Why was she walking straight through the middle of field during practice? Of course, her tracks lead to my coach, who no doubt had the same question about my mom on his mind than I. Raising an eyebrow, I shot them both a questioning look as then convened-Mike jerked his head towards the line of soccer bags, and I nodded and started sauntering over that way. My mother followed, her expression all but unreadable. Get this- one of my mom’s most negative traits is her readability. And this mood…was entirely moot- blank, slate, concrete, no getting through it. You couldn’t even fathom why I was being pulled at the start of soccer practice, with a mother who seemed to have her gut churning at my every move, and her hands now shaking at the wheel. As we pull out of the parking lot, she picks up the phone and calls our neighbor-practically Aunt, Irene.
The silence was much too long for anyone to really count seconds, so I just counted the speedometer.
Eighty
Ninety-five
One Hundred Ten
Sirens.
A groan escapes my mother’s mouth, and she hastily pulls over to the side of the highway, causing me to snatch to something on the inside of the car more stable.

“Ma’am, you realize that you were going one hundred-eight on a sixty-five zone?” The officer asked. I just scowled.

She shook her head, almost baring her teeth at the black folded material that covered flesh. “My son might try and kill himself. I don’t effing care how much you charge me. Congrats on the catch.” Mom rolled up the window and kept driving.