Sean

Sean didn't know why he was taking his anger out on his chicken nuggets. While it's true they weren't crispy as implied on the container, the greasy hot smell warmed him the second his mom set the bag in his lap. Unfortunately, so did nausea.  If only Thalia had come. Or if he could invite Kai.  Kai stays over at dad's, what's the big deal?  Why do the rules have to change just because mom had a meltdown.  Sean's feeling pretty melty himself, lately. Why can't I run away from home?  Of course, he knew the answer was a lack of job training.  There's not a big market for people to solve crosswords or build replicas of famous buildings out of legos, or analyze the Star Wars saga.  Not that there are legos or crosswords or Star Wars at mom's.  You know what there are? Fake heads with real hair, nail polish, and a mountain of change.  The only thing to do there, aside from his toes, is count change.  When he gets a roll, he puts stacks of coins into rolled paper sleeves.  She actually asked him, that first night, isn't this fun?  Sean can't get a metallic taste out of his mouth, and in every bite, tasting fork, he thinks about his mom being spoonfed in the mental hospital, and later, at home, by aunt Sarah.  Never him, though.  No matter how bad it gets, Sherry never lets go of the charade that everything's fine, nothing's changed. And every weekend, he has to keep up the same act. Match her fake smile for fake smile.  The chicken nuggets smell like fork, like pennies. Like lies.  But he can't tell her that, so they're mushy, gross instead.

"Well, they're dinner."