behind her, still talking, and
forgetting that we're not with her. “ . . . put my feet up for half
an hour.” The last part is muffled.
I follow Keith down the
hall. “What was that about today?” I ask him.He looks at me like
I’m talking in a foreign language.
“I saw Chico take a swing—”
I get out these few words before he snaps at me.
“It’s none of your
business.” Keith steps into the bathroom, then closes and locks the
door.
I’m not letting him get
away with that answer. “Whatever you're saying to Mitch about Las
Pulgas is getting back here. You'd better stop.”
“Mind your own business,”
he growls through the door.
“Keith—” I pound on the
door, but he cranks the water on in the shower so he won’t hear
anything else I try to tell him.
That night he eats in his
room. Mom never let us do that in Channing, but this is one more
thing that’s different here. When I ask how come Keith gets special
treatment, she says, “He needs some time without women.”
Mom holds her real estate
book in both hands, but she doesn’t turn the pages, so I’m sure
she’s reading the white spaces instead of the words. I flip through
the script without paying attention to which act I have in front of
me. We don’t talk, and I know this silence is about the two missing
men in our lives. I keep seeing Chico at the curb ready to pound on
Keith, and I wonder what else is going to happen to my brother at
school.
What would you do about
this, Dad? Go to the principal? Buy Keith some boxing
gloves? I know Dad would handle this mess
so differently than Mom who seems willing to let our mole burrow
deeper and deeper into his hole.
I glance over the top of my
script. Even after a shower she looks wilted, but she’s so into her
thoughts that I know she’s not really here in this box of a
kitchen. I wish that were true for me, too.
Later when I check my email
it’s as pathetic as the rest of my life. Sean writes that he’s
bought his ticket, so he’s set to visit New York before the break.
He’ll talk to me soon.
“Right!” I hit Delete. Then
I change my mind and retrieve the message from Trash. “U R so
lucky! Out of school early AND going to NY. Carlie.” My finger
hovers over Send. Then I back space over Carlie and write, “Love,
Carlie.” I back space again over “Love,” and type “X.”
Quicken is tucked into a
tight ball on my desk, and when I stroke her she stretches out.
“You are my best fur person, aren’t you?” She rolls over and lets
me stroke her belly and under her chin.
I’m too tired to shower.
I’ll just—
The crash that shudders my
wall shoots Quicken to all fours and under the bed. I’m up from my
desk chair and instantly on the opposite side of the room to
listen.
“No more money on the
horses! You hear me?” The woman’s voice on the other side of my
bulletin board is shrill. I remember her face from that day I
knocked at her door and asked about Quicken.
Her husband’s loud gravelly
voice shouts back. “I make the money. I’ll spend it on what I
want.”
What she says next changes
my mind about not taking a shower. I need to wash away her voice
and block out the ugly sounds coming through my wall. Rummaging
through my desk and shuffling my journal aside, I dig out the
earplugs I used for swimming class last year. From under the bed
come Quicken’s low growls.
I push the foam pieces into
each ear and relax to the soft pulse of my blood. Before closing
the drawer I touch the embossed letters on my journal, but I don’t
open the leather cover to look inside.
Tuesday’s here again,
another rehearsal night has arrived before I’ve read over my part,
so I stake out a quiet corner behind the gym bleachers during lunch
and cram “My lords” and “Alacks” and “Alases” into my head. After
scene ii in Act V I have no more lines. Othello murders Desdemona
and even though I hate the plot, I’m grateful not to have more to
learn.
I take a moment
forgetting that we're not with her. “ . . . put my feet up for half
an hour.” The last part is muffled.
I follow Keith down the
hall. “What was that about today?” I ask him.He looks at me like
I’m talking in a foreign language.
“I saw Chico take a swing—”
I get out these few words before he snaps at me.
“It’s none of your
business.” Keith steps into the bathroom, then closes and locks the
door.
I’m not letting him get
away with that answer. “Whatever you're saying to Mitch about Las
Pulgas is getting back here. You'd better stop.”
“Mind your own business,”
he growls through the door.
“Keith—” I pound on the
door, but he cranks the water on in the shower so he won’t hear
anything else I try to tell him.
That night he eats in his
room. Mom never let us do that in Channing, but this is one more
thing that’s different here. When I ask how come Keith gets special
treatment, she says, “He needs some time without women.”
Mom holds her real estate
book in both hands, but she doesn’t turn the pages, so I’m sure
she’s reading the white spaces instead of the words. I flip through
the script without paying attention to which act I have in front of
me. We don’t talk, and I know this silence is about the two missing
men in our lives. I keep seeing Chico at the curb ready to pound on
Keith, and I wonder what else is going to happen to my brother at
school.
What would you do about
this, Dad? Go to the principal? Buy Keith some boxing
gloves? I know Dad would handle this mess
so differently than Mom who seems willing to let our mole burrow
deeper and deeper into his hole.
I glance over the top of my
script. Even after a shower she looks wilted, but she’s so into her
thoughts that I know she’s not really here in this box of a
kitchen. I wish that were true for me, too.
Later when I check my email
it’s as pathetic as the rest of my life. Sean writes that he’s
bought his ticket, so he’s set to visit New York before the break.
He’ll talk to me soon.
“Right!” I hit Delete. Then
I change my mind and retrieve the message from Trash. “U R so
lucky! Out of school early AND going to NY. Carlie.” My finger
hovers over Send. Then I back space over Carlie and write, “Love,
Carlie.” I back space again over “Love,” and type “X.”
Quicken is tucked into a
tight ball on my desk, and when I stroke her she stretches out.
“You are my best fur person, aren’t you?” She rolls over and lets
me stroke her belly and under her chin.
I’m too tired to shower.
I’ll just—
The crash that shudders my
wall shoots Quicken to all fours and under the bed. I’m up from my
desk chair and instantly on the opposite side of the room to
listen.
“No more money on the
horses! You hear me?” The woman’s voice on the other side of my
bulletin board is shrill. I remember her face from that day I
knocked at her door and asked about Quicken.
Her husband’s loud gravelly
voice shouts back. “I make the money. I’ll spend it on what I
want.”
What she says next changes
my mind about not taking a shower. I need to wash away her voice
and block out the ugly sounds coming through my wall. Rummaging
through my desk and shuffling my journal aside, I dig out the
earplugs I used for swimming class last year. From under the bed
come Quicken’s low growls.
I push the foam pieces into
each ear and relax to the soft pulse of my blood. Before closing
the drawer I touch the embossed letters on my journal, but I don’t
open the leather cover to look inside.
Tuesday’s here again,
another rehearsal night has arrived before I’ve read over my part,
so I stake out a quiet corner behind the gym bleachers during lunch
and cram “My lords” and “Alacks” and “Alases” into my head. After
scene ii in Act V I have no more lines. Othello murders Desdemona
and even though I hate the plot, I’m grateful not to have more to
learn.
I take a moment
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