Tilting her head, his mother's face became hard as stone. Any trace of tears on her face dried up at that moment.
He'd fallen into the trap. His window of opportunity was long gone. He should've just come clean from the beginning with his lie.
He put both hands on the first washing machine and lowered his head. He could hear his mother's anger pump through her veins.
"Dysentery!?" she shouted, like she'd been accused of murder. "¡Serás mi muerte, Mars! You want me to join your father!?"
His face shot up, eyes locking with his mother. "Mamá…" Why?… Why would she say that?
"Where'd you go!?" she asked, hands tossing up in anger.
Marcus looked at her confused and angry. "What do you mean?"
"After you told the whole class that I—your mamá—gave you dysentery, where did you run off to!? Because your teacher sent Redrick looking for you in the boy's bathroom, only for me to hear that my son, had skipped school, and no-one knew where he'd gone!" she said, eyes ready to grab him by the jugular and take him to his father's bosom.
He looked at her, trying not to get angry. "I never said you gave me dysentery—"
"You meant it—"
"Of course I didn't, Mamá. Why would I tell anyone that your cooking gave me dysentery?"
She scoffed, and then suddenly looked offended. "You calling me a liar?"
Marcus fought back a migraine. This woman just kept putting words in his mouth. "It was lunch at the cafeteria! My beans had a weird colour and…" he paused, letting his mother's imagination do the rest of the convincing.
She waited in the silence, reasoning, and then shot those eyes back at Marcus. "¡Okay then, cabrón! Tell me, where were you!?"
"Some guys were vaping in the school bathroom and I didn't want to be there when they got caught again," said Marcus. "So, I…" he waved his hands like she could see where he was going with this, "left."
His mother bit her lip with eyes facing the ceiling. "You left!?"
"To a public restroom somewhere. Our school only has one bathroom," he said, arms raising and dropping like he was tired of this (which he was).
She sighed, shaking her head with both hands glued to her hips. "I don't believe you."
"Okay," he muttered as he threw his gaze to the floor and started pacing. He stopped and looked at her, "well I wasn't expecting you to, so…"
"Can you blame me?" she asked, bewildered. "When you're always skipping school and off doing God knows what in the dangerous city of New York…" she placed a hand on her forehead, face squeezed like she was getting a headache. "Don't you remember!?"
She was talking about the "truth" the police gave her about his dad's death. The logical explanation they'd given a grieving widow to explain that her husband was killed by terrorists when Marcus had clearly seen what happened.
Marcus sighed, leaning against the wall. "Of course I do," he muttered.
"I know you're a teenager, Mars, but Jesus! All this skipping school, lies, fights, secrets—you're not a freaking…" she said, exasperated.
She sighed and sat on the floor. "You're not making this easy mi chico…" she said, covering her face, lowering her head, and stretching her legs. "And things won't get any easier…" Her voice almost cracked at the end.
"Mom?" Marcus moved to get close to her but her stretched out hand told him to stay back.
"I'm fine, Marcus. I got laid off today at the diner, but I'll find another job by weekend," she said.
He paused, wanting to move to comfort her, but he knew he'd get pushed away again. "Sorry, mamá."
She took a deep sigh. "It's fine…" she glanced at him and continued. "There's a bag of chips and some left over soda in the fridge. Eat that while you wait for dinner," she said, sniffling and wiping her tears in a way to make it look like she was cleaning her snot.
Marcus turned to the clothes and continued to fold.
She looked up at him, eyes wide. "Mars…" she said like she wasn't sure he'd heard her. "I said go eat."
"You plan on finishing all this yourself?" he asked, continuing to fold.
"Mars, I can fold laundry myself—"
"Yeah, I know." He continued to fold.
She sniffled, got to her feet, walked over to him, and grabbed his wrist gently. He stopped folding, dropping the clothes he held. "If you're trying to help, then get your grades up, and do what I tell you," his mother said.
They locked eyes for two seconds after that, before he gave up. His mother was even more stubborn than he was. It was her way or the highway.
As much as he didn't want to, he headed to the door.
"Wait," his mother's voice held him at the door. "How's your culata?"
"My what?" Embarrassment suddenly found him.
"Your booty—culata… is it still—"
"No," he said, firmly.
"It's not leaky?—"
"No!" he said even firmer. Questions concerning his booty didn't interest him.
"You sure?"
He sighed and left her in the laundry room, heading to the kitchen and eating the food his mom left for him.
The sound of folding laundry continued for as long as he ate. In the end, she folded almost two weeks worth of laundry while refusing any help.
He seethed with annoyance the entire time. Not just from her, but from many things that plagued his mind. The CC, Witchcasters… where was his life was heading to now?
Many more questions sat unanswered in his heart. Why was his mother crying? Why was River so… sad. Deeply sad. A kind of sad anger that he couldn't quite explain. Why was Parks so emotionless? What was going to happen tomorrow when they reached out? What happened to the part of the city they destroyed? Why was it abandoned before hand?
Did he make the right choice in joining them?
Would life as a Witchcaster be some unmistakable life changing experience?…
His ignorance pained him, but fortunately, two of his questions was answered later that day, during dinner, while his mom put on the news.
As he'd expected, there was no mention of the massive Loveland frog anywhere on the news.
Instead, the destruction that happened was tagged as a "terrorist attack by radical cultists," blamed on a few members of a dangerous cult that worshipped the sinkholes that appeared in nineteen-nineteen over three hundred years ago.
The cult itself wasn't well-known. They were popular enough that people dedicated entire YouTube channels and other social media accounts to "exposing them," but not taken seriously enough to be seen as a threat by anyone.
But maybe blaming that incident on them would change that.
As for why the place was abandoned, apparently there was a short notice emergency evacuation of that area about an hour before Marcus ran there. Which explained the lack of people—but not the lack of camera footage.
Assuming everything was covered up by the CC, then he wasn't surprised that the destruction was credited to bombs, and the screams and sounds the frog made were supposedly the sounds of explosions.
OCs didn't exist to everyone else—even in supernatural disasters they clearly caused, including the one that happened 10 years ago.
No matter what, they never made the news outside of rumours, jokes, and one-off comments.
But still, for a frog that massive to appear in New York City, and no single mention or rumour spread about it in any news outlets?
The CC were good.
Later that day, police officers were sent in, and discussions arose concerning the efforts needed to rebuild.
Watching everything left him speechless, and with more questions than before. After dinner, he rushed to his room and locked the door behind him.
He needed to think.