The Sky Is Falling by Caroline Adderson Page A

Jr. said.
    Joe turned to me. “I think that’s reasonable.”
    â€œJoey played the cello for me,” said Rachel. “I never thought I’d live to hear someone in this family playing Bach.”
    â€œWas that Bach?” Joe Jr. asked, looking pleased with himself.
    I noticed how Simon kept glancing at me from across the table. I could see right in his mouth as he chewed, beans stuck on his braces, mud on a wire fence. When I met his eye: dart, dart. Normally Joe Jr.’s friends ignore me. When I come into the room they immediately mute themselves, except for the yelps when they punch each other, or the snickers. They hardly look at me, not the way Simon kept looking at me now. How to describe it? With interest .
    And a horrible thought came to me. Joe Jr. did have the article. He had it and he’d shown it to Simon.
    Joe: “Boys? What do you think of this? The Streptococci?”
    Thumbs down from Joe Jr. “Nobody’ll get it.”
    â€œWhat is it?” Simon asked.
    â€œThen how about The Cankers?”
    â€œI thought we were going to be The Cretins,” Simon said. “Like? One, two, three, four, Cretins wanna hop some more?”
    â€œJane has a problem with The Cretins. She doesn’t think it’s very nice.”
    â€œI like The Joes,” I said.
    The boys groaned.
    â€œThink of it as a tribute. Joey Shithead. Joe Strummer. Joey Ramone. Joey Normal and the Fuck Ups.”
    Rachel frowned. “What’s all this nasty talk about?”
    â€œWe need a name. We’re, like, a punk band, Gran.”
    â€œYou’re like one or you are one?”
    â€œDad’s getting us a real gig.”
    â€œI’m working on it,” Joe said. “I still have connections, Ma.”
    â€œThough half of them are lawyers now,” I pointed out. “You remember Molly? She’s a lawyer.”
    Rachel: “How about The Tone Deaf? Are you playing the cello in this band, Joey?”
    â€œNo, that’s for school. No one else was playing it. Mom told me that story so I thought I’d try it.”
    â€œWhat story?” I asked.
    â€œYou were reading that book. About the guy who brings his crazy friend home and is embarrassed because his dad plays the cello.”
    â€œYou mean Fathers and Sons ?”
    I’m the odd reader out in this family. The Joes have no use for books; they live for the music I mostly tune out. I was so touched that my son had actually paid attention to something I cared about that tears came to my eyes. Quickly, I wiped them with my napkin because crying is a hundred times worse than playing the cello, even old Kirsanov knew that. Joe rose from the table and went into the kitchen to get dessert, trading a concerned glance with his mother on the way. Then I really felt foolish, because I knew for certain that they all knew what had happened to that article. They all knew and I didn’t. I was the cretin.
    The apple crumble hit the trivet; the boys attacked. Joe set the ice cream down beside it and I remembered that Russian word, the one I’d imagined bulging in Simon’s throat. Morozhenoye . I got up to put the tea on. When I got back to the table Simon was saying, “There’s, like, a demonstration.” He glanced at me, ears reddening around the peepholes. “You should come.” He seemed to be saying this to me specifically. Inviting me .
    â€œ I should?” I asked.
    The colour spread from his perforated lobes. “You all should,” he said. “It’s totally illegal, their being in Iraq.”
    â€œWhere’s the demonstration?” I asked.
    â€œAt the Art Gallery. It would be awesome if you came.”
    Awesome? What the hell? I wondered. What was that kid thinking about me?
    After dinner they went downstairs to practise. Joe Sr.’s lair is down there, a TV, a stationary bicycle, an unambitious set of weights. It’s also where he stores and listens