I shake my head and sigh. That wasn’t quite a prank, but it was close enough, so I gotta give him credit for that. I grab a handful of Cheez-Its and a couple of Swedish Fish from the snack platter Mom kindly assembled for me.
“I see you’ve entirely given up on the Ayurvedic diet,” Dad observes as I turn my finger into a fishing rod and try to hook the gummy fish chunk that’s just gotten stuck between my back teeth.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry, Dad.”
“I get it,” Dad says, coming around the couch and plopping down next to my legs. “But if you’re serious about wanting to solve this, then—”
“Pete, let it go,” Mom says, shouting from her home office.
“I know, I know,” Dad shouts back. “Can I get out this thought, though?”
I hear Mom’s chair roll backward, and then she pops out of her office. “I think he’sheardthat thought already. Many times. So have I. He doesn’t want to do the diet. So you need to stop bothering him about it.”
“Wend,” Dad says, standing up from the couch as Mom walks into the room. “It’s not like I’m bothering him about taking an art class or playing lacrosse or something. This could make a genuine difference with his... condition.”
“I know,” Mom says. “But right now—not sure if you’ve noticed—he’s been in a bit of a funk. To say the least. And I don’t think passing on two Swedish Fish will be the difference maker on finally cracking this thing.”
BOOM. I love when Mom has my back.
“Sure,” Dad says, “but—”
“If Cart’s forced to be stuck like this,” Mom interrupts, “we can at least allow him to enjoy himself occasionally.”
Amen to that. I hate being here when Mom and Dad argue about me, but I appreciate that I don’t have to be the one arguing.
Dad throws an arm in the air, huffs, and goes silent for a moment. “I know you’re enjoyingyourself?,” he finally mutters. It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to Mom. “Maybe we can find a way to get Lincoln stuck too; we’ll all live here together forever. That’s the dream, right?”
I get a queasy feeling in my stomach when I see the way this has landed with Mom.
She’s angry. Incredibly angry.
Her eyes get shiny, and she slowly turns and leaves the room.
“Wendy,” Dad says, following her. “I’m sorry, okay? That was too much. I know that was too much.”
I go to unpause the circus non-documentary, but I feel so tired.
I pull the blanket tighter around me and roll onto my side.
I close my eyes.
When I wake up the next morning, I’m still on the couch, and Dad has been replaced by Lincoln. He’s wearing a maroon hoodie and sipping from a mug while looking at his phone.
“Morning, bright eyes,” he says.
“Link,” I say. “You’re home. How’d you get here so early?”
“Well, first of all, it’s 11:12, so I don’t think it’s as early as you think. Also I caught an early train.”
“Oh. Cool.” I clumsily sit up and get my bearings. My tongue feels caked with Cheez-Its. I’ve been dreading seeing Lincoln. He’s another bullet point on the list of People I’ve Decided to Ghost.
“Why are you sleeping on the couch?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I do it sometimes. It’s just easier, I guess.”
“I see.” There’s so much judgment packed into those two words. My little brother takes a long sip from his beverage, and I’m tempted to smack the mug right out of his hands. “You haven’t been responding to any of my texts,” he says.
I shrug my shoulders. “Sorry.”
