The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine by April Lurie

that.”
    “Yeah, Dad, I know.” But the truth is since my mom left, the few times I’ve called my dad at work he’s always been in the middle of some major gynecological emergency. “So, how’s Randy?” I say.
    He sighs. “Well, like you, he’s got some contusions to the face. Also, his left eye is swollen shut, and his right elbow might need a few stitches. But other that that, I think he’ll live.”
    “Oh.” What I feel is a mixture of pride that I was able to hold my own in a fight against my older brother and a good measure of remorse for having started the whole thing, since I probably resemble Frankenstein at the moment and am soon going to get my ass chewed out by Coach Heffner.
    “I just don’t understand this, Dylan. You and your brother have always gotten along. When I asked Randy what had happened, he flat-out refused to tell me. What caused the fight?”
    “Um, nothing really
caused
the fight, Dad. We were just playing some one-on-one and the game got out of control.” From the look on his face, I can tell he’s not buying this story. I sit up and grimace, trying not to moan.
    “Here,” he says, “let me examine the rest of you.” With his stethoscope, he listens to my heart and lungs; then he runs his fingers over my sore ribs. “Well, you’re pretty banged up, but nothing’s broken, thank God.”
    We sit there for a while in silence. Lately my father has been looking pretty worn out, and today, if he wasn’t wearing doctor’s scrubs, you might mistake him for a homeless guy in need of a shave and a good meal. “I’m sorry for all the trouble, Dad,” I say. “It won’t happen again.”
    He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Listen, Dylan, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I’ve reached the conclusion that we need some help around here. I’m going to start interviewing for a live-in housekeeper.”
    “What? No, Dad, you can’t do that! Look, I’ve been doing a good job with the cooking and cleaning and stuff. I know the house isn’t perfect, but—”
    “No, Dylan, that’s not it. Sure, you’ve been doing a great job, and I’m proud of you, but we need to face the facts. I don’t know if you heard the phone message from Mom, but it seems that when she gets back from Paris, she’s planning to stay in the Village. With Philippe.”
    It’s the first time I’ve heard my dad say Philippe’s name since my mother moved out. A burning knot forms in the back of my throat. “Is…that what she said? I only heard part of the message.”
    He nods. “I’m sorry, Dylan. I was hoping she’d reconsider, come back home, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.”
    Suddenly I miss my mother more than ever. I can’t even imagine some strange lady coming to our house—cooking, cleaning, trying to act like she gives a crap about some rich doctor’s kids. A tear slides down my cheek and I quickly wipe it away. “Whatever, Dad, I still don’t want a housekeeper. Randy and I can manage fine on our own.”
    He raises an eyebrow. “Well, considering that during this past week—let’s see, you’ve been arrested, Mrs. Underwood called the cops on Randy, and then the two of you tried to kill each other, I’d say you guys need a little supervision. Besides, I work such crazy hours. There needs to be an adult around when I’m not here.”
    I’m about to protest again, but he stops me. “Shhh, we’ll talk about this later, Dylan.” He leans over and fluffs my pillow. “For now, just rest.”
             
    I sleep away the next couple of days, waking only to eat, watch
Seinfeld
reruns, read my old copy of
The Catcher in the Rye,
and think about Angie. By Labor Day, except for the fact that my face looks like it’s been through a meat grinder, I’m feeling pretty good. Angie will be home this evening and, who knows, maybe if I put a bag over my head, I’ll gain enough courage to tell her how I feel about her.
    I get up, shower, put the