Possess

from the dish rack, hardly remembered swiping her towel over them before stacking them on the counter.
    “Bridget?”
    Bridget blinked. “What?”
    “I said, I heard you’re going to the Winter Formal.”
    Her mom smiled; less of an “oh, isn’t it sweet my baby girl’s going to a school dance” smile and more of an “it’s about friggin’ time, I was beginning to think she was antisocial” kind of smile.
    “How did you know?” It was a stupid question. There could be only one answer.
    “Well, Matt was so excited. When he said you’d invited him, he could hardly—”
    “Wait, Matt said I invited him ?”
    Her mom tilted her head. “Didn’t you?”
    “Hell no!”
    “Watch your mouth, Bridget Liu.”
    “Sorry.” Bridget was thankful her mom didn’t hear half the colorful pirate talk that came out of her mouth on a daily basis.
    Her mom lifted the slow cooker into the sink, added a squirt of liquid soap, and filled it with water. “It’s your school dance. If you didn’t invite him, then how are you two going together?”
    That was the million dollar question, now wasn’t it? “Um, it’s a long story.”
    “It’s this Saturday, right?”
    “I guess.” Bridget wasn’t even sure.
    “Did you want to ask me something? About being grounded?”
    Bridget smiled as a wonderful realization dawned on her: She couldn’t possibly go the Winter Formal because she was still grounded.
    Her mom winked. “It’s okay. You can go to the dance.”
    Bridget’s jaw dropped. “What?”
    “Well, of course you can, Bridget.” Her mom was clearly confused by Bridget’s lack of enthusiasm. “As long as you’re going with Matt Quinn.”
    “Oh.” Great, perfect. Typical that Bridget got the mom who actually wanted her daughter to go to the dance even though she was grounded, not the hardass who kept Bridget home to “make a point.”
    Bridget would have preferred the hardass.
    Her mom shut the water off with unnecessary force. “Bridget, what is going on with you?”
    Uh-oh. “Nothing.”
    “Nothing? Please, do you think I’m completely stupid?”
    “Um . . .” Loaded question.
    “You’ve been drifting through life for the past few weeks,” her mom said. “Lost in your thoughts, barely paying attention. It’s not like you at all.”
    The stress that had been building up in Bridget’s world snapped. “Not like me?” she said, tossing the dishrag onto the counter. “How would you even know what I’m like?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You heard me. You have no idea what’s going on with me. I could be growing weed in the basement and you wouldn’t even notice.”
    Her mom narrowed her eyes. “I’d notice if you were growing drugs in the house, Bridget.”
    “Oh, yeah? When you’re not at work you’re coddling Sammy like he’s still attached at the umbilical cord.”
    “Sammy needs—”
    “Sammy’s fine, Mom. He’s eight and he’s way more independent than you think, okay?”
    Her mom’s face clouded over. “Don’t tell me what Sammy is or isn’t.”
    Bridget clamped her mouth closed. She’d gone too far. “Well, even when you’re home, you’re not here. You’re with one of them .”
    Her mom’s freckled Irish skin flushed pink. “With whom?”
    “Oh, come off it, Mom. Dad hasn’t even been dead a year, and you’re already splitting your free time between Mr. Darlington and Sergeant Quinn?” She threw up her hands. “It’s messed up.”
    Her mom clenched her fists. “Don’t you dare.” There was a quiver in her voice, but Bridget was over it.
    “Did you even ask where Monsignor Renault wants to take me after school tomorrow?”
    A wave of horror washed over her mom’s face.
    Bridget held her hand up in front of her. “Oh, God, it’s not that. I could handle that , Mom.”
    “I figured you’d tell me if you wanted.”
    “Right. ’Cause us teenagers, we’re so big on sharing.”
    Her mom sighed. “All right, Bridget. Where are you going with Monsignor Renault after school tomorrow?”
    Bridget rolled her eyes. Yeah, like now was the time to bring that up. “It doesn’t matter. Just don’t pretend like we’re buddy-buddy, okay? Because we’re not.”
    “Bridget—”
    Bridget turned on her heel and stomped out of the kitchen. “Go call one of your boyfriends,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll have wonderful advice on how to deal with me.”
    Bridget slammed her bedroom door as hard as she could. Her dad had removed the lock