Amy Maxwell & the 7 Deadly Sins (The Amy Maxwell Series Book 2) (3 page)

I see Allie lunge at her sister and I manage to hold her back. She may be a half a foot taller than I am, but I’ve easily got twenty pounds on the kid.
She really needs to eat more. Geez, I hope she’s not bulimic or something…

“Leave her alone. Go. Now.”

She pouts. “I’ll do my make-up and you can just drive me-”

“I am not driving you, Allie. I have to be-”

“Please! I’m begging…”

“Allie, if you don’t get your pretty little butt out that front door right now, I assure you that if I have to drop you off at school, I will be blasting
Turn Down For What
so loud it’ll make the car vibrate.” I shove my banana at her. She needs it more than I do.

She shrinks back, banana in hand, face pale and aghast. “You wouldn’t!”

I bob my head up and down. “Oh, yes I would. And I
will
.” I know that Allie’s Achilles’ heel is being embarrassed in front of her friends. She would do
anything
to avoid it. Even go to school looking less than beautiful. Because
that
is forgivable. But your mother showing up at school rocking the car with rap and singing loudly off key, is definitely
not
cool.

Sulking, she slings her backpack over her left shoulder and then slides her right arm through the other side. She stomps off toward the front door, messy bun jiggling angrily with each step she takes.

“Bye bye beautiful,” I call out to her and am rewarded with a grunt right before the front door slams.

I smile to myself because I know it is only drama for the audience that has assembled in the kitchen. She has a make-up case in her backpack and I am certain that she will dash to the girls’ room the second she reaches school and apply gobs of the stuff that she doesn’t need, all over her face. But we gotta have the stomping and the eye rolls and the theatrics every morning just for the sheer fact that her life is not complete without them. And it’s always in front of Lexie. It’s almost as if she is grooming her younger sister in all ways that piss me off with the most effectiveness.

“Come on, Lexie. Go get dressed,” I instruct my preteen who is shoveling cereal into her mouth at a painfully slow pace, one eye focused on her iPad mini. “And what did I tell you about electronics at the table?”

“Um, not to have them there,” Lexie mumbles, fruity-Os dropping out of her mouth and plunking back into the milk. There are little splatters of milk around her bowl. Little splatters that I am not going to have the chance to clean because
God Damn it
, I’m
late
.

“So…that means…” I am quizzing her as I reach for a travel mug on the shelf.

“Um, not to have electronics at the table?” Lexie says with confusion.

“Exactly. So why is your iPad at the table?”

I pour the remainder of the coffee from the pot into the mug, realizing that Roger had left me exactly a third of a cup and 90% of that includes sludge and grinds. Exasperated, I toss it into the sink.
Maybe I’ll have time to stop somewhere for a cup on the way.
And then I realize that is a ridiculous thought. I don’t have time to even brush my teeth this morning. I really need to work on this whole ‘
getting out of the house on time
’ thing.

“You said
electronics
, Mom. You never said anything about the iPad,” Lexie tells me. I squelch the urge to roll my eyes and call her a moron. Because of course, that’s bad parenting. She’s lucky that she is pretty. I hope she finds a rich doctor to marry like my sister Beth did. Otherwise, I’m not quite sure I feel safe letting her out into the world on her own. She’s the type who would participate in scientific experiments to make money.

As Lexie finishes up her cereal and then heads upstairs, abandoning her bowl on the table (presumably for the maid to clear away), Colt staggers into the kitchen looking groggy and generally unpleasant. He has serious bedhead, his clothes look like he has slept in them, and he still smells faintly of pee. He obviously did not use the baby wipes like I instructed him to.

He slides onto a stool and lowers his head on the island. “I’m hungry,” he mumbles into the wood.

I steal a glance at the clock. Time is flying by at an unbelievable pace. I do not have time for Colt to have the four course breakfast that he usually devours. I reach into the cabinet with the cereal and breakfast foods and retrieve a Pop Tart. Peeling off the foil, I offer it to my seven year old.

“Here we go! Have a Pop Tart,” I tell him cheerily, hoping he will not notice it is cherry rather than strawberry. He hates cherry. Or so he claims. Today he inhales the pastry without a second thought while I head into the living room to search for my flats. Evan is sitting in front of the hall closet pulling on his Velcro sneakers. Thank heavens for small miracles.

“Lex!” I poke my head up the stairs as I pass. “Now! We leave now!” Actually, we should have left three minutes ago. I guess I can kiss that coffee goodbye. There’s no way I’ll have time to stop now.
Oh well, I should be okay. After all, I got at least three and a half hours sleep last night.
That’s functional for me.

I rummage around in the darkened hall closet and finally locate my flats. I pull off my wet socks and slip the shoes on, just as Lexie sails down the stairs looking like the Wreck of the Hesperus and Colt wanders out of the kitchen with crumbs all over his shirt.

“What else is for breakfast?” he asks.

“There
is
nothing else for breakfast,” I explain to Colt while pointing to his backpack. “Get your backpack. We are going now.”

“What?” he wails as grabs his backpack and shoves his feet into his sneakers that were sitting underneath it. For once I am grateful that he is a slob and we didn’t have to go searching for the sneakers. “But I’m still hungry!”

“Well, lunch time is in four hours,” I merrily announce. I see Lexie gather up her hair into a messy ponytail. And it is not an intentional messy ponytail like Allie’s messy bun. It is bunched up on one side and hair is sticking out the back. There are totally neglected strands on the right side. Lexie is a hot mess. She needs to get her act together soon. She is in middle school after all.

I make a grab for Lexie’s ponytail. “Let me fix that,” I plead as she ducks out of the way.

Colt peers into his backpack. “But you didn’t pack me any lunch!”

“You’re getting hot lunch now, remember?” I remind him while I open the front door.

Colt makes a hideous face and Lexie makes a gagging noise, but I exit the house, hoping all my ducklings will trail behind me. They do, albeit reluctantly. Colt is literally dragging his feet and Lexie resembles a zombie. It’s only the third week of school and they’re already acting like they’re off to the guillotine. Evan bounds out the door with joy and enthusiasm, backpack slung over his shoulders. He has not been beaten down by the world of education yet. He’s not actually going to a real school anyway. I am dropping him off at my sister’s house and she is going to take him to preschool in the afternoon, three days a week. It’s only a temporary arrangement, I hope. I cannot imagine being beholden to Beth for a favor for an entire year.

I unlock the car with my key fob and the kids drag themselves down the sidewalk while I lock up the house. “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to school I go,” I whistle under my breath.

Surprise!
I, Amy Maxwell, am also going back to school.

~Two~

“Class, can I have your attention please?” The cheery, chubby professor claps his hands and the entire lecture hall falls silent. The students wait with baited breath for the professor’s next words.

“Class,” he repeats. “It is my great pleasure to announce that we have a celebrity in our midst!” He sweeps his hand toward the front of the room where I am sitting, pen poised to take notes in my brand new marble notebook. “Amy Maxwell!”

The class erupts into a smattering of applause as I feel heat pricking at my cheeks.

“Amy and her daughter were held captive by a drug gang last year. Why, she was even bound and gagged while her daughter was held at knife point!”

The class collectively gasps and my blush spreads down my neck.

“Yes! But Amy’s quick thinking helped save them all! She is a hero!” declares the professor as he claps his plump hands together enthusiastically.

The class is now breaking out into thunderous applause. I timidly raise my hand in a half-hearted prom queen wave and nod my head, acknowledging their recognition. This is all quite embarrassing.

“I feel that Amy should automatically get an A in this class because, what can I teach her about Tactical Response when she has already lived it? In fact,” the professor pokes the air with one finger, “she should be the one lecturing this class and not me. Amy, what do you say? Come on up and tell the class about your near death experience!”

The professor waves me to the front of the room and I shake my head with reluctance.

“Oh, come on Amy! Don’t be shy!” The class is now chanting my name. “Amy, Amy, Amy…”

My hair is now plastered to my head from profuse sweating as I pull the car into what appears to be the last available parking spot on campus within a six mile radius. Unseasonably cool, my ass. I am sweating buckets, but that may be partially due to my harrowing morning.

After dropping Lexie and Colt off at school, I had the pleasure of wrangling my youngest child into my sister’s house and detaching him, limb by limb, from my body where he had wrapped his legs around me like a monkey scaling a tree in the jungle.

As enthusiastic as he was about going to school, spending time with his aunt seemed to be corporal punishment in his eyes. I begged and pleaded with him as he screamed “
take me to school!
”. When that didn’t work, he started crying with hiccups mixed in and mumbling about wanting to “
go home and snuggie with Mama
”. I felt horrible; the kid sure knew how to work me over.

I am still shaking with guilt as I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. Scowling at my pale complexion and the dark circles under my eyes, I dig into my purse to retrieve my pressed powder compact and brush. Underneath mounds of gum wrappers and fast food receipts I find both.

Way back when I was young, naïve, and wrinkle free, I laughed at women who wouldn’t leave the house without make-up. Back in those days, I would have never purchased an expensive foundation, nor would I have toted it around with me everywhere I went. But right around the time my third child was born I realized that those lines I thought were from sleeping on a wrinkled pillow case were not fading during the day. That’s when little ole horrified me marched over to the Lancôme counter at Macy’s and demanded to be made into a twenty year old again. The lady laughed at me for a good five minutes before she unlocked a cabinet and brought out the secret formula. It cost me an arm and a leg, but I must have it or I can’t go out in public. The powder isn’t a miracle worker, but at least I can look in the mirror without scaring myself.

Even though I am five minutes late, I hastily apply the powder to my nose and forehead and then pinch my cheeks roughly, hoping to give my face a little color. Sighing, I run the brush through my hair; knowing nothing short of sheering my head like a sheep is going to cure that disaster. I toss my brush and my compact back into my bag, step out of my vehicle, and consult my crumpled class schedule.

My first class is in Milo Hall and according to my handy dandy map that I am confidently holding in front of me, Milo Hall is in
that
direction. It’s the same direction that all the other students seem to be heading in.

Satisfied that I know where I am going, I fold up my map, tuck it into my back pack, sling the back pack over my left shoulder, and proceed to follow the other swarms of students headed toward Milo Hall.

See Amy? You’re not that late! All these other students are just getting to their classes, too.
I blend in with the rest of the crowd as I head to my first class. As the crowd and I arrive at the two story building situated in the middle of the campus, I glance at my schedule again, just to remind myself of the room number.

“Intro to Criminal Justice room 321,” I mumble to myself and then shove the piece of paper into my back pack. Yes, yes. I know what you’re thinking.

Criminal justice? Amy Maxwell, have you lost your mind?
You’re a 36 year old mother of four! What are you doing majoring in criminal justice?
Isn’t that what you’re screaming at me? Yup. I knew it. It was what everyone in my family was screaming at me.

After my brush with death last year, I realized that the experience was an eye opener. Despite the fact that my daughter and I were truly in danger, I never felt such an adrenaline rush in my entire life. Holding and firing a real gun…
Holy crap
! Words cannot describe how complete and powerful I felt. Yes, it was nerve wracking and yes, I was petrified, but damn it, I never felt so alive! And then when Jason had suggested that
I
would make a good agent? Well, it didn’t take much to peak my interest after that.

I started watching crime dramas on TV; they made it look so
glamorous
. The women in their sharp, oh so chic clothing from Nordstrom, heels that rivaled those in Imelda Marcos’ collection, racing all over the country tracking criminals and taking them down without even chipping their nails. They never seemed cross with their children and they were always beautiful, happy, and so damn
brilliant
. I have to admit, the first deadly sin that got me to this situation was my own. I was full of ENVY. I envied those women on TV, real or not.

Determined to be just like them, I started looking into what I would have to do to actually become a DEA or FBI agent. Alas, I discovered with dismay that I was several years too late to be embarking on that career. Had I finished out college when I had started way back when, I might have had a shot. But no, I had to up and quit.

At this discovery, I cried for two nights straight, ate ice cream straight from the carton, and refused to discuss why I was so bummed out with my family. Not that they tried really hard to get it out of me. Roger just shrugged and assumed it was “that time of the month again” and warned the children to stay away.

Beth however, was not convinced. She hounded me relentlessly via telephone. After three days in the same grungy sweats and not so subtle hints from my sister that I may need to see a therapist to sort out my “post-traumatic stress syndrome”, I decided that I was not going to be defeated by my age. After a little bit of research, I discovered that our local police force had a hiring age limit of 45; I was not even close to 45, even though I
was
a lot older than the kids they usually hired. Then I got to thinking; if I had an actual degree, it would sweeten the pot and give me a better shot against those twenty year old boneheads who were swallowing steroids in their smoothies while lifting at the gym for seven hours a day.

So I downloaded the course catalogue for our state college and decided to start working toward a criminal justice degree. If I took three classes a semester, including the summer semesters, it would take me six years to get a four year degree, but I would still make it under the wire for the age cut off with three years to spare.
If
they were hiring, of course, but I wasn’t going to ruin my mojo by thinking about that quite yet. I was going to take it one step at a time, doing what I needed to do at each specific moment and not worry about the future moments ahead.

Right now, at
this
moment, I need to find room 321. Glancing at the sign in front of the building, I confirm that this is indeed Milo Hall.

I wander into the building with the throngs of other students (To quote Lexie,
OMG, I’m a student!
). I find myself standing in a vast room that is filled with rows and rows of tables and a deafening clatter. I practically need to cover my ears as I glance around and realize that I am actually standing in the middle of the dining hall.

Crap! Where are the classrooms? Who puts classrooms in a dining hall?
I resist the urge to break out my map. I definitely do
not
want to look like a freshman. Even though technically, that’s exactly what I am. It may be almost twenty years since I’ve been in college, but I do know some things have not changed; freshmen to college students are what tourists are to New York City natives. They’ll chew me up and spit me out if I appear vulnerable. I’ll end up huddled in a corner next to the vat of pudding, bawling my contact lens out.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a student who looks a little more mature, and by mature, I mean she’s closer to my age. After all, she’s sporting a few wrinkles on her brow. She is wearing a bright red peasant blouse with ties across the front, mini buttons dotting the sleeves, and a flowing multicolored skirt that looks suspiciously like something my sister Joey would design. She has jeweled sandals on her feet and a messenger bag made out of burlap slung over her right shoulder. Her reddish blonde hair is short and cropped around her ears making her look cute and pixie like.

I would love to get a low maintenance cut like that, but my chipmunk cheeks won’t allow such a look.
Besides, Roger hates short hair on women. He sulked for a month the last time I had the nerve to get a shoulder length bob…
Oh, crap, ADHD again.
The girl, Amy!

Well anyway, she appears earthy and grounded. I’m hoping that means she is nice. And possibly sympathetic to my plight.

“Excuse me?” I call out as she brushes past, her flowing skirt skimming my leg.

“Yeah?” She pulls her earbuds out. Upon closer inspection I realize I have been mistaken. If I thought this chick was near my age, I need to take a good long hard gander in the mirror. She’s is 25 at most. Those teeny tiny frown lines don’t have anything on the craters on my own forehead. Nevertheless, I take a shot.

“Do you know where room 321 is?” I ask, trying not to appear too desperate. “I’m late for my class there.”

She rolls her eyes before tucking her earbuds back in. “You have the wrong building. This is the
dining hall
. This is not a classroom.”

I can see that. I may not be a rocket scientist but I know the difference between a classroom and a dining hall.
Duh
.

She starts to walk away, but I urgently grab at her sleeve, ripping a button off in the process. The edging on the fabric begins to unravel and the girl glares at me, eyes shooting death rays that rival my daughter’s.

Holy crap! Are you kidding, Amy?
My face turns bright red as I stammer, “I’m so sorry! I…I’ll pay for that…let me get you my phone number…”

“You
can’t
pay for that,” the woman/girl snarls as she snatches the button from my hand. “It was handmade by my grandmother. Who is now
dead.
Thanks a lot!”

A hush seems to fall over the crowd as the girl berates me and I feel like every eyeball in the place is burning a hole in to the back of my head like I am personally responsible for the death of this girl’s grandmother. With a huff, the girl stomps off leaving me holding a piece of red thread and absolutely none of my dignity.

Despite my desire to crawl into a hole, I tuck in my chin, take a deep breath, and head in the direction of the exit door. Maybe I can get someone who didn’t just witness that horrific display to help.

“Wait,” a voice calls out as I feel a hand on my shoulder and I halt in my tracks. Whipping my head around, I see a tall lanky young man dressed all in black. That includes black eyeliner, black shit kicker boots, and a black skull cap, in addition to his black pants and black cotton threadbare sweater. In stark contrast, his face is deathly pale and the skin underneath his eyes casts a purplish hue. He is so skinny that I swear if he turns sideways, I wouldn’t be able to see him anymore. His gaunt face sports a full beard and some sort of bone like earring stabbing through his nose. It is connected to the earring in his left ear via a chain.

I shudder, wondering how he can breathe with that thing and what happens if he gets it caught on something. When I have my earbuds in while I’m cleaning the house, I manage to get caught on almost every single doorknob. Not to mention the one time it got stuck on the toilet bowl handle and yanked my earrings clean out of my ears. I shudder again, imagining this kid going to the bathroom getting that chain stuck on the toilet bowl handle and it ripping out of his nose.