Mafia Runner

Chapter Three

3.

I tapped my fingers against the kitchen table, engrossed in the activity of parent-watching. My father had on his typical 'absorbed-in-work-don't-interrupt' expression. His tablet was sitting on the marble counter and a pile of paper spilled from his leather briefcase. Besides my own tapping on the table, his persistent typing was the only thing breaking the silence of the kitchen.

Across the table, my mother was on her phone, her brows furrowed as she composed a quick email to one of her coworkers. A plate of toast sat untouched besides her, turning as cold as my soggy waffles.

Apparently neither one of them remembered my birthday. I wasn't that upset. Sooner or later they would remember, or their calendars would have 'Afton's Eighteenth Birthday' pop up on their notifications. And then the gifts would start and my mother would bake her boxed cake. Ironically, that botched cake turned out to be the highlight of my birthdays.

Leaning my chin on my open palm, I stabbed the waffles. There was too much butter and too much syrup. It didn't help matters that I had burned them originally, now they were just soggy-burned.

"Afton," my mother admonished distractedly, "what did I tell you about your elbows on the table? Practice some table manners or we will sign you up for etiquette classes."

Sighing, I stood up. "I'm going to school."

Throwing my dirty dish in the sink, waffle included, I headed for my backpack. It still had the sweaty track uniform inside despite my mental reminders to take it out the night before. I could almost smell the sweat from here.

"Have a good day," my father called distractedly.

I mumbled something in response, ready to leave before my mother called out.

"Afton, wait!" She ran toward me—more like shuffled—in her high heels. Her crimson lips pressed in a worried line as she waved her phone listlessly. "Come home right after school today. Remember, we have that dinner party to attend tonight. I took the initiative to purchase you a new coat because I knew you would forget."

Oh, "Right, thanks."

I nodded thinly at her and exited the house. I should have known it was another dinner party, on my birthday, no less.

M.R.

"Ah, man! They forgot about your birthday again this year, didn't they?"

Slamming the car door, I stared at Tony. The boy's hair was due for another bleaching. The dark roots stood out sharply against the white hair. "I don't know what you're talking about." We stood outside the school, the warning bell about to ring in three minutes. I had class on the other side of the campus— a good five-minute walk. But Tony stood in my way and blocked the path.

"Look." Tony looked around.

I frowned, glancing around the parking lot at the other students scurrying to the school. "What?" Other than a few kids thinking they were being discrete by smoking pot in their cars, I didn't notice anything out of place.

The boy scoffed, pushing me roughly against my own car. "When was the last time you ditched school?"

I had no idea where this conversation was headed, and quite frankly, I didn't want it to continue. "I never ditch school, Tony. You know that. I got sick last month and felt guilty missing half a day."

"Yeah," Tony pushed me against my car again when I tried to make my way around him. "You never miss a day of school, you fucking stiff. We have a few days left of school, Afton. You've already been accepted to UCLA. Everything is set in stone, so what's stopping you from skipping school with me today?"