“This isn’t funny, Mom. Dad is acting like a psycho. What did Graham do?”
My mom opened the cupboard in front of me but immediately shut it without looking inside, revealing again her anxiety. Then she scooted to the next cupboard—the one with actual snacks—and pulled out a bag of popcorn and another half-empty bag of pretzels. She emptied both bags into a big bowl and stated in anoddly calm voice, “I wonder if he even got any dinner. Maybe I should make Graham a sandwich?” She pivoted and opened the refrigerator door.
Frustration coursed through my veins, and I balled my hands into fists. This perfectly cloned model of a fifties housewife was casually making a sandwich for our house guest, but she was not my mom.That psycho in the living room is definitely not my dad. We were never an overly communicative family, but they also never kept obvious secrets from me. I wanted to scream. I pleaded, “Mom, what did he do?”
“Let’s see. Turkey. Cheese.” She inventoried the ingredients as she grabbed them.
“Mom!”
“Elinora.” Her tone was easy, irking me so full of annoyance that pressure expanded in my head.
“What did he do?” I pressed with aggression in my tone because at this point, she owed me an answer. She had allowed me to be his friend all summer, never hinting a word about this. Suddenly, when he had to stay the night in my house, my parents were acting out of their minds.
She shoved the fridge door with her hip, then spread the ingredients on the counter. “I would tell you, because I actually don’t see it fully as his fault, but your father isn’t comfortable with, well, any of this.”
“Then why did you ask me to come downstairs?” I said through my clenched teeth. “I didn’t even know he was here. I could have stayed in my room.”
“I had no idea your dad would act like this.” She assembled his sandwich and set it on the table, then signaled a little too intensely with her head to the bowl.
I carried the bowl with straight arms as if it weighed fifty pounds while my mom murmured, “Go tell Graham to comeback here. We need to get him away from your dad. I think your father will be in there for a while.”
I kept my not-happy glare but obediently dragged my feet back down the hall to find my dad still in narrator mode. “This is some of the strongest string you can find. I wrap it around the packing, so it keeps its shape.” He held the wire like he was about to create a noose. Graham’s eyes were wide when they landed back on me, pleading for rescue.
Clearing my throat, I announced, “My mom made you a sandwich, but you have to eat it in the kitchen.”
I’d never seen a human fly across a room as fast as Graham. I doubted he was even hungry—especially after watching what my dad just did—but relief washed over his face when he escaped. He bellied up to the table, and I plopped down on a chair across from him. I assumed my mom would hover over us, but she headed back to the living room with my dad. Muffled voices wafted from the hall, but I didn’t try to eavesdrop. Hopefully she was talking some sense into him.
Graham’s gaze fixed on his plate as he took giant, teenage-boy bites of his sandwich. It was obvious from his blazing red ears that he was fully aware of my parents’ conversation about him. Having been the subject of bullying my whole life, I knew exactly the shame he had to be feeling. Although I didn’t know what he had done, I felt awful for him. I offered a lopsided grin. “My parents are sort of annoying.”
“It’s okay.” His voice was even. Void of emotion.
I stared at his lowered lashes. They were beautiful, the way they curled right at the tips. My mom would disapprove of my asking, but I could hear she was still distracted with her own conversation. I swallowed, pulling up my courage. “Can I ask what you did that is making my dad so crazy?”
He raised his lashes, letting his eyes hit mine. It sent a chill down my spine. I wasn’t sure if I was excited or scared when a cold rush bellowed into my extremities. “You don’t know?”
“How would I know?” I rushed to whisper back.
“I’d assumed someone would have told you by now.”
“No, I think my parents are protecting me from it.” I covered my mouth with my palm, speaking through it. “Whatever it is.” I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t, so I added, “I won’t judge you. I get beat up every day in school. I know what it’s like to be made to feel shame.”
Having practically inhaled his sandwich, he brushed off the last of the crumbs on the center of the plate while he stole a look down the hall, before starting in a whisper, “I don’t care if you judge me. I don’t care about people.” I started to interject, but he kept talking, “My mom’s not real present in my life. The court called it neglect. Never met my dad. I’ve pretty much been on my own my whole life. Nobody cared or said anything because I was good at school, and I could play football.”
He coaxed his head to the side, as if he was giving me a chance to let that info dump simmer. I didn’t flinch. He went on, “Quarterback, running back, I’m good at it all. My biggest problem was I went to the high school on the wrong side of the tracks. However, since I played ball there, the team won three state titles—for the first time ever. I became their little small-town hero. People started being nice to me, despite my address. But I don’t care about any of them. I didn’t play football for them or the stupid town. I did it for me.
I had a plan. I’d get a football scholarship for college. Since I had no other means to pay for college, it was pretty much my only option to have a chance at a normal life. However, with the economy the way it is, the city decided to cut school budgets. Our little south-of-the-tracks school got hit the worst. Theycompletely cut the budget for all extracurriculars, including football.”
His eyes explored mine while my heart drummed fast against my rib cage.
“I should add, the other school—on the right side of the tracks—got money for a new stadium. They said it was because the boosters were fundraising, but it infuriated me. I tried to transfer, but the zoning committee wouldn’t let me. They argued everyone would want to do that. I didn’t care about their fancy stadium. I’d play football in a dump yard if it meant I could play. It was unfair. I didn’t choose to live where I lived—” His voice cut off. A loud shuffle from down the hall boomed.
We both turned our heads as my dad stomped upstairs. His footsteps echoed, sending out ripples of warning, signaling to us both that even though he was going upstairs, he would still bejust upstairs.
Mom padded down the hall and softly said, “I made up the couch for you, Graham. You can sleep there.” Then she looked at me with a serious face. “Elinora, I need you to come upstairs now. Your father wants you to be in your room for the rest of the night.”
Graham immediately tucked his gaze on his plate again. I blew out a frustrated breath. There was no point arguing. I noisily pushed my chair back, tagging behind my mom without even saying goodnight to Graham.
I was outraged at the way my parents were treating Graham. They were being bullies. And who cared if they were being gracious to let him stay here? They made it obvious he wasn’t welcome. I had seen that look of shame on Graham’s face so many times in the mirror that I couldn’t help but take his side. I wanted to run back downstairs and apologize on behalf of my parents, but they’d hear me. We’d both get into trouble. With the way my parents acted, they’d more than likely place the blameon Graham. I didn’t want to make his life worse. So, I gave up and went to bed.
