Read Online It Looks Like This by Rafi Mittlefehldt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rafi Mittlefehldt
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change.
Sean says, I know, Mom.
Mr. Rossini says, Sean.
His voice is suddenly stern.
Sean says, I mean, yes, ma’am.
Mr. Rossini says, Really, though, I want to see some progress on this.
Sean says, Yessir.
Mr. Rossini says, See if you can get through a quarter of it, at least.
Sean says, Yessir.
His voice is a bit clipped now.
Mr. Rossini says, It’s a big part of your grade, remember.
Sean says, Yessir.
Mrs. Rossini pulls at her husband’s hand and says, All right, we’re going to be late.
Mr. Rossini looks at me and says, Okay, boys. Be good, and don’t tear the house down.
They walk out the front door. Sean closes it behind him.
He looks tense for a minute. He’s facing the closed door but I can see him blink a few times, from the side.
Then he lets out a deep breath through his nose, slow, and his body relaxes.
He turns suddenly to me.
He says, You want anything to drink?
I’m not really thirsty but I say, Uh yeah, I’ll have a water.
He spins on the tiled floor and leads me into a dark sitting room through the doorway on the left, and through that into a huge kitchen filled with light. Coming from the small den with the drawn curtains, I have to blink a bit as the daylight still streaming from the windows mixes with the overheads and stings my eyes.
He grabs a glass from a cabinet, reaching up high to get it, and puts it under the spigot in the fridge door.
There’s a loud humming sound, and then I hear a controlled stream of water. Sean looks at me.
He says, Any trouble finding the house? I always give shitty directions.
I shake my head. I already knew the street from before and it wasn’t hard to find the car.
He hands me the glass of water, condensation already forming on the side, and pulls a Pepsi from the fridge and cracks it open.
There’s a moment where all I can hear is the muffled fizzing of his Pepsi, and then even that dies out.
Then he says, Let’s go upstairs.
Sean’s room is tucked into the corner of the second floor, behind a game room with a pool table and next to his private bathroom.
The balcony that overlooks the living room and entrance connects his part of the upstairs with another section that has a guest room and library.
It’s a nice house.
The door to his room is almost totally bare, all white paint on wood except for a small three-by-five photo taped off-center. It’s a view from a suspension bridge, looking through one of the gateway supports toward a city skyline in the background.
I say, Is that the Brooklyn Bridge?
I know it from pictures my dad has taken while at conferences.
Sean says, Yeah.
He pushes through the door and into his room. Like his door, the walls are mostly bare and white and untouched. He has a big bed next to a deep red-brown nightstand and matching dresser, vanity, and desk. The furniture all looks pretty expensive. He keeps his room clean, his bed made.
I say, Have you ever been to New York City?
He says, Just once.
It looks for a second like he’s going to say more about it, but then just asks, You?
I shake my head. I’ve been to Wisconsin and Virginia, and then on vacations to California, Florida, Mexico, Germany, and camping in Colorado.
But Dad avoids New York when planning vacations.
Sean falls into a sitting position on his bed, letting himself bounce on the mattress.
I sink quietly into his desk chair, one of those rolling, spinning types they have in offices.
He waits till the bouncing stops on its own, then says, All right.
And reaches down to his backpack and pulls out his French book.
He says, I guess we should get started.
Our project is to create a French magazine.
It has to be at least sixteen pages and have zero English in it. Only 40 percent of the magazine space can be pictures, which sounds like a lot, but it still leaves basically nine and a half pages of pure French text.
The first step, Sean and I agree, is to come up with the type of magazine it is. It can be fashion, culture, food,
Sean says, I know, Mom.
Mr. Rossini says, Sean.
His voice is suddenly stern.
Sean says, I mean, yes, ma’am.
Mr. Rossini says, Really, though, I want to see some progress on this.
Sean says, Yessir.
Mr. Rossini says, See if you can get through a quarter of it, at least.
Sean says, Yessir.
His voice is a bit clipped now.
Mr. Rossini says, It’s a big part of your grade, remember.
Sean says, Yessir.
Mrs. Rossini pulls at her husband’s hand and says, All right, we’re going to be late.
Mr. Rossini looks at me and says, Okay, boys. Be good, and don’t tear the house down.
They walk out the front door. Sean closes it behind him.
He looks tense for a minute. He’s facing the closed door but I can see him blink a few times, from the side.
Then he lets out a deep breath through his nose, slow, and his body relaxes.
He turns suddenly to me.
He says, You want anything to drink?
I’m not really thirsty but I say, Uh yeah, I’ll have a water.
He spins on the tiled floor and leads me into a dark sitting room through the doorway on the left, and through that into a huge kitchen filled with light. Coming from the small den with the drawn curtains, I have to blink a bit as the daylight still streaming from the windows mixes with the overheads and stings my eyes.
He grabs a glass from a cabinet, reaching up high to get it, and puts it under the spigot in the fridge door.
There’s a loud humming sound, and then I hear a controlled stream of water. Sean looks at me.
He says, Any trouble finding the house? I always give shitty directions.
I shake my head. I already knew the street from before and it wasn’t hard to find the car.
He hands me the glass of water, condensation already forming on the side, and pulls a Pepsi from the fridge and cracks it open.
There’s a moment where all I can hear is the muffled fizzing of his Pepsi, and then even that dies out.
Then he says, Let’s go upstairs.
Sean’s room is tucked into the corner of the second floor, behind a game room with a pool table and next to his private bathroom.
The balcony that overlooks the living room and entrance connects his part of the upstairs with another section that has a guest room and library.
It’s a nice house.
The door to his room is almost totally bare, all white paint on wood except for a small three-by-five photo taped off-center. It’s a view from a suspension bridge, looking through one of the gateway supports toward a city skyline in the background.
I say, Is that the Brooklyn Bridge?
I know it from pictures my dad has taken while at conferences.
Sean says, Yeah.
He pushes through the door and into his room. Like his door, the walls are mostly bare and white and untouched. He has a big bed next to a deep red-brown nightstand and matching dresser, vanity, and desk. The furniture all looks pretty expensive. He keeps his room clean, his bed made.
I say, Have you ever been to New York City?
He says, Just once.
It looks for a second like he’s going to say more about it, but then just asks, You?
I shake my head. I’ve been to Wisconsin and Virginia, and then on vacations to California, Florida, Mexico, Germany, and camping in Colorado.
But Dad avoids New York when planning vacations.
Sean falls into a sitting position on his bed, letting himself bounce on the mattress.
I sink quietly into his desk chair, one of those rolling, spinning types they have in offices.
He waits till the bouncing stops on its own, then says, All right.
And reaches down to his backpack and pulls out his French book.
He says, I guess we should get started.
Our project is to create a French magazine.
It has to be at least sixteen pages and have zero English in it. Only 40 percent of the magazine space can be pictures, which sounds like a lot, but it still leaves basically nine and a half pages of pure French text.
The first step, Sean and I agree, is to come up with the type of magazine it is. It can be fashion, culture, food,
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