The Good Son by Carolyn Mills (best novels for teenagers .txt) 📕

afternoon shift, was like a life raft for my brain. I began to count down the hours until I was back on Lindell Drive.

I can’t remember who chose the movie, whether it was Ricky or Stan, but I remember sitting on that awful brown couch hoping that Ricky couldn’t see how absolutely terrified I was. We were watching Friday the 13th and while Ricky and Stan were laughing, my breathing was becoming shallower and shallower. My hands were so clammy they left wet imprints on my pants. Several times, I thought I was going to throw up.

When the movie ended, I couldn’t move.

Stan stood up from his chair and stretched. “Does your mom let you watch shit like this at home?” he asked me.

Ricky twisted around to face me. “What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Right?”

“Right,” I agreed meekly. I couldn’t meet his eyes — I didn’t want to see the threat there that I heard in his voice; but also, I didn’t want him to see the fear in mine.

At some point during that movie, I remembered exactly what kind of person my brother was. And if anyone was going to hurt our mother, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me.

CHAPTER FIVE

•

I MOVE THROUGH THE PLANT in a distracted haze. I finish the alum calculations, then stop to blow my nose for what feels like the hundredth time. Amy’s face swirls through my thoughts like a kite cut from its string. I can’t concentrate on anything. The pain in my sinuses, my dripping nose, my watery eyes — it all takes a back seat to the shock of seeing Amy’s innocent face again. I promised Jason I would call him tonight, but how can I explain what’s going on?

I sluggishly make my way over to Section 4B where the day tanks for our polyaluminum chloride are housed. Huge metal pipes carrying treated water criss-cross the ceiling. I have to side-step a puddle from a valve that’s dripping overhead. The valve is there to allow for spot checks, but I can’t be bothered stopping to tighten it. I continue toward the day tanks, which are filled from much larger storage tanks outside. I record the amount of alum already in the tank before beginning the transfer process and while the chemical pours in, my mind wanders back to Jason. I imagine my future with him dissolving in a sea of useless words and hopeless explanations. How is it possible for this to be happening again?

Just a few weekends ago, I was over at his place while Parker was there and the three of us were playing Junior Monopoly on the floor in the living room. We had bowls of chips and licorice spread around us and it was so relaxing and nice and right. Suddenly, I want that. I want a future filled with cozy afternoons and a man who knows that kissing the side of my neck will almost inevitably lead to more.

I reach in my pocket for a Kleenex, but the ones I pull out are all shredded with use. I fiddle with my earplugs, but the thundering in this section of the plant closes in on me, a freight train barrelling toward my brain. My head is swimming. I need to sit down.

I flip over a plastic bucket to use as a seat a few metres away from the alum tank. I lower myself onto it gingerly, testing whether or not it will support my weight. It buckles slightly, but doesn’t give. I wipe my nose on my sleeve, then shut my eyes against all the noise, against the rushing in my ears, against the panic threatening to overtake me.

Suddenly, I hear a voice shouting. I open my eyes and see Roger running toward me. No, he’s running toward the storage tank, and as I awkwardly push myself to my feet, I see that the day tank is over-flowing, spilling polyaluminum chloride into the containment area.

“What the hell are you doing?” Roger yells as he shuts off the transfer valve.

Shit. Shit shit shit. There’s a low cement wall surrounding the tank, designed specifically to contain a spill like the one I just caused, but as I’m standing there staring at the mess, Bruce, the shift supervisor, strides toward us and I’m trying to form an explanation, but my mouth won’t cooperate so I just gape at Roger and Bruce stupidly.

Bruce surveys the damage, throwing a few choice words my way, then marches off to arrange for a vacuum tanker to deal with the overflow, which he assures me, isn’t how he was hoping to spend his afternoon.

“You okay?” Roger asks me.

“Yeah, I’m just —”

“Don’t worry about it. It happens. Barney once miscalculated the chlorine dosage and we had to drain two entire tanks of treated water. Had to issue a statement to the whole bloody township explaining the temporary water shortage. This, this is nothing.”

“Yeah, well, I doubt Bruce thinks it’s nothing.” I pause. “You think this’ll come up in my interview?” Chemical spill due to negligence. How will that go over with the new owners?

Later, when Bruce calls me into his office to file a report, I am dizzy with fatigue and apprehension. “I don’t know what happened,” I start to say. “I lost track of —”

“Zoe, I’m sending you home.”

My head jerks up. “What? Just because I made a mistake?”

He shakes his head. “Because you’re sick. You look like hell. Get some rest and don’t come back until you can function properly. I don’t need any more screw-ups to report. Especially not now.” He looks at me meaningfully.

I know exactly what he’s trying to say. Even though he’s a supervisor, Bruce has to go through the same bullshit interview process as the rest of us. This accident doesn’t just reflect poorly on me, it also looks bad on him. The cost to clean it up won’t go unnoticed.

“Who’ll take the rest of my shift?” I ask, although at the moment, I