How It Ends by Catherine Lo (classic books for 13 year olds .TXT) 📕

my face in my hands, sick at the thought of trekking back to school in the freezing cold.

Just when I think things can’t get any worse, I hear a car pull up to the curb. God, I hate the suburbs. In the city, you can have an emotional breakdown right on the street and people will step right over you, minding their own business. Here in the boonies, though, people love to get involved. I say a little prayer that whoever it is will just keep on moving, but the sound of a car door opening shatters that hope. Goddamn it. I’m about to say that I’m just waiting for someone when I hear Mrs. Avery’s voice.

“Annie? Sweetheart, where is your coat? And why are you home from school?” Before I can string together enough thoughts to form a response, she’s out of her car and racing toward me, concern etched on her face. “Are you sick?”

All the years of pretending to be okay evaporate in the face of her kindness.

“Are you locked out, hon? You can come home with me . . .”

I nod my head and pick up my bag, my whole body numb from the cold.

Mrs. Avery settles me in the car and then pauses before shutting the door. I look up at her, and she does the most unbelievable thing. She takes off her coat and wraps it around me before sprinting over to her door and jumping into the car.

“How you managed to get here all the way from school without freezing to death is beyond me.” Her shivering fingers crank the heat up to high, and I move to give her back her coat. “Don’t even think about it,” she commands, swinging the car around to head back to her house.

Tears prickle in my eyes. Mrs. Avery has known me for only a few months and she’s kinder to me than my own family.

She pulls up to a stop sign and sneaks a look at me, taking in my tearstained cheeks. “I have an idea,” she says. “What would you say to the two of us playing hooky from everything and heading to the coffee shop for a warm drink and some treats? I think you need some girl time.”

My throat constricts, and I’m suddenly weak with want. Most of the time I feel tough and independent, but today I need a mother to take care of me.

At the coffee shop, Mrs. Avery makes a big deal out of introducing me to the lady behind the counter, telling her that it’s a special occasion. I order a hot chocolate and a brownie, and they put extra whipped cream in my drink.

We find a tiny little table tucked away at the back and sit down. As soon as it’s just the two of us, though, I’m all awkward and nervous. I’m not sure what to say.

“Thank you for all this, Mrs. Avery,” I start. “My stepsister will be home later and I can be out of your hair.”

“No trouble at all. Something very upsetting must have happened to make you run out of school without a coat.”

“Just a bad day, I guess.”

“It must have been . . . you left less than an hour into the school day.”

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “I never even made it to first period.”

“That is a bad day. Want to talk about it?”

What can I say? That I’m jealous of her relationship with her daughter? That seeing Jessie happy makes me sad? What kind of friend would think that way? “I miss my mom.”

Mrs. Avery’s face softens, and she takes my hands in hers. Something inside me cracks, and words start tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them. “She died six years ago on Halloween. I miss her so much, and I feel like I’m the only one who even remembers her. My dad got remarried to this horrible woman with a perfect daughter, and it’s like they want to start over with a brand-new family and I’m an ugly reminder of the past.”

Mrs. Avery is quiet for a few minutes, and I start to feel like a total idiot. This woman is so kind to me. She doesn’t need me dumping all my problems on her.

“That sounds like a lonely way to live. Have you talked to your father about how you feel?”

I snort. “He knows I don’t like Madge . . . that’s my stepmother . . . but he doesn’t get why. Every time I complain about her, he just figures I’m being difficult and that I won’t give her a chance because she’s not my mom. He’s not really around enough to see how bad it is.”

“Does he travel?”

“A bit. But mostly he just works long hours. I feel like he doesn’t want to be home anymore.”

“Sometimes when people are sad, they immerse themselves in other things. Maybe your dad works so much because he’s trying to distract himself from missing your mom.”

“I doubt it. I feel like he forgets all about her. He never talks about her. And he got married so fast . . .”

“How long have he and . . . Madge . . . been married?”

“Her name is Madeleine, but I call her Madge because she hates it.” That makes Mrs. Avery laugh. “They met about four years after Mom died. Six months later, they got married in our backyard, and she and her daughter moved in. So it’s been about a year and a half now.”

“That’s all still pretty new. It takes a while to adjust to these things.”

“I don’t want to adjust. I want my mom back. Or at least to feel like we’re still remembering her.”

Mrs. Avery nods. “What do you remember about your mother?”

The question is a bright, shiny gift. “She was beautiful and smart and kind. She was an artist and always had paintbrushes sticking out of her pockets and shoved in her hair.” Tears overflow and run down my cheeks, but I don’t want to stop talking. “She made me feel like