She Drives Me Crazy(7)

Our house is a lilac-blue classic with shutter boards and a tiny front porch. Instead of a garage, we have an old carport where we park our cars. There’s a maple tree in the front yard that reaches as high as the second story and a row of bushes that guard the front porch. That’s where Dad and Daphne are now, arranging the orange lights so they hang over the bushes the way Daphne likes them.

“What’s the damage?” Dad asks when Mom and I join them in the yard.

“It’s my front bumper.” I grimace. “It’s all dented in, but I was still able to drive it home—”

“I mean you, Scots,” Dad says, bracing his hands on my shoulders. He looks me over with a worried frown, like he might be able to assess whether or not I’m concussed. This is one of the best things about my dad. I know he will be annoyed about the bumper, and that he’ll insist on coming with me to the repair shop, but right now he’s only concerned about me.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Daphne says, hugging me gently. “Do you need an ice pack? There’s one in the freezer from when I bruised my toe.”

Daphne is the sweetheart of the family. She’s only thirteen, but my parents like to say she’s an old soul.

“I’m fine, Daph, thanks.”

“How’s your neck?” Dad asks. “Any whiplash?”

“Maybe a little whiplash,” I say, and Dad starts feeling along the top of my spine. He’s a chiropractor, so he’s always quick to check my back if I tell him I slept funny or pulled a muscle in practice.

“Flat on the grass,” Dad says, stepping back.

“What? We’re gonna do the adjustment out here?”

“Daph and I are still working on the decorations,” Dad says, like it’s obvious. “Come on, you know the drill.”

Mom and Daphne just stand there, amused, as I drop to the grass and lie flat on my stomach while Dad starts cracking my back. If the neighbors are watching, I doubt they’re surprised. My family’s been known to do weirder shit in the front yard—like the time five-year-old Daphne insisted we eat breakfast out here with our winter coats on. In the middle of July.

“All right, that should do it,” Dad says, giving my neck a final crack. “Feel better?”

I can only grunt into the grass in response.

We spend the next half hour finishing the Halloween decorations. It’s dark outside, and we’re limited by the lamps on the porch, but we’re motivated to finish because Halloween is next week. It’s tradition on my street for everyone to go all out with holiday decorations, even the stuck-up Haliburton-Riveras, who decorate in a style my parents call tasteful Pinterest crap. Our decorations, on the other hand, are cheesy as hell. We plant plastic tombstones all over the grass, Mom sets up a witch and vampire couple to look like American Gothic on the front porch, and Daphne wraps cobwebs all over the mailbox. My contribution is to arrange a group of skeletons around some hay bales. Last year, Dad made them look like they were doing the macarena. This year, I take a fat twig and place it in one skeleton’s mouth to look like he’s smoking. Mom rolls her eyes, but she lets it slide.

Inside, we sit down to a dinner of rotisserie chicken that Dad picked up on his way home from the clinic. Mom and Daphne throw together a side of noodles and croissant rolls, while my task is to set aside a plate for my older sister, Thora, who’s still at work.

“I texted Thora about the accident,” Daphne says, helping herself to a double portion of noodles. “She’s worried about you, Scottie. She wanted to come home right away, but she said the restaurant is a cluster-eff.”

“Don’t use that word,” Mom says.

“I didn’t, I said ‘eff.’ Thora used the real word.”

“Still.”

“Mom, most people in my grade use the f-word all the time.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to be uncouth, too.”

“Yeah, wait until you’re older to be uncouth,” Dad says.

Thora works as a bartender at the best pub in town, The Chimney. She’s saving money to rent her own apartment, but for now she lives in our basement with her two cats, BooBoo and Pickles, who keep getting into Mom’s vegetable patch and digging up her arugula. The cats drive Mom crazy. Dad is cooler about them, but he’s always more lax when it comes to Thora because he’s technically her stepdad. Mom divorced Thora’s birth father when Thora was a toddler, but she didn’t marry Dad until Thora was seven.

“Scottie,” Mom says when there’s a lull in the conversation, “do you want to talk about what happened?”

I pick at the skin on my chicken, aware of everyone watching me. I knew our evening of decorating fun would eventually give way to this conversation, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready for it.

“Do we have to?”

Dad tilts his head at me. “Do we have to talk about why you were so distracted that you didn’t notice a car backing into you? Yes.”

I drop my fork. “I had a bad day, okay?”

“Because of the Candlehawk game?” Dad asks.

“Because of Tally?” Mom adds.

I feel lucky to have parents as loving and engaged as my mom and dad. They know about all the little things happening in my life, like when I have an exam I’m stressed about or a fight with Danielle that trips me up. But sometimes their involvement is so earnest and omnipresent that I feel like something can’t happen to me without them wanting to pick it apart over the dinner table.