“Ah.”
Without acknowledging me, Crispin said, “What’s your full identity?”
“Alexander Dumas Delaware. I go by Alex.”
Milo gaped. He’d never known about the flight of literary fancy cooked up by my mother before the postpartum depression set in and never left. Leaving me to be disparaged throughout my childhood as “sissy-boy Froggy” by my violent sot of a father.
The initials didn’t help, either: A.D.D. I’d tired of the ridicule at school, abandoned the offending “D” on my Missouri driver’s license and every document since.
Haley said, “Bernard is my dad. Crispin likes going to Montana to visit him.”
Crispin picked up the book and began reading.
Milo said, “Do you know why we’re here?”
“I threatened Todd and Shirin.”
Haley said, “He means you think that.”
Crispin said, “I mean I know that.”
Milo said, “So you did it.”
“Of course I did it.”
“Todd and Shirin got pretty upset.”
“That was the goal.”
“To make them upset.”
“Yes.”
“Because…”
“I hate them,” said Crispin. “They hate me. Expecting pleasantries in a situation like that is unrealistic.”
“Would you ever act out on the threats?”
Haley said, “Of course not!”
Her son regarded her as if she was beyond reasoning with.
Milo said, “Crispin, would you ever—”
“No. It’s an inefficient and stupid strategy.”
“How so?”
The boy’s withering glance shifted to us. “Why would I endanger my freedom for the short-term pleasure of harming them? At least not under current circumstances.”
Haley said, “Oh, Crispin, stop screwing around and just tell them the truth.”
“I’m being truthful. Mother. In the current situation, all of us being adolescents, there’s zero probability I’d act out.”
I said, “But?”
“Three of us on a deserted island together, enough food for only one? Or two? I’d do my best to survive.”
