“Nothing.”
“Evan.”
He looked down at himself.
“I fell walking home.”
“Where?”
“Near the park.”
I pointed at his sleeve.
“You tore your shirt falling?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s your paycheck?”
His eyes dropped.
“Somewhere safe.”
That phrase again.
I studied him.
“Evan, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, Mom.”
I was beginning to hate that word.
Nothing.
Nothing meant there was something.
I just didn’t know what yet.
Then one Saturday afternoon, my phone rang.
Mr. Alvarez.
I answered immediately.
“Hello?”
“Ma’am?”
His voice sounded tense.
“We need to talk about Evan.”
I stood from the kitchen table.
“Did he do something?”
A pause.
“I honestly don’t know how to answer that.”
My stomach dropped.
“What does that mean?”
Another pause.
Then he asked:
“Do you know what Evan does with every paycheck?”
I frowned.
“He’s saving for a bike.”
Silence.
“Isn’t he?”
Mr. Alvarez exhaled.
“Ma’am, almost everything that boy has told you about that money is a lie.”
Before I could respond, I heard Evan shouting somewhere in the background.
“Please! Don’t tell my mom!”
Something crashed.
Metal hitting tile.
I shot to my feet.
“Evan?”
Mr. Alvarez came back on the line, breathing hard.
“Get here.”
“What happened?”
“Your son tried to do it again.”
The line disconnected.
I didn’t even grab my purse properly.
I took my keys and ran.
When I reached the diner, the first thing I noticed was a large metal bus tub overturned on the floor.
Plastic cups had rolled beneath tables.
A stack of plates leaned dangerously against one chair.
