A nervous sweat rolled down Marcus's eyebrow. His fists tensed, heart jumping between his back and chest. The most dangerous part of his entire day was right in front of him, with only a single barrier separating life and death.
His front door.
Parks had answered a few more questions after he'd agreed to join, but left a majority unanswered.
"You will receive all necessary information in due time," was the default answer he got after a while of questioning.
After that they put a bag over his head, stuck him in a car, and drove him home, dropping him off a blocks down.
They informed him of a second meeting happening tomorrow before leaving, which should've excited him. Instead, he walked up to his front door full of dread.
His mom—Willow "the Spanish nightmare" Moon, as kids called her when he was younger—usually got home around an hour earlier than he did (a few minutes past three), so she could prepare dinner and get any lingering chores done.
This meant his mother wasn't definitely home. And he was arriving home—late—wearing strange clothes.
If it were any other day, getting home a little late wouldn't be that big of a deal. His mom would assume he'd just been hanging out with Redrick and lost track of time.
And lying that the clothes were Redrick's would piss her off on so many levels, but she'd believe him and not call Red's parents so he wouldn't get in trouble.
But today, he'd committed a great sin.
Not only did he skip school—again. He bolted out of the classroom yelling that he had dysentery. The image of his mother boiling over from her son embarrassing their family sent shivers down his spine.
"You're a wizard now, Marcus. You can do this," he psyched himself, disbelieving every word. "Help me, papá."
Whether or not he'd live to see tomorrow rode on whether Redrick somehow managed to cover for him or not.
Taking a deep breath, he put his hand on the door knob.
If he was going to receive divine judgement, waiting out here wouldn't cleanse him of his sins (but maybe packing his things and travelling far, far away would be a better option).
He pushed the door open.
His mother's shoes—the same ones she's been wearing for almost ten years because they "still covered her feet,"—sat by the entrance of their very, very humble ground floor apartment.
Shoes meant she was home. His blood pressure spiked.
He took off his shoes and walked in, closing the door behind him.
She wasn't seated in their busted-up leather couch, watching the real housewives on their old TV, which meant her day hadn't been stressful.
He didn't hear the kitchen tap running so she wasn't doing the dishes either (thank God); he was supposed to do them this morning.
She wasn't arguing with the Mr. Lenny next door, so she probably wasn't in a bad mood. Otherwise she'd have been playing some hip songs from "the good old days, when music was music," in her room, but he didn't hear any of that either.
So far nothing indicated that his mother would be mad about anything, which in itself was strange.
"Maybe I really do have wizard powers."
He silently tip-toed to his room and changed. If she didn't see the strange clothes, he never wore them. Besides, she hated it when he didn't change out of his sweaty clothes immediately he came home.
If she wasn't angry—somehow—he didn't need to give her any reasons to be.
Putting on a coloured tee and sweats, he changed his socks and headed to the one place his mother could possibly be: the laundry room.
That was the one chore he didn't do, and the one chore that'd been piling up since she'd fallen sick a week and a half ago.
On his way there he began cooking up lies.
He needed to be prepared for every scenario. There was a chance she knew about him skipping school, and there was a chance she didn't. In the case of the latter, he'd tell her himself but twist the story.
He'd be crazy to tell her he had dysentery and skipped school. At least without a good explanation.
If he worded it wrong, she'd think he was insulting her cooking.
Never tell your Mexican mother that her cooking gave you dysentery—that is a death sentence.
Instead, he would tell her he ate some bad food during lunch and have her be angry at the school.
As for why he skipped? He'd tried using the school toilet but Randall's crew was vaping in there… again. And of course, as the good-mannered son he was, he didn't want to be there and possibly be mistaken to be a part of them when they'd get caught… again.
His story was perfect—assuming he'd need it.
Marcus was ready.
The door to the laundry room was cracked open ever so slightly. He could hear a faint sound coming from inside—nothing machine-like.
Marcus inched closer quietly and heard sobbing. He paused, lowering his head. It felt like his heart was stabbed by a dozen needles at once. Squeezing his fist, he gently placed his other hand on the door.
"Damn it, Marcus," he thought.
He'd caught her like this more than once before. The worst of it came after his dad died—nights where they'd both cry eachother to sleep. Lonely and sad times. But after years, it became less and less until it stopped… or at least he believed it did.
Maybe she simply hid it better, but the few times he'd confronted her she'd never told him what was wrong. Always saying he was too young to understand.
There had been times when he could tell it was his fault. Bringing back a failing grade, fighting in school, e.t.c. but knowing he caused it didn't make it any easier to see or hear.
He didn't want to jump to conclusions now, but if she was crying because of what he did at school today…
Marcus slowly left the door, walking backwards silently and then walked back to the door a lot louder—needlessly so.
"Mars?" He could hear the snot in his mother's voice. It still hadn't fully come back since the flu.
He opened the door and saw her caring a laundry basket and spilling a few clothes. "Rápido, Mars. Come help me with this."
He pretended not to notice the tears she'd hurriedly cleaned and rushed over to her side, picking the clothes off the floor and putting them in the basket.
She wore a bathrobe like it was a jacket, with the ugliest off brand designer shirt he'd ever seen underneath. That—along with her messy hair—meant she'd been home for a while.
She glanced at him and then at the clothes in front of her, sniffling. "¡Mierda! This damned sniffles just refuses to leave," she groaned.
Marcus glanced at her, folding his arms and leaning on the wall next to the washing machine.
She was trying to cover up again.
Pretend like she wasn't going through anything so that he wouldn't worry. Like if she died with the burden it would make either of them happy.
He sighed nasally.
Hopefully he wasn't what was wrong with her (not like that made him any less mad at the both of them).
It was just past 4pm; he was home early. She wouldn't be suspicious of anything. He began folding the laundry with her.
"How was school?" she asked.
Crap! Maybe she was suspicious of something. Wait, no, she's usually a lot more direct. She wouldn't hide the fact that she knew; she'd instead ask, "Where are you coming from?" instead.
"It was good," Marcus lied.
"Really!?" she asked, dropping the laundry, slamming a hand beside the laundry basket—on the second washing machine—and fastening her other hand to her hip.
The jig was up.