You might not write well every day, but you can always edit a bad page. You can’t edit a blank page.Jodi Picoult
Here’s my attempt today to avoid a blank page:
The moment the school’s front door closed behind them, Molly grabbed Millie’s hand. “Stop, tell me what happened. What did he hit you with this time?” The twelve-year-old knew good and well her mother’s blackening eye and three-inch stitching wasn’t from an accident.
“I will, but come on. There’s probably cameras out here.”
Molly descended the stairs and raced to the parked Sentra. After tossing her book bag in the rear seat she waited on her mother thankful their nightmare was ending. “Did you call the police?” Now, she wished she hadn’t spent the night with Alisha.
“Hop in.” The scene from Thanksgiving flashed across Millie’s mind.
The drive to Walmart took five minutes. Thankfully, the traffic on S. Vincennes was light. By the time they arrived Millie had shared a detailed account of what had happened the night before, leaving out the main reason Colton had become enraged.
“If I’d been there I would have killed him.”
“Molly, don’t say that. I’ve taught you better. Think.” They exited the car and headed to the main entrance. “What would have happened to you, to us, if you had shot Colton?”
“Did I say I would have shot him?”
“You know what I mean.” Millie was proud that her daughter was as open as she was, especially after what they’d been through the past year.
“Maybe me in prison or a group home but you would at least have your freedom.” Molly grabbed a buggy as they entered Walmart.
Millie lay an arm across Molly’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “Dear, that wouldn’t be freedom for either of us.” They paused to disinfect their hands.
“Here’s a better idea. Why don’t we take a road trip and never come back.”
“Deal.” Mother and daughter fist-bumped and headed to Electronics.
By 10:15 Millie and Molly had purchased two new cell phones and an assortment of snacks at Walmart, withdrawn eighteen hundred forty six dollars and twenty-eight cents from their secret account at the 83rd Street Bank of America, swung by That’s-a-Burger, and merged onto I-90E.
“New York City, here we come.” Molly screamed into the cold air rushing in from her lowered window before cramming a giant bite of turkey burger in her mouth.