explains why she is all dressed up and wearing so much makeup.

I’m glad my mom has a date. Even though she is really pretty, she almost never goes out, maybe for the same reason I don’t have any friends—we are both scared to bring somebody back home with us. But she’s happier when she has a boyfriend. When I was younger, this guy named Chip used to live with us, and things were better then. The house was a little cluttered, but not like it is now, especially because Chip used to pick up after her. He even used to cook, and we made a game of all doing the dishes together right after instead of letting the plates and pans soak in the sink for days. Also, she didn’t worry as much about money because he paid for stuff like groceries and gas. After he left when I was about seven or eight, that’s when things got bad. She was always anxious about running out of money, so she refused to get rid of stuff, because what if we needed a new one and couldn’t afford it?

“When are you going?” I ask her.

She checks her watch. “I’m meeting him in about twenty minutes. I should leave soon.”

She’s looking at me, and I don’t know why at first, but then I realize what she wants me to do.

Oh no. No.

15

A ball of dread fills my stomach. It’s been so long since my mother had a date, I forgot the rules.

“No,” I say. “No, Mom. Please.”

“You know the rules, Ella,” she reminds me. “We do this every time.”

Yes, but it’s been a long time since her last date. I’m thirteen years old now. I thought maybe things had changed.

“Come on.” She jerks her head in the direction of the hall closet. “Let’s go.”

“I promise I’ll be good.” My voice sounds high-pitched and whiny, like I’m a little kid again, and I clear my throat, trying to sound more adult. “I promise. You can trust me. Please, Mommy. Please.”

“I can trust you?” Mom repeats, her voice incredulous. “I literally just caught you throwing away my stuff. You think I’m going to leave you alone here for an entire evening?”

What if I refuse? When I was little, it was easy enough for her to just pick me up and throw me in the closet against my will. But I’m bigger now. I look her up and down, from her heels to her dangly earrings… She is still a lot bigger than me. But I could put up a fight.

Sometimes it feels like I’m not afraid of anybody. I’m not afraid of Anton, that’s for sure. He’s just a stupid bully. I’m not afraid of Principal Garber or getting detention. But I am afraid of my mother.

“I don’t want to go in there,” I say firmly. “I…I won’t do it.”

My mother’s lips set into a straight line. Before I can react, she grabs me by the forearm, her long nails cutting into my skin deep enough to draw blood. I try to wrench myself free, but it’s no use. Maybe if I wasn’t the smallest kid in my whole class, I would be able to resist. But there isn’t anything I can do when she decides to lock me up. She swings me by my arm into our hall closet.

I stumble, tripping on a bunch more bottles that are stacked up in here. Oh my God, how many does my mother have? I try to catch my balance, but then something mysterious squishes under my foot, and I nearly slip again. That’s when the door swings shut. I feel around in the dark, scrambling for the doorknob, but it’s too late. The lock turns, which means I’m not getting out.

“I’m sorry, Ella.” Mom’s voice sounds hollow on the other side of the door. “I won’t be gone long.”

Frustrated, I pound on the door. “Let me out! Please, Mom!”

“I’m sorry, Ella,” she says again in that same flat voice, like she’s not sorry at all.

I pound harder. “Please! I swear I won’t touch anything. I swear on my life!”

She doesn’t reply.

“Please!” I scream, my voice rasping. “Please let me out, Mommy! I’ll be good! Please!”

The only sound is the door to the house slamming shut. She’s gone.

I haven’t been locked in this closet in a long time. There was a period when it seemed like she put me in here at least once a week, but now it’s been a good year or longer. I forgot how claustrophobic it was in here. The space is small enough, but it’s even worse because there’s so much stuff packed inside.

I take a step away from the door, knocking into what must be more plastic bottles. There have got to be at least a couple dozen in here. What does she think we’re going to do with all of them? Build a bottle fort? I can’t even imagine.