“Really? You think I would deal drugs? I’m not irresponsible, Dad.” There was a hard edge to Harry’s voice that Felix hadn’t heard before.
“Maybe not, but you have no sense of order, and you’re unnaturally messy. You have only to walk through the kitchen, and every cabinet knob is sticky. And your bedroom looks like the city dump.”
“That’s not fair. I cleaned it just last week. You could eat off the fucking carpet.”
“Given the crumbs, I sometimes wonder if you do.”
“Excuse me?”
“Disorder follows you.”
“Disorder, huh?” Harry shot up and slammed the stool into the concrete island. If he broke that stool, swear to God he would pay for it. “Gee, thanks, Dad. And being a Nazi neat freak isn’t weird at all.”
“Don’t use that word, Nazi. It’s abhorrent to me.”
“Don’t use disorder. It’s abhorrent to me. I’m not a freak show because I’m wired a little differently.” Harry had never yelled at him before.
“That’s it.” Felix threw up his hands. “I don’t understand you, Harry. I have tried, but as God is my witness, we have nothing in common.”
“How hard have you tried?” Harry’s head was bobbing constantly now—tics blending into each other.
“That’s not fair. I’ve put my life on hold for you and your mother. I’m bending over backward to take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself!”
“Really? You can’t even find your shoes half the time.”
“What’s this unnatural obsession you have with putting away shoes?”
“Don’t turn this around. This isn’t about me. It’s about you.”
“Funny, I thought everything in this house was about you. By the way, you’re wrong when you say we have nothing in common. We have everything in common.” Harry’s hands moved every which way in a blur. “We’re both fucked up in the head.”
“Are you quite done, young man?”
Harry grimaced and blinked, grimaced and blinked. “Google ‘obsession with perfectionism,’ Dad. See what nasties turn up.”
“Go to your room,” Felix said.
“Gladly.” Harry grabbed his backpack, went to his room, and slammed the door.
Felix picked up a cut-glass water jug that had been a wedding present—it’s a jug, a jug, not a pitcher—and slammed it onto the floor. It shattered, and so did he.
Harry threw himself facedown on his bed. Then he kicked the pile of laundry to the floor. The clean laundry Dad had put in his room. Maybe he should set up a Dad-free zone with a sign that said “Keep Out.” Suppose there had been a system for all those college mailings? Did Dad think of that for one minute? No. Dad thought only in black and white: there was a right way of doing things—his way—and a wrong way—Harry’s way.
Dad was breaking stuff. That couldn’t be good. But maybe now he’d understand how it felt to be criticized. Harry pounded the pillow. Without Mom, this house was toxic. Waves of anger and despair bounced off the walls. He needed out.
His room was pitch black, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything right now except Sammie. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and texted her. No answer. Was she doing her chem homework? She’d been worrying about it at recess. (Science wasn’t her thing.) Harry hadn’t been sure how to help, so he’d told her the answer. Who knew that would be a mistake? He’d had to work pretty hard to get her to forgive him.
Sitting up, Harry tugged out his laptop. He turned it on, logged on to his Facebook page, hit the message icon.
hey whatcha doing dad’s being a dick can I come live with you LOL
Silence. He drummed his fingers on the side of his laptop. She was online; she’d just commented on a post of Max’s. He sent another message.
hello anybody out there really need to talk dad’s a dickhead
No, he isn’t.
pretty sure he is can I come over
You mean can Mom and I come get you because you’re too scared to ask your dad for a lift?