If You're Out There(5)
I sink into my brother. “And you, Harr? How was your day? Is Matilda still your girlfriend?” He doesn’t answer.
Whit gives a somber shake of the head. “We hate her now.”
My brother guffaws, scandalized, and Whit seems confused.
“H-word,” I explain with a smirk that says, Duh.
My brother burrows against me. It seems he’s taking the breakup well. With my cheek resting on his head, I almost forget he’s no longer that squishy toddler whose obsessions included tortoises, jelly beans, and Barack Obama.
Keys jingle and a door slams down the hall. “Hellooo?”
Mom peeks into the living room. “Oh. Look at that. All my favorite people on one couch.” She kicks off her heels and pulls out a set of heavy dangly earrings with mini forks and spoons on them.
“We made extra lasagna,” says Harrison. “For the workaholics.”
Mom shoots Whit a playful glare, then looks at me. “So?”
“It sucked,” I say. My brother gasps again and I slap my forehead. “Sorry! Other S-word!” Mom holds my gaze for a moment, her doe eyes sinking in as if to say, Should we talk at length in the other room? To which I respond, Please, no.
“And you, my son?” asks Mom. “How was second grade? I’m so sorry I couldn’t pick you up.”
“It’s okay,” says Harr. “And it was fine.”
She pauses a moment. “What’s the Matilda verdict?”
He shakes his head and Mom’s bottom lip slides into a pout. “My poor babies.” She plants a kiss on Whit before plopping down on the couch, and I get a waft of her coconutty smell. She leans forward to remove a fuzzy orange cardigan. “I thought you guys were going to unpack tonight.”
“We did,” says Harrison. “Eight boxes.”
Mom gazes down the hallway toward Whit’s looming towers of cardboard. “Lord help us.”
The episode ends and Harr scrolls through the options, pulling up Meryl Streep mid–Mamma Mia! where we paused it the other night.
“Can we watch a little more?” he asks. “Now that you’re home?”
Mom pulls him close. “You are the perfect son.” They snuggle up, and Whit smiles, watching Mom more than the screen.
These two have hardly been able to hide their giddiness since Whit moved in. Their friends say they’re like teenagers in love. It’s a comparison to which I cannot relate.
Mom met Whit in the hospital cafeteria two years ago, waiting on X-rays for a broken foot. Priya’s stepdad, Ben, was supposed to pick up Mom later that afternoon, but she texted that she’d found another ride. I don’t know how people do that. Just meet and talk and fall head over heels. For the first few months, we were supposed to believe Whit was a friend. Then at a Cubs game all together one night, Harr leaned across the row to Mom, nodded at Whit, and said, “You love her, don’t you?” Mom turned red, and Whit choked on her hot dog.
My phone buzzes and I jump to my feet. I find it buried beneath my apron and promptly deflate. I should know better by now. It’s a text from Arturo.
Okay fine, I’m an enabler. Can you work tmr in addition to your other shifts this week? I’m guessing yes since you’ve gone all Boo Radley on us? You’re taking Thursday off so help me! Ps. For the love of Amy Poehler, talk to some humans at school tmr, k? Abrazos.
I text him back.
No promises on the human front, but I’ll be there. Love Boo.
I slip out into the kitchen to lop off a chunk of lukewarm lasagna, doubling back to swipe my apron from the table. “All right.”
“Bed already?” Mom’s eyes reveal a flicker of disappointment.
“Yeah. Sorry. . . .” I ruffle Harr’s hair and bend down to let Mom squish my face for an exaggerated smooch. Whit just nods. We don’t have a bedtime thing yet.
“Sweet dreams,” calls my brother as I climb the stairs.
Even once I close the door, I can still hear the murmur of the TV between bursts of happy chatter. When I turn around, I’m not entirely surprised to see a relic of my past resting in the center of the room. It’s my old freestanding punching bag, brought up from the basement. I haven’t used it since the Reggie days—not since the year Dad moved out. There’s a sticky note from Mom.
Kick this year’s butt.
I half laugh and drop my apron to the floor, not even bothering to count my tips. Piles of shorts and rumpled Tshirts litter the floor, separated into vague categorical piles of Sort of Clean and I Guess I Should Wash This. It’s the room of someone who’s only half-awake.
Some photos are taped straight to the pale green paint. Others have been stabbed with tacks, layered over movie stubs and funny birthday cards. Me and Pri in Michigan picking apples in the fall. Pri on Mom’s shoulders at the beach because even at age fourteen Priya was still freakishly light. Me and Priya filling water balloons at the park with Harr when he was only three. He called me An. He called her Pee.
I chew my lasagna standing up.
Needs salt, or cheese. But I don’t feel like going back downstairs. It’s not as if I taste much anyway. My senses have become duller lately. Like it’s not quite me who’s doing the seeing, the smelling, the tasting.
“Blech,” I grumble to my plate. “That’s enough of you.”