School starts at 9.

Though if I want to catch the bus and be on time, I had to get up early while making cookies. Yesterday, I met a police officer who claimed himself to be a spiritual entity who also claims detectives with magical powers are coming after me. I admit denying the fact that there may be spiritual entities and magic detectives is silly considering the Pen has some kind of magic. And I think it is weird that he knew about the Pen. So he has that going for him for his credibility. But I don’t know if I should trust him entirely. Our neighbor’s apartment, for the first time in years, has been silent. Elaine cannot be heard whimpering or pleading. Lukas cannot be heard beating her or throwing around furniture. I would say the apartment complex is at peace, but no one seems at peace. I wanted to apologize to Charles for yesterday, at least.

“What are you doing up so early?” Mom asks, her brown hair is currently dripping at the tips while she uses a towel to dry it off, attempting to save her blazer jacket from her wet hair.

Pointing to the Tupperware of cookies, “Making Charles some apology cookies before I have to catch the bus.”

“That’s thoughtful,” Mom smiles.

Turning to face her, “Can I ask a question?”

“You can ask me anything,”

“What do you think about Elaine’s death?” I ask her.

Mom studies me briefly. Is she looking for something?

“It must have been scary to deal with what happened yesterday,”

I shake my head no. I am not scared. What happened to Elaine didn’t bother me. I feel more frustrated that she did so. With Mom I am always more able to open up though about how I think.

“I wasn’t scared. I am confused. Why she killed herself. Her husband was a terrible person who didn’t treat her kindly. He threw her around, yelled at her, belittled her. Whomever she once loved was already gone, and she was clinging onto a past that couldn’t be. Shouldn’t she have felt free? Why did she blame herself for an accident?”

“Quentin,” Mom softens her voice even more. She touches Father’s urn while looking around for socks. “Some people in life just don’t have the strength to cut out their cancer. They cling onto hopeful optimism that makes things better, but they are still being drained by poison. Some people won’t know how to save themselves once freed.”

“Can those types of people be saved? Or freed?”

“Of course they can be,” Mom tells me.

“How?”

“By being brave,” Mom sits down to put on her socks, “Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Just curious,”

She surveys me while standing up with both socks on. Unraveling her hair from the towel, she wrapped it in earlier.

“I was just curious,” now I watch her, wondering what she will say, “Also, I am mad at Elaine for not being brave enough to be free.”

Mom fixes her long brown hair behind her ears, “Oh sweetheart, she couldn’t live brave enough to feel safe. Whatever was happening between Lukas and Elaine had gone off long enough that she believed that was the only way to be loved. Someone like that cannot feel safe when presented with safety.”

She takes a second another moment to study me, trying to peel my layers back. She’s looking for something, but I don’t know what that is.

“Will you be all right at school?” she finally ask.

“No. It’s fine. I made Charles cookies. To apologize for what happened yesterday.” I stare at the container for a brief second. This is what people do for each other. That’s what I have been told at least. I’ve never had a friend before or even a prospective friend before. Most of my classmates avoid me. Not even the bullies will approach me, genuinely.

She nods while searching for her keys, “Do you want me to take you to the bus station?”

“I am good,”

Mom continues her intense study of me.

“Quentin,” she says my name firmly, “You’re 17 going on 18 this year. You’re very close to graduating. This school is our last hope. We’ve exhausted all of our resources downtown. Please continue to be on your best behavior.”

What is that supposed to mean? I have done nothing she knows of. Now I am trying to peel her layers back. What does she know?

“I know, I put a lot of effort into behaving,” I tell her.

She is giving me that look again, the one where she is trying to read my thoughts. I won’t let her, I know this game.

“It’s all I can ask Quentin,” Mom smiles again as if to signal some peace between us, “I am not trying to upset you, and I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong. It’s why I defend you so wholeheartedly, but other people get uncomfortable.”

“I don’t know why they do. I have their best interests in mind,” I confide in her more openly.

“I know,” she steps into the kitchen, smiling at the dishes I cleaned after making cookies. She brushes my hair out of my eyes and strokes my cheek, “Some people cannot see the beauty of your mind. But I do. And maybe in time they will see that you care about them.”

I wish I could disclose with her the things I have done as Karma. Though I don’t know how she would react or what she would say. Would she approve? Would she help?