Dad’s chair scrapes against the new tile and he makes a disgusted noise in his throat.
“What?” Mom demands.
Dad rolls his shoulders back and focuses on his beef instead of answering.
“You have something to say,” prods Mom, “say it.”
Dad tosses his fork onto his plate. “Scott Risk has some valuable contacts. I say get close to her, Ryan. Show her around. If you do a favor for him, I’m sure he’d do one for you.”
“Of course,” says Mom. “Give him advice that goes directly against mine.”
Dad begins talking over her and their combined raised voices cause my head to throb. Losing my appetite, I slide my chair away from the table. It’s gut-wrenching, listening to the ongoing annihilation of my family. There is absolutely no worse sound on the face of the planet.
Until the phone rings. My parents fall silent as all three of us look over at the counter and see Mark’s name appear on the caller ID. A rocky combination of hope and hurt creates a heaviness in my throat and stomach.
“Let it go,” Dad murmurs.
Mom stands on the second ring and my heart beats in my ears. Come on, Mom, answer.
Please.
“We could talk to him,” she says as she stares at the phone. “Tell him that as long as he keeps it a secret he can come home.”
“Yeah,” I say, hoping that one of them will change their minds. Maybe this time Mark would choose to stay and fight instead of leaving me behind. “We should answer.”
The phone rings a fourth time.
“Not in my house.” Dad never stops glaring at his plate.
And the answering machine picks up.
Mom’s cheerful voice announces that we’re away at the moment, but to please leave a message. Then there’s a beep.
Nothing. No message. No static. Nothing.
My brother doesn’t have the balls to leave me a message.
And I’m not stupid. If he wanted to talk to me, he could have called my cell. This was a test. I invited him to dinner and he was calling to see if I was the only one who wanted him home. I guess we all failed.
Mom clutches the pearls around her neck and the hope within me fades into an angry clawing. Mark left. He left me to deal with this destruction on my own.
I jerk out of my seat and my mother turns to face me. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve got homework.”
The corkboard over my computer desk vibrates when I slam my bedroom door shut. I pace the room and press my hands against my head. I’ve got a damn homework assignment and the clarity and calm of a boat being tossed by the waves. What I need to do is run off the anger, lift weights until my muscles burn, throw pitches until my shoulder falls off.
I shouldn’t be writing a damn four-page English paper on anything “I want.”
The chair in front of my desk rolls back as I fling myself into the seat. With one press of a button the monitor brightens to life. The cursor mockingly blinks at me from the blank page.
Four pages. Single spaced. One-inch margins. My teacher’s expectations are too high. Especially since it’s still technically summer vacation.
My fingers bang on the keys. I’ve played ball since I was three.
And I stop typing. Baseball…it’s what I should write about. It’s what I know. But the emotions churning inside of me need a release.
Dad and Mom would turn into raging bulls if I wrote about the real status of my family.
Appearances mean everything. I bet they haven’t even told their marriage counselor the truth about why they see her.
A dawning realization soothes some of the anger. I shouldn’t do it. If anyone figured it out, I’d be in deep, but right now I need to dump all the resentment. I erase the first line and give words to the emotions begging for freedom.
George woke up with a vague memory of what used to be, but one glance to the left brought on a harrowing realization of what his new reality was. Of what, specifically, he had become.
Beth
“THEY MIGHT REMEMBER ME.” Mondays suck and so does the first day of school in Hicksville, USA. I lean against the windows in the guidance counselor’s office and look around. Décor circa the 1970s: faux wood paneling, desk and chairs bought from the Wal-Mart bargain basket. The scent of mildew hangs in the air. This is backwoods schools at their finest.
“That’s the point, Elisabeth.” Scott flips through a thick schedule booklet. “Your old elementary school is one of three schools that feed into here. You’ll know some people and rekindle old friendships. What about Home Ec? You and I baked cookies a couple of times, remember?”
“Beth. I go by Beth.” It’s like the man is learning impaired. “And the last time I baked anything, it was brownies and I put…”
“We’ll put Home Ec in the No section. But I prefer the name Elisabeth. What was your best friend’s name? I used to drive you to her house.”
And we played with dolls. Over and over again. Her mom let us use her real cups for tea parties. They had a real house with real beds and I loved staying for dinner. Their food was hot. It becomes hard to swallow. “Lacy.”
“That’s right. Lacy Harper.”
The door to the office opens and the guidance counselor pops in his head. “Just a few more minutes, Mr. Risk. I’m on the line with Eastwick High.”
Scott drops that cheesy grin. “Take your time. Is there a Lacy Harper at this school?”
Somebody shoot me. Now. Right now.