into the living room to retrieve my purse and put away Dad’s book.
I play with my phone; texting Amelia: I’ll b home soon. Call me after u leave Peters. I can’t wait to tell her the whole story and have her get all worked up—not that I want her to hate Jonah.
I just want to listen to her rant for a while and tell me that I’m right.
Instead I’m stuck staring at my father’s photo on the back cover of his book and trying to shrug off words that shouldn’t have stuck.
Teflon
.
Mrs. Shea coos at Sophia, her soothing noises broadcast over the baby monitor. I can hear Mr. Shea’s and Jonah’s angry voices too. It all makes me cringe. Family drama should be kept private; I feel like an unwilling voyeur.
“Sophia was sleeping. Did you even consider that beforeyou decided to turn your TV to hearing-damage levels?” Mr. Shea’s voice is hardly quiet. He’s speaking loud enough for the baby monitor to pick up his words.
It doesn’t catch Jonah’s reply.
“You never do think of others, do you? Go. Drive the babysitter home. I can’t even look at you right now.”
15
Jonah
8:28 P.M.
ROAD RAGE
Brighton’s in the living room, looking at me with pity while pretending not to. I guess she heard Paul’s lecture in all its condescending glory.
“Doing some reading?” I ask, gesturing to the book in her hand.
“What?”
“So tell me, what’s your favorite part?” I’d paged through Mom’s margin notes once. It had been crap like: Was Jonah overly attached to his imaginary friends? And So true! Jonah did wet the bed. I can only imagine what ammunition Brighton’s collected to go tell her minions.
She’s blinking a ton and tracing the cover. “Um, I’ve always liked his whole idea of ‘
doing one thing every day to make the world better
.’” She swallows and gives me a look that I’m supposed to believe is sincere.
I’m biting my tongue so hard, I’m shocked I don’t taste blood. Mom probably wrote a whole list of bathroom-mirror sticky-note quotes. Probably added things like, how when Iwas seven, I used to answer, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” with “I want to help the Easter Bunny.” Or how when I was twelve, I’d written a letter to every player on the Red Sox and asked them to help out a family in our neighborhood whose house had burned down. How, up until January, I’d tutored at the after-school program at one of Hamilton’s elementary schools. How I used to be a kid she was proud of.
“You tell anyone
anything
that you learned about me from my mom’s highlighting and stuff, and I will tell them their perfect girl is a psycho stalker I caught going through my underwear drawer.”
“No! What? It’s not like that.” She shuts the book and stands, touching the cover almost reverently and taking far too long to slide it back on the shelf. “It’s just that … You see … My dad …”
“Look, we’re not doing that thing where we trade stories about our families.” I’m sure hers is perfect. The last thing I want is for her to think snooping through Mom’s books or hearing Paul’s scorn gives her permission to ask about mine. “Let’s go.”
She follows me into the kitchen. She’s picked up the glass and spoon I purposely left out because my stepdad has fanatic rules about cleanliness.
“Paul said to give you this.” I hold out the check and grab my keys from the hook beside the door to the garage.
Through the baby monitor, his voice mingles with Mom’s. “Your son has got to learn some responsibility. He doesn’t think of anyone—”
Brighton reaches over and flicks the volume off. “Okay. Well, thanks for the ride.”
“Not my choice,” I call from halfway down the stairs to the garage.
By the time she catches up, I’ve already started the car. I back out while she’s still fumbling with her seat belt.
Can this night get worse? Brighton Waterford. In. My. Room. In. My. Car.
The first time I saw her was in the hall
I play with my phone; texting Amelia: I’ll b home soon. Call me after u leave Peters. I can’t wait to tell her the whole story and have her get all worked up—not that I want her to hate Jonah.
I just want to listen to her rant for a while and tell me that I’m right.
Instead I’m stuck staring at my father’s photo on the back cover of his book and trying to shrug off words that shouldn’t have stuck.
Teflon
.
Mrs. Shea coos at Sophia, her soothing noises broadcast over the baby monitor. I can hear Mr. Shea’s and Jonah’s angry voices too. It all makes me cringe. Family drama should be kept private; I feel like an unwilling voyeur.
“Sophia was sleeping. Did you even consider that beforeyou decided to turn your TV to hearing-damage levels?” Mr. Shea’s voice is hardly quiet. He’s speaking loud enough for the baby monitor to pick up his words.
It doesn’t catch Jonah’s reply.
“You never do think of others, do you? Go. Drive the babysitter home. I can’t even look at you right now.”
15
Jonah
8:28 P.M.
ROAD RAGE
Brighton’s in the living room, looking at me with pity while pretending not to. I guess she heard Paul’s lecture in all its condescending glory.
“Doing some reading?” I ask, gesturing to the book in her hand.
“What?”
“So tell me, what’s your favorite part?” I’d paged through Mom’s margin notes once. It had been crap like: Was Jonah overly attached to his imaginary friends? And So true! Jonah did wet the bed. I can only imagine what ammunition Brighton’s collected to go tell her minions.
She’s blinking a ton and tracing the cover. “Um, I’ve always liked his whole idea of ‘
doing one thing every day to make the world better
.’” She swallows and gives me a look that I’m supposed to believe is sincere.
I’m biting my tongue so hard, I’m shocked I don’t taste blood. Mom probably wrote a whole list of bathroom-mirror sticky-note quotes. Probably added things like, how when Iwas seven, I used to answer, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” with “I want to help the Easter Bunny.” Or how when I was twelve, I’d written a letter to every player on the Red Sox and asked them to help out a family in our neighborhood whose house had burned down. How, up until January, I’d tutored at the after-school program at one of Hamilton’s elementary schools. How I used to be a kid she was proud of.
“You tell anyone
anything
that you learned about me from my mom’s highlighting and stuff, and I will tell them their perfect girl is a psycho stalker I caught going through my underwear drawer.”
“No! What? It’s not like that.” She shuts the book and stands, touching the cover almost reverently and taking far too long to slide it back on the shelf. “It’s just that … You see … My dad …”
“Look, we’re not doing that thing where we trade stories about our families.” I’m sure hers is perfect. The last thing I want is for her to think snooping through Mom’s books or hearing Paul’s scorn gives her permission to ask about mine. “Let’s go.”
She follows me into the kitchen. She’s picked up the glass and spoon I purposely left out because my stepdad has fanatic rules about cleanliness.
“Paul said to give you this.” I hold out the check and grab my keys from the hook beside the door to the garage.
Through the baby monitor, his voice mingles with Mom’s. “Your son has got to learn some responsibility. He doesn’t think of anyone—”
Brighton reaches over and flicks the volume off. “Okay. Well, thanks for the ride.”
“Not my choice,” I call from halfway down the stairs to the garage.
By the time she catches up, I’ve already started the car. I back out while she’s still fumbling with her seat belt.
Can this night get worse? Brighton Waterford. In. My. Room. In. My. Car.
The first time I saw her was in the hall
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