her. “It’s great. Nice to see old friends.”
And new ones.
“That’s good.” She exhales, and in the time after her breath leaves her, the air thickens with how hard both of us are struggling to find something to say.
“How’s work?”
“Good.”
More struggling silence. She’s always looked more like Carol than me. I used to resent that. Brunettes, while I’m a sandy blonde. Thin wispy shoulders, while I’ve always hated how broad my shoulders are. I’m like a short little square. They’re hourglasses. Were. Carol’s not anything anymore.
“Oh!” Mom says suddenly, with the relief of someone alighting on a topic. “Have you talked to the new neighbors at all? The younger one’s going to your school, I think. What’s his name?”
The lips leap back into my mind. I’d managed to keep them out for two whole minutes. “It’s…Sherlock.”
“Huh. Strange name. Are his parents ex-hippies?”
I smile. Then I stop smiling. “I don’t know. I have no idea what his parents are like. They don’t live there.”
“They don’t?” She tilts her head to the side. Carol used to do that, too. “But he’s your age, isn’t he?”
“Yeah…his brother’s his legal guardian. But he’s off on a work trip right now. I guess he does that a lot.” I frown. How often is Sherlock alone? In the other towns, he must have had friends. No matter what he says. He must have. Maybe a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Who knows with him.
“Poor kid,” says Mom, and I’m forever weirded out by the idea of Sherlock as a kid. “We should have him over for dinner sometime.”
Oh God. If ever there was a disaster in the making. “He’s not that sociable. He doesn’t really like…people.”
“People like that are just trying to make it seem like their loneliness is a choice, rather than vice versa.” She sounds sad as she says it, gazing out the dining room window. Then she tilts her head to the side again. “Is that…smoke?”
I push my chair back. It’s dark, but Sherlock’s porch light is on, and through our kitchen window, I can see wisps of smoke curling out from his.
Mom’s fork is frozen above her meatloaf. “Should I call the fire department?”
I’m already by the front door, pulling on my coat. “I think I better go over first and check it out.”
“Thanks, Irene. You’re always so good to strangers.”
And it hits me as I head out the door—that’s how she talks to me now. Like I’m a stranger.
I walk quickly. It’s a cold night, the moon hanging low and fat in the sky. I look both ways before crossing the street.
“Sherlock!” I shout, banging on the door twice before letting myself in.
The hallway is thick with smoke. I open windows as I go. At this rate, he’s going to turn the white walls gray. “Sherlock, where are you? You better not be smoking again.”
“In the kitchen,” his voice calls back. “It’s the microwave that’s smoking.”
“Tell the microwave it’s not allowed to smoke either.” I stick my head into the kitchen, texting Mom: It’s fine, just burned popcorn . When I look up, black smoke is billowing from the microwave. Sherlock is standing next to it, ineffectually waving a potholder at the dark clouds.
“You’re going to suffocate. Go stand by the window.” I squint into the microwave, my eyes watering, throat burning. A blackened, misshapen lump is the source of the smoke. “What the hell is that?”
He tosses his potholder aside. “A shoe.”
“And what did the shoe do to you that you decided to execute it via microwave?”
“It belongs to Mycroft.”
“Such a petty crime.”
He frowns. “It’s an experiment. I’m measuring the melting rate of certain types of rubber under various temperatures.”
“And I’m sure that has nothing to do with sibling resentment.” I fish through a drawer, miraculously find a pair of salad tongs, and carry the acrid-smelling shoe outside, where I deposit it on the gravel.
“It’s
And new ones.
“That’s good.” She exhales, and in the time after her breath leaves her, the air thickens with how hard both of us are struggling to find something to say.
“How’s work?”
“Good.”
More struggling silence. She’s always looked more like Carol than me. I used to resent that. Brunettes, while I’m a sandy blonde. Thin wispy shoulders, while I’ve always hated how broad my shoulders are. I’m like a short little square. They’re hourglasses. Were. Carol’s not anything anymore.
“Oh!” Mom says suddenly, with the relief of someone alighting on a topic. “Have you talked to the new neighbors at all? The younger one’s going to your school, I think. What’s his name?”
The lips leap back into my mind. I’d managed to keep them out for two whole minutes. “It’s…Sherlock.”
“Huh. Strange name. Are his parents ex-hippies?”
I smile. Then I stop smiling. “I don’t know. I have no idea what his parents are like. They don’t live there.”
“They don’t?” She tilts her head to the side. Carol used to do that, too. “But he’s your age, isn’t he?”
“Yeah…his brother’s his legal guardian. But he’s off on a work trip right now. I guess he does that a lot.” I frown. How often is Sherlock alone? In the other towns, he must have had friends. No matter what he says. He must have. Maybe a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Who knows with him.
“Poor kid,” says Mom, and I’m forever weirded out by the idea of Sherlock as a kid. “We should have him over for dinner sometime.”
Oh God. If ever there was a disaster in the making. “He’s not that sociable. He doesn’t really like…people.”
“People like that are just trying to make it seem like their loneliness is a choice, rather than vice versa.” She sounds sad as she says it, gazing out the dining room window. Then she tilts her head to the side again. “Is that…smoke?”
I push my chair back. It’s dark, but Sherlock’s porch light is on, and through our kitchen window, I can see wisps of smoke curling out from his.
Mom’s fork is frozen above her meatloaf. “Should I call the fire department?”
I’m already by the front door, pulling on my coat. “I think I better go over first and check it out.”
“Thanks, Irene. You’re always so good to strangers.”
And it hits me as I head out the door—that’s how she talks to me now. Like I’m a stranger.
I walk quickly. It’s a cold night, the moon hanging low and fat in the sky. I look both ways before crossing the street.
“Sherlock!” I shout, banging on the door twice before letting myself in.
The hallway is thick with smoke. I open windows as I go. At this rate, he’s going to turn the white walls gray. “Sherlock, where are you? You better not be smoking again.”
“In the kitchen,” his voice calls back. “It’s the microwave that’s smoking.”
“Tell the microwave it’s not allowed to smoke either.” I stick my head into the kitchen, texting Mom: It’s fine, just burned popcorn . When I look up, black smoke is billowing from the microwave. Sherlock is standing next to it, ineffectually waving a potholder at the dark clouds.
“You’re going to suffocate. Go stand by the window.” I squint into the microwave, my eyes watering, throat burning. A blackened, misshapen lump is the source of the smoke. “What the hell is that?”
He tosses his potholder aside. “A shoe.”
“And what did the shoe do to you that you decided to execute it via microwave?”
“It belongs to Mycroft.”
“Such a petty crime.”
He frowns. “It’s an experiment. I’m measuring the melting rate of certain types of rubber under various temperatures.”
“And I’m sure that has nothing to do with sibling resentment.” I fish through a drawer, miraculously find a pair of salad tongs, and carry the acrid-smelling shoe outside, where I deposit it on the gravel.
“It’s
Similar Books
