I've always had a knack for eavesdropping, both accidental and intentional. It's ironic because I habitually tune into people's conversations when they're talking, but when someone is talking directly to me, I don't listen to them. Like when Mrs. Jeffries tells me to take out the trash or keep my elbows off the dinner table I ignore her, but as she's speaking on the phone in her bedroom with the door cracked open, I find myself straining to hear her words.

It's just past eight o'clock after dinner. I had just finished cleaning dishes when I was on my way to the staircase to get to my room when I heard some traces of a private phone conversation.

From what I can see from the sliver of space between the door and door frame, Mrs. Jeffries is sitting on the edge of her neatly-made bed with her phone pressed against her ear and her arms crossed. She sighs and rubs her forehead.

"Do we need to be there? Does Ellis?"

I lean in closer to get a better look. Mr. Jeffries comes into view—he's leaning against the sleek backboard of the bed frame as he scrolls through his phone. With his feet stretched out in front of him and his eyelids drooping, it looks like he could fall asleep any time now.

Mrs. Jeffries glances back at her husband as she listens to the person on the other side of the call replies.

"How long until she's out on parole?" She asks after a moment.

My stomach drops. Parole?

"And will there be any contact between the two when Rory's out?"

Head spinning, I step away from the door and towards the stair case. Trevor bounds down the stairs and looks at me oddly as he passes me.

"Aren't you supposed to be in your room?"

I look at him, but then look away and climb the steps. I feel Trevor's eyes linger on me for a few moments before he rolls his eyes and turns back to whatever he was going to do downstairs.

I pass by multiple frames pictures of Trevor and Savanna hanging up on the hallway walls before reaching my room. I lean my back against the door to shut it behind me, then slide down to the floor. My blank, unfocused eyes stare across the room.

Realization starts to creep in as the initial shock subsides. I didn't think it would happened again, not after what happened last time, but now it's clear.

I'm going to see my mom again.

▂▂▂▂▂▂

Mrs. Jeffries hasn't said anything about my mother to me yet. I didn't expect her to immediately come to me with everything she was told on the phone by Jeremy Hall, but I did expect her to at least say something the following morning. I'm pretty sure I have a right to know what's going on.

Instead, the morning was normal; Mrs. Jeffries fussed to feed Savanna and to get Trevor ready for school and Mr. Jeffries for work. She gave me an extra glance in the midst of the madness, but that was it.

In the library during study hall, I hope that she will tell me when I return from school. It's all that I think about—I can't stop thinking about my mother being out on parole. I can't stop wondering how she is. It's not like she's a one-time offender. The first time Rory Turner was incarcerated, she was driving while high on heroin with a twelve-year-old me in the back seat and caused a car accident on the interstate. That's when she lost custody of me and I was thrusted into the foster care system the first time. She sobered up in record time and had multiple visitations with me before eventually gaining custody again when I was fourteen. It didn't even take a month for her to be jailed for the second time. I thought for sure that with driving under influence, child neglect and endangerment, and illegal drug charges on her record would eliminate every chance of her getting out of jail early and ever getting me back.

I guess I was wrong.

I'm in the middle of listening to music and staring at my unwritten essay on the library's computer when the door opens. Since it's relatively quiet in the large library, the door opening and closing echoes throughout the room and reaches my ears past the music. I sit back in my chair and peer around a book case in my line of sight of the entrance.

A familiar young boy with blue doe eyes, chunky glasses, a hollow frame, and crooked nose walks towards the check-in and out counter with a book under one arm. His eyes fleetingly meet mine. As soon as they do, I remember him.

Stuttering Boy.

He looks away, but then seems to recognize me and makes eye-contact with me again. He adjusts his path to the left and comes my way.

I immediately stand from my chair and start to collect my things to leave before he can get to me. I just want to be alone. That's why I came to the library during lunch in the first place. Unfortunately, I only get to take a step towards the door with my folders and iPod in my hands before he reaches me.

"Wait!"

I halt in my tracks. Stuttering Boy pushes his glasses up his nose and takes a half-step back, almost running straight into me from my abrupt stop. I look at him expectedly. He clears his throat.

"What?"

He adjusts the book in his arms. "I–I–I just, I just w–w–w–w . . ." He stops, cheeks flaring. He takes a deep breath and says, "I–I'm Thomas."

I give him a blank look. "Okay . . .?"

His gaze darts to his shoes. He clears his throat again. "Th–thank you for, for, uh, for s–sticking up for me."

I blink. "Are you talking about when I punched Blake Anderson?"

He nods.

"I didn't stick up for you," I tell him in a snappy tone. "I punched him because he was being an asshole."

I get a quick glance at his book—something about Astronomy—before I shoulder past Thomas. He starts after me at first, but once he realizes that I'm not stopping for him again, he gives up and lets me leave the library in peace.

▂▂▂▂▂▂

The school has a strict policy about going outside since the campus is one building and sees no need for students to exit the building during school hours. The school has police officers to maintain security, but there's usually only three that are constantly working every day. Since there are obviously more than three doors that lead to the outdoors, I find an exit out of any officer's sight and push the door open. The fresh air instantly hits my face and I breathe in deeply.

I wedge a small rock in between the door and the door frame so it doesn't lock behind me before peeling my backpack off my back and sitting down on the ground. I lean back against the brick of the school and pull my backpack in front of me. I unzip the main pocket and rifle through its contents before my hand brushes up against what I'm looking for.

I grab the small bottle of pills—Adderall, I think—and pop open the cap. I throw a few pills into my mouth and swallow them dry. It's not too often that I down pills, but it's not uncommon either. Something about being high on the drug makes me feel more in control of my life and just better in general. It makes my problems fade away. It's a relief.

Right now, with the idea of my mother returning weighing down on me, I could definitely use a relief.