“Love you, son,” he says into my ear before pushing me away. “Now brush those chompers.”
Eva and I race up the spiral staircase of our house, fighting each other the entire way, while Mom and Dad clean the downstairs. We share a bathroom, which Eva HATES, but I don’t mind as she always cleans it. Makes my life easier. The good thing about our bathroom is it’s a Jack and Jill bathroom, both of our rooms connect and we have our own sinks. It’s convenient because all of her hair, which falls out on a daily basis, stays on her side, leaving me to my toothpaste-encrusted sink.
With a mouth full of foaming toothpaste, Eva turns to me, her hip leaning against the bathroom sink and says, “You didn’t take out the trash.”
“Crap,” I mutter, toothpaste foam coming out of my mouth. “Why do I always forget?”
“Because you’re a teenage boy with zero regard for responsibilities.” She spits out and rinses her brush while I do the same.
The creak of the stairs indicates my parents coming up to bed as well, so I rush out to catch them in the hallway.
“What are you doing?” my mom asks. “Your bed is in the other direction.”
Sheepishly, I toe the carpet and say, “I forgot to take out the trash.”
“All right,” my mom steps aside, “take it out, lock up, and then go to bed.”
“Okay.” I smile quickly and run down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I rush out to the back door that leads to the side gate, give Fritz a pat on the head, and open the wooden gate to the front. Running back to the giant garbage cans the HOA provides, I wheel them out to the curb, listening to the big plastic wheels crunch against the cement. Following the garbage can, I pull out the recycling as well and head back to the house. Fritz is waiting next to his doghouse, and before I go back inside I grab his head, scratch the sides of his face, and let him give me a giant lick.
“Have a good night, boy.” With one last pat, I head back in the house, shut the door, and sprint up the stairs.
“Night, everyone,” I shout as I hop into my top bunk, sinking into the plush comforter of my Oakland Athletics bedding. I love baseball, but I’m not very good at it; that’s why I swim. I’m a natural. But for a guy my age, there isn’t much swimming paraphernalia, so I cling to other sports to decorate my walls. Going to baseball games with my dad is one of my favorite things to do.
Even though I love baseball, I love swimming more. Above my bed there is a poster size picture of an Olympic pool from the Atlanta games. I stare at it every night before I go to bed, envisioning myself being on that athletic stage one day. With my determination, I know it will happen.
Drifting off into a dream-filled sleep, I’m unaware of the time when Fritz starts barking, a kind of bark I’ve never heard before. My body starts to sweat as I sit up and look down at the clock on my desk.
One in the morning.
What’s going on?
My heart races as Fritz barks louder and faster then noticeably quiets down to a whimper, increasing my heart rate even more. I listen for Fritz, for anything, but hear nothing but the sound of my own heavy breath until . . .
The sliding glass door opens. I recognize that high-pitched squeak. My mom hates it and has asked Dad to fix the door many times.
My stomach bottoms out as I wrack my brain, trying to remember if I locked the door or not.Did I lock it and put the bar down in the track?
I didn’t. Shit. I didn’t.
Bringing the blankets up to my chest, I whisper to myself, “Please be Dad. Please be Dad.”
The stairs creak as someone comes up to the second floor at an even pace, never really taking their time, as if they know the layout of the house.Must bemy dad.
My throat grows tight, my body heats up, and sweat breaks out on my upper lip.
“Please be Dad. Please be Dad.”
The footsteps go toward my parents’ room and I hear their door open. Thank God. It was my dad. I wonder if he was checking on my trash cans? Maybe he forgot to throw something out.
Exhaling, I lean down on my mattress just as I hear, “What the fuck?” and then two unmistakable gunshots ring through the air. My mom screams, only to be followed by two more gunshots.
A cry escapes me as I hop off my bed, run through the Jack and Jill bathroom that connects with Eva’s room, and right into Eva who is crying. She guides me back into the bathroom, my mouth covered by her hand, and takes me into the shower where we both hunker down in the tub.
We hold each other and try to keep our cries silent as we wait for the footsteps to near us, but they never do. Instead, they retreat back downstairs, leaving us alone.
I don’t know how long we wait in the tub, how long we hold each other crying, waiting for our parents to tell us it was all a joke, for them to come see us, to let us know everything is going to be okay.
But they never show up.
