Mom wasn’t putting up with it. “I’m not going to talk about classified information here. It’s too easy to hear us. I’m not trying to get out of it, but we can’t talk here.”
“Where can we talk about it? Should we set up a secret eting in a park? We’ll pretend we barely know each other, and feed the ducks. That's how you do it, right?”
“Cassie! We’re not having this conversation.”
“No, Mom, this is important. Who’s using it? Are they running soldiers through it? Like, a lot of soldiers? Because that could get really bad.”
“Do you have to be like this? Your father didn’t know when to let go either.”
“Well, he wouldn’t have had to be like this if you told him what was going on.”
From there it beca the sa argunt we’ve always had, and one where we always say the sa things. My part is, “Mom, here’s how you’re ruining my life by not letting do what I want.” Her part is, “You’re a naive child. You don’t have any idea what you’re really asking for. It’s more complicated than that.”
There in her apartnt just like at ho in Grand Lake, the argunt got really loud, and stopped being classified because it included everything she’d ever said no to ever, and a few things we’d only disagreed about.
Mom didn’t approve of dropping sports my senior year to focus on martial arts and hero work. She got royally pissed when my grades slipped after my acceptance into Grand Lake University.
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Co to think of it, she got pissed at my acceptance into the Stapledon program too. She’d seed okay with it when I said I wanted to do it.
Really, she got more angry the more steps I took toward becoming like Dad. It was kind of weird, considering that one of Mom’s officially paid for duties was to push into the work Dad did.
We weren’t done yet when soone knocked on the door. Mom opened it to find a short, balding guy in a button down shirt. “Sorry lady, you two are too damn loud, and if you can’t keep it down, I’m calling the super, and then the cops.”
After she’d said sothing to him, and shut the door, she said, “That’s enough. We’re not talking about this any more. I’ve got a supper eting. You need to stay here, okay? I’ll give you money for takeout. We’ll do sothing together tomorrow night.”
And that was totally typical. When she was in D.C., they pulled her into every eting they could.
After she left, I sat around and watched television in her apartnt for an hour. It was boring.
Mom didn’t decorate the place at all. It was furnished with exactly the furniture it ca with—bed, futon, table, and chairs… Mom had to have bought the TV, but nothing felt personal. She didn’t have pictures of Dad or . Aside from her laptop, she didn’t even have anything from work there.
Knowing her, she expected soone to break in.
We’d gotten back around three sothing, so it was close to five when I decided I’d had too much of watching the SuperTV channel over the hum of the air conditioner. I knew Mom wanted to stay in the apartnt, but I wasn’t in a listening mood. I grabbed the money she left for supper, put it in my pocket, and I changed. I put on my costu under my clothes. Not my standard costu—the small one that fit under shorts and a t-shirt.
I wasn’t going to wear more than that in Washington D.C. in August.
I grabbed my backpack in case I needed to ditch my clothes. It was one of the small ones the League had for that. I didn’t have the sword, or utility belt, but I did have my staff, shrunk to be only a little wider than my fist, and disguised as a flashlight.
Not that I planned to use any of it. I wasn’t going out to fight cri. D.C. had its own supers. I was going dancing downtown.
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