“If I could close my damn door, you wouldn’t have to listen to me!”
I carefully shut my bedroom door, but I can still hear them fighting in the hallway. My phone buzzes, and I pick it up. It’s a text from Rosemarie: a picture of her face with her eyes rolled into the back of her head and a slack expression. Entertain meeeeeeeee.
In the hallway, Dad shouts something about safety, while Bo storms into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. A second later, Bo opens the door and yells down the hall: “Is it okay to pee behind a closed door? Or do you want to remove this one too?”
What’s up? I type into my phone.
“Son of a bitch!” Dad shouts, and then I hear the drill bang against the hardwood floor. I’m not sure if he’s cursing because he dropped the drill, or if he threw the drill down because he’s mad at Bo.
Can I come over? Rosemarie texts. Super bored.
Nah, I type. My friends know that Bo is at a special academy, but they think it’s a military school or something. And they don’t know that he’s home every weekend. It’s not really a secret; I’d just rather not discuss him at all. Life’s more boring here, I text.
Then you come here.
I look up from my phone, at my closed bedroom door. Outside, my dad has resumed drilling, and I can hear the sound of ripping wood.
I can’t. Mom wants me home.
Come onnnnnnn, Rosemarie says. Tell your mom it’s my birthday.
Lol, that’s next month.
Rosemarie sends me a shrugging emoticon. They don’t know that. And my gramps is over, so we do have cake.
Outside, the hallway is silent. Lololol, be right over.
I stuff my phone into my pants pocket. I hesitate for a second, then I twist the doorknob slowly and peek outside.
Bo’s door is gone. The wood at the bottom of the doorframe is splintered, as if Dad kicked it off instead of bothering with the drill. There’s a huge, white gouge in the floor from where the drill fell on it. The bathroom door is still shut, and Dad’s nowhere in sight.
I creep down the hall, away from my bedroom and past Dad’s locked office door. I wait until I’m at the bottom of the steps before I call softly, “Mom?” She doesn’t answer, so I go looking for her. I find her in the den, on her hands and knees, polishing the wide wooden legs of the coffee table so forcefully that the little brooch she’s wearing on her blouse shakes. Dad gave Mom that pin after I was born: a tiny golden bee dangling from an enameled bow to represent my and Bo’s names. Mom always wears it on the weekends when Bo is home, but never on the days between visits.
“Can I go over to Rosemarie’s?” I ask.
“Family dinner tonight,” Mom says without even looking up. Before Bo went to Berkshire, she never really cared about the idea of “family dinner.” Sure, she cooked, and sometimes we ate together, but it wasn’t a requirement. Now, though, she’s adamant: When Bo is home, we “eat as a family.” It never feels natural, though. Mom always places food on the table like it’s an offering, and even though she says the point is to stay connected, she hardly talks at all.
“It’s Rosemarie’s birthday,” I say.
Mom pauses and sits back on her heels. “Why didn’t you tell me about it before?”
“I got the dates mixed up. She’s really mad I’m not there already.”
I can tell that Mom is wavering, though her eyes glance up at the ceiling, toward Bo’s room. But rather than cave, she says, “Ask your father.”
I groan. “Come on, Mom. Don’t make me do that.”
She’s no longer polishing the coffee table, but she doesn’t look up at me either.
“Please,” I say. “It’s not that big of a deal. It’s one night, and I’ll be home before nine. Come on.”
“Fine,” she tells the coffee table in a small voice.
“Thank you!” I say, bouncing on my heels. I turn to go, but then turn back, drop to my knees, and give my mom an awkward half hug.
I rush to leave, pausing before I pull the kitchen door closed behind me. Just a few minutes ago, there was nothing but shouting and the drill and slamming doors. Now there’s nothing at all.
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