Whisper Down the Lane by Clay Chapman (inspiring books for teens txt) 📕

“Where did these bruises come from, Sean?”

He wanted to tell her. He really did. But there was something about the sound of his mother’s voice that worried him. An elevation in her pitch. It sounded urgent, like she was worried. Scared, even. Sean got afraid of his mom in moments like these. When her voice lifted to this level—Code red! Code red!—Sean knew giving her the answer wouldn’t be the end of his worries with Tommy Dennings. It would be only the beginning. If he told her The Truth, Mom would get on the phone. She would call the school and demand to speak with the headmaster.

Or worse…What if Mom called Tommy Dennings’s mother? His goose would be cooked, as he’d heard adults say. Sean would never survive to see the end of the school year.

“Talk to me, Sean,” she implored. “Please.” Mom’s voice always sounded like this lately. Ever since Sean brought home that letter—The Letter—from school. Sean had watched her read it, witnessing the low-grade fear take over her face, but she never told him what The Letter said. She balled the paper up and threw it away, as if she were sickened by it.

When Mom talked to Sean now, her words were always urgent. She had never been good at hiding her feelings, especially when she was afraid of something. And Mom was afraid of a lot of things. Boring things, mainly. Like bills. Or work shifts. Or getting Sean to school on time so she could make it to her job. Dinner, bath time, story time, bedtime, wake up time. But something else was bothering her now. Something new.

Their fresh start was starting to feel like a bad start. They lived in a constant state of code red. There was a time when Mom wasn’t afraid but now she acted like something terrible was going to happen to him at any moment. She had even changed her schedule so she could pick him up from school. Sean didn’t understand where this was coming from. If the world was so scary, why couldn’t they stay together forever? Why did he even have to go to school? Sean hated school.

Well, Mr. Woodhouse made it okay, he guessed. He was fun. He was always making up cool new games for the students to play in class. Sean knew these games were actually lessons, but he still liked them. He was becoming sensitive to the intentions of adults.

Mom had been asking Sean a lot about Mr. Woodhouse lately, wanting to know what he did with the rest of the students. She kept asking the same question, only with different words.

Had Sean answered the wrong way? It didn’t seem like she was happy with his reply, even if it was the truth. What did she want to know? What was she looking for?

How could Sean give her what she wanted?

“Did Mr. Woodhouse give you these bruises, Sean?”

What a strange question. Mr. Woodhouse? His teacher? Of course he hadn’t! Mr. Woodhouse always wore brightly colored sweaters, each with a different picture knitted across his chest. Turkeys or reindeer or hearts, depending on the holiday. How many sweaters did he own? A hundred? A thousand? He was a lot younger than Sean’s other teachers. He was always excited to talk through their lessons, like he was learning these things for the first time himself. There was a spark in his eyes, and his red curls bobbed as he nodded enthusiastically whenever a kid answered a question right. He had more energy than any of Sean’s other teachers. Even more than his classmates. He laughed at his own jokes. Sang louder than everyone else. To Sean, he was like a clown without makeup. Always smiling. Eyes wide. Ready to entertain.

“No.” Sean shook his head. It seemed so silly to even think for a second that Mr. Woodhouse would hurt him. Sean liked Mr. Woodhouse. Everybody did. Didn’t they?

Mom only stared back. It seemed like she didn’t believe him. But Mom always believed him. Why doubt him now? That was their one rule. Don’t lie to me, Mom would say whenever a glass broke in the kitchen or there were crayon scribbles on the hallway wall. He knew adults put value in The Truth. A version of it, at least.

“Are you sure?”

Sean didn’t know what to say. He’d already told her that it hadn’t been Mr. Woodhouse—why would a teacher do that?—but Mom wouldn’t accept his answer.

He saw it in her face. Her beautiful face.

Sean always knew his mother was pretty. He thought so, of course, but he knew other people thought she was pretty, too. Men. Customers at the restaurant she worked at. Mom brought him straight home from school most days, but sometimes she would bring him to the diner while she finished her shift. He would eavesdrop on the men telling her that she had a pretty smile. That she should smile more often. See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? She would laugh as she brought them their check, but her smile would fade the moment they left. Sometimes her face would crumple the way Sean’s did before he cried.

Her face was crumpling now.

The water in the bathtub had gone cold. How long had he just been sitting in there? He felt like a California Raisin now, his skin completely pruned. How did that song go? Something about hearing something?

Sean looked down at the water. He really wanted to know what was bothering Mom, but he couldn’t focus if he was looking at her face. He thought of the conversations she had with other adults whenever they came to the house. Dressed-up adults who seemed interested in asking Mom all kinds of pokey questions. Proddy questions.

Are you finding time to manage part-time work and parenting? Are you still on food stamps? What’s the home environment been like since your husband left?

It was all Mom ever talked about anymore.