Regions Of Passion novel Chapter 5

God yes, there had been tears! She had cried all the way home that day, thinking of Lisa. Now, she felt like crying again, only this time not for loss, but for a coming happy reunion.

The driveway was empty when she arrived home--another thing to feel good about. Randy worked as a taxi driver in Sandusky and was still on shift. Ingrid opened the side door. Her foster mother was in the living room watching television; she looked up instantly.

"You're home early." There was no music to these words, or empathy--her tone instead was that of a woman wondering what was wrong this time.

Ingrid came right out and told her. "I quit school."

"You what?"

"I quit school."

The television was snapped off. "You can't quit school. You're sixteen years old."

Ingrid shrugged and walked into the kitchen. It was two o'clock. That left four hours until the family sat down for dinner--time for a nice head start. She peeked into the refrigerator to see what was there to cook up.

"Is Dad still at work?" she asked, sensing her mother, whose name was Nancy, had followed.

"Yes. Ingrid--"

"Anything special you guys want for dinner?"

"Ingrid there is no way you can just quit school. They'll come to the door and drag you back to class. Your dad and I will be in trouble with the police."

"The school year's almost over," Ingrid said, closing the door. "I have the whole summer yet to figure out what to do."

"What you're going to do is go back to school."

Nancy had not in fact entered the kitchen. She was in the doorway, her glare baleful. At fifty, she looked every bit the mother of a teenager, foster or no. Her short black hair was going gray, and the corners of her mouth were beginning to curve down, giving her features a haggard, sleepless appearance. These characteristics in no way affected her authority over the house, however. She ruled it with a cold and calculating efficiency, maintaining order among the ranks through a series of assigned chores that even Randy--virulent, volatile, vociferous Randy--did not dare challenge.

Ingrid drew a deep breath; it was all downhill from here. "I'm not," she said, with as much firmness as she could muster. "My grades are shot. I'm going to flunk the year. It's a lost cause, Mom."

The other woman had no immediate reply. Her lip twisted for a moment; her eyes widened; that was all. Ingrid closed the refrigerator door and crossed to the pantry. The silence thickened.

"You're lying," was what Nancy finally came out with.

It was best to leave the house for awhile--disappear until things calmed down. Ingrid packed some clothes into a gym bag. Then she went to the bathroom for a quick shower. While she washed, her mind mulled over a short list of places to go.

To Lisa?

Perhaps. On the surface it seemed logical enough. She'd been a great friend who'd clearly cared about Ingrid's well-being. As an added bonus, she could also provide her with a ride to work every day. But would it really be proper to make such an aggressive re-entry to the life of one whom she had not made contact with in almost a year?

She decided to file the idea away as a possibility for now--something to act upon should nothing more reasonable present itself. As she padded back to her room, a towel around her body, a few more names popped up.

Trixie Keefer. She was a friend from school who carried a very distinct honor: She was the only person Ingrid knew who could make her laugh out loud on a regular basis. But like Ingrid, she was only sixteen. There was no chance she would be allowed to take in a house-guest (especially a house-guest who might very well be on the run), even in the short term. Trixie was out.

Danielle Brewner wouldn't do either, and for much the same reason--she was underage. Her parents, not she, governed her household, and while said parents were not by any means terrible, they would not take in a young girl who had just run away from home.

Tom Rolling. This idea made her laugh. Good ole Tom Rolling. Hugs and kisses for everybody.

Ingrid laughed again--and then froze. Another name had floated to the surface of her thoughts, coaxed, perhaps, by her laughter, or maybe because, like Tom Rolling, the name was a male one. Only this male was nothing at all like the first. He was neither imperious nor overbearing. He never shouted. He'd done favors for Ingrid in the past, without once expecting anything in return. He'd even told her once, while they were still in school (he was out now, two years graduated), that he loved her.