Max would say, “For fuck’s sake, dude, play hard to get.” But why? If Sammie was going to love him back, she had to love him all the way. Love him for who he was. Hiding shit wasn’t working out so well for Dad, who pushed everyone away rather than admit he needed help. Harry wasn’t falling down that manhole.
He should check the living room and kitchen. Make sure everything was cleared up from the party, even though it’d all looked “fine and dandy, dandy and fine”—to quote the elf in Santa Claus: The Movie—when they’d eaten the rubbery pancakes. Harry had briefed the guys ahead of time: “Even if breakfast is disgusting, eat everything and tell Dad it’s fantastic.” Everyone had thanked Dad tons. Maybe too much, since he’d given Harry that skeptical look, like he’d known it wasn’t spontaneous. Couldn’t Dad just accept that someone was trying to do something nice for him? Mom was right; Dad made life way too hard. For himself and others.
Harry shuffled into the living room. Dad had vacuumed, cleaned off the coffee table, even puffed the sofa pillows. A most excellent sign. If Dad had been worried about Mom, he wouldn’t have taken the time for a thorough cleaning job. Nor would he have cooked pancakes and bacon for six starving teens. Something poked out from under the sofa. Harry dropped to his knees. Max had a habit of squirreling away candy as if he were storing nuts for the winter. Yup. There was Max’s Starburst stash.
His phone made the clown noise. Another text from Dad.
I’m going to stay with Mom a bit longer. I’ll pick up Mexican on the way home.
Dad hated Mexican. Complained that it was too heavy, that it sat in his stomach like concrete and gave him heartburn. Harry patted his stomach. Was he getting fat? Hadn’t told anyone he was worrying about getting fat. Mom would be upset if she thought he was fussing about how he looked. She was always telling him horror stories about her high school friend whose kid had body dysmorphic disorder. “See, Harry? There are worse things than Tourette syndrome and a little ADHD.” Had a lot of new worries since Mom went into the hospital. Seemed like his head was jangling with anxiety. Was he getting fat? A little voice told him he was.
Wait.
Anal-cleanup Dad had missed the Starburst wrappers, and now he was offering to pick up Mexican. Harry tore off a hangnail with his teeth. Had something bad happened, and Dad didn’t want to tell him? What if it was just him and Dad all the time, and he had to deal with Dad all the time, and Dad had to deal with him all the time, and it was just two of them all the time, and . . .
mom, he texted. i’m super anxious
Dad here. Mom’s indisposed. Deal with it, Harry. We’ll talk later.
Harry stared at the phone. Deal with it? Like, for real? He was alone! Who was going to help him deal with it when he was freaking out and alone? Should he send Max a Code SpongeBob text, which meant super urgent emergency, come over right now?
And Mom was indisposed. And Dad was running interference.
Maybe Mom was the one who couldn’t deal. Deal with him. Before she went to Florida, she’d gotten frustrated with him—she never got angry, just quiet and tense and her voice dropped a notch—and said, “Harry, you’ve got to stop dumping on me and start dealing with these things by yourself. What are you going to do when you’re at college?” He’d grinned and said, “Text you?” But she’d just given him a sad look.
Was it his fault that she was sick? Was he too needy? She made his life easy—maybe a bit too easy—but he let her. He never said, “Please stop acting like my maid and minder.” Why had he never learned to deal with shit by himself?
Alrighty, then. Time to flip this whole thing around. Rise to the challenge and prove to his parents that he could take charge of his life. Harry strutted back to his room to start the big tidy up.