autopilot, just needing to get to my room, someplace safe where I won’t have to listen to anybody anymore. The pain in my head is constant, and I don’t even try to keep the spiders away anymore. Sometimes the dull throbbing feels better when I let it happen.
Talk, talk, talk until they bore themselves into silence. Plus Luc has to be home by dinner, leaving him limited hookup time with Amy. He kicks me under the table, and I guzzle my drink. I can literally feel the blood vessels expanding in my head, the stabbing pain of electrified nerves. I grip my head between my hands. “Brain freeze. Brain freeze. Jesus Christ!”
Everybody laughs. I do too, because it feels great to have a headache like this—one that will go away without numbers or time or counting. It feels so normal .
“You can take the caffeine-blasters to go, you know,” Luc says. “Geez. I can’t take you anywhere .” But he’s laughing. This is something he can relate to.
“Yeah. And have Dad see me with this. No thanks.”
Luc drives me home first. I avoid making eye contact with Tanya, which is pretty hard considering her eyes take up half her face. Luc clears his throat. I’m cutting into his feel-up time.
Tick-tock.
“See you,” I say to Tanya, and jump out of the car, dodging what looked like a major going-for-the-landing open-lip pucker. God, I’m an asshole. Who wouldn’t want some of that ?
I turn to the streetlight. It doesn’t sputter. I sigh, tap the flamingo, and open the door.
Here’s Jakey. I feel my eyes get buggy.
Christ. I’ve got to lay off the caffeine.
Thirty-One Paying Debts
Thursday, 6:19 p.m.
Six nineteen. Six times nine is fifty-four minus one is fifty-three. OK.
The table is set. The house smells like heated Styrofoam and boiled meat. I hear the beep of the microwave. Dad puts a plastic plate with plastic food in front of Kasey. She carefully scoops out the food on her plate so the mashed potatoes and peas are parallel to each other with the supposed turkey breast on top. It looks a little like a shrine.
Dad smiles at Kasey and sits next to her. I feel like I’m interrupting something. Like sitting down will shatter the normalness.
I don’t belong. One foot in, one foot out.
“Hey,” I say, dropping my backpack by the clock. “I’m starved.”
Dad motions to the microwave—billions of invisible waves bouncing off each other to heat the plate of food. Pots bubble on the stovetop. The oven has two pans baking. The rice cooker, Crock-Pot, and vegetable steamer are plugged in. Everything else smells better than the microwaved plastic.
It beeps and I take it out, plopping the tray on the table, sitting across from Kasey. When I peel off the plastic, the steam burns my fingers, “Shit!”
Dad looks up, glowering.
“Excuse me. So, um, what’s with the Food Network here?”
“Mom didn’t put the meat away. It defrosted. Dad and I have been cooking since he got home because you can’t refreeze meat or you’ll die of Ebola. We’ve prepared pot roast, pork chops, ground chuck, chicken, beef stew, pork sausage, and . . .” She looks at Dad.
“Turhamken.”
“Yeah. But we didn’t cook the turhamken. It’s just in the fridge. When everything’s done and cooled, we’ll freeze it. Then for the next month, every meal we eat will be defrosted and nuked.” Kasey forks her peas, one by one. “And you wonder why I prefer Papa Murphy’s.”
Dad smiles when he looks at Kasey, like she’s the thing he’s done right.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask, trying to swallow the powdery potatoes.
“In bed,” Kasey says.
“Oh.”
“Since, like, before I got home.”
I look down at my plate—the pea juice running into the potatoes. “Oh.”
“Mr. Hartman phoned,” Dad says.
I wait for the blow. But that’s the thing. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t go into some kind of speech about fiscal responsibility—economy of time and money. It’s like making a fist but never throwing
Talk, talk, talk until they bore themselves into silence. Plus Luc has to be home by dinner, leaving him limited hookup time with Amy. He kicks me under the table, and I guzzle my drink. I can literally feel the blood vessels expanding in my head, the stabbing pain of electrified nerves. I grip my head between my hands. “Brain freeze. Brain freeze. Jesus Christ!”
Everybody laughs. I do too, because it feels great to have a headache like this—one that will go away without numbers or time or counting. It feels so normal .
“You can take the caffeine-blasters to go, you know,” Luc says. “Geez. I can’t take you anywhere .” But he’s laughing. This is something he can relate to.
“Yeah. And have Dad see me with this. No thanks.”
Luc drives me home first. I avoid making eye contact with Tanya, which is pretty hard considering her eyes take up half her face. Luc clears his throat. I’m cutting into his feel-up time.
Tick-tock.
“See you,” I say to Tanya, and jump out of the car, dodging what looked like a major going-for-the-landing open-lip pucker. God, I’m an asshole. Who wouldn’t want some of that ?
I turn to the streetlight. It doesn’t sputter. I sigh, tap the flamingo, and open the door.
Here’s Jakey. I feel my eyes get buggy.
Christ. I’ve got to lay off the caffeine.
Thirty-One Paying Debts
Thursday, 6:19 p.m.
Six nineteen. Six times nine is fifty-four minus one is fifty-three. OK.
The table is set. The house smells like heated Styrofoam and boiled meat. I hear the beep of the microwave. Dad puts a plastic plate with plastic food in front of Kasey. She carefully scoops out the food on her plate so the mashed potatoes and peas are parallel to each other with the supposed turkey breast on top. It looks a little like a shrine.
Dad smiles at Kasey and sits next to her. I feel like I’m interrupting something. Like sitting down will shatter the normalness.
I don’t belong. One foot in, one foot out.
“Hey,” I say, dropping my backpack by the clock. “I’m starved.”
Dad motions to the microwave—billions of invisible waves bouncing off each other to heat the plate of food. Pots bubble on the stovetop. The oven has two pans baking. The rice cooker, Crock-Pot, and vegetable steamer are plugged in. Everything else smells better than the microwaved plastic.
It beeps and I take it out, plopping the tray on the table, sitting across from Kasey. When I peel off the plastic, the steam burns my fingers, “Shit!”
Dad looks up, glowering.
“Excuse me. So, um, what’s with the Food Network here?”
“Mom didn’t put the meat away. It defrosted. Dad and I have been cooking since he got home because you can’t refreeze meat or you’ll die of Ebola. We’ve prepared pot roast, pork chops, ground chuck, chicken, beef stew, pork sausage, and . . .” She looks at Dad.
“Turhamken.”
“Yeah. But we didn’t cook the turhamken. It’s just in the fridge. When everything’s done and cooled, we’ll freeze it. Then for the next month, every meal we eat will be defrosted and nuked.” Kasey forks her peas, one by one. “And you wonder why I prefer Papa Murphy’s.”
Dad smiles when he looks at Kasey, like she’s the thing he’s done right.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask, trying to swallow the powdery potatoes.
“In bed,” Kasey says.
“Oh.”
“Since, like, before I got home.”
I look down at my plate—the pea juice running into the potatoes. “Oh.”
“Mr. Hartman phoned,” Dad says.
I wait for the blow. But that’s the thing. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t go into some kind of speech about fiscal responsibility—economy of time and money. It’s like making a fist but never throwing
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