Inside, the television was on, the local news playing to our empty faded blue couch. Paintings hung at strange spots on the walls, like someone had slapped them wherever or had a very odd design sense. In reality, they covered bad patch jobs or holes that had never been fixed. The most recent addition was a brightly colored painting of Texas that hung crooked at my eye level.
I found Mom in the kitchen, frantically stirring something in a bowl, flour dusting her black T-shirt. Mom did everything frantically, like someone was chasing her while she was mixing. I didn’t know if it was an acquired behavior or if she’d always been that way. I’d have put money on the former.
She noticed me standing at the entrance to the kitchen. A crease appeared between her eyebrows. I was a constant source of worry, or disappointment, or concern. Never quite figured out which.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“Your school called,” she replied.
My phone dinged in my pocket. In the other pocket was a summer school schedule confirming what we all already knew—I was an idiot. I swallowed as I pulled the paper out.
“Two classes, mija?” Mom said, stirring so hard batter splattered across her shirt. “You failed two classes?”
“I could never figure out what the physics teacher was talking about. It never made any sense to me. Even after lots of studying,” I added, which was a total lie. I never studied. How did you study something that made absolutely no sense? Was I supposed to stare at the book and hope it all miraculously clicked one day?
“And English?” Mom asked. “How do you fail English? You like to read.”
Not the kinds of books they made us read in class. I shrugged.
She stopped stirring and let out a sigh so heavy the neighbors probably heard it. “You were supposed to get a job this summer.”
“I know.”
“You were supposed to help me.” She gestured with both arms to nothing in particular. I was supposed to get a job to help her pay the bills so she wouldn’t break down and call Dad again. It was our deal.
“Maybe I should just get a GED,” I said.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“I’m not going to college anyway. What does it matter?”
“You are not dropping out of high school.”
“Then I’ll get a job on nights and weekends. You worked in high school.”
She gave me a look that clearly said, You’re not me. I wasn’t her. I’d never wanted to be, in most ways.
The front door opened, and my older brother stepped inside. Laurence had an expression that clearly said he wished he’d stayed gone longer. It was his usual expression.
“I’m flunking out of high school,” I said.
“Oh.” There was no surprise in his tone.
“You are not flunking out. You’re going to summer school,” Mom said.
Was physics suddenly going to make sense in summer school? I was going to fail, again, and we’d have further confirmation of my stupidity. It had been well established since first grade, when the teacher sent a note home to my parents saying I was unfocused and kept hitting the other kids when I got frustrated. I was nothing if not consistent.
But no one ever asked why I was unfocused, or why I had so many absences, or why hitting the other kids seemed like a good idea. So I fell further behind, and I never found a way to catch up. My teachers got used to disappointment. We all did.
“Just don’t call Dad,” I said. “We can figure this out.” I looked at Laurence, hoping for help, for a sudden reveal that he’d found a new job after getting fired from the last one.
Laurence seemed uncomfortable, like he always did when anyone expected something of him. He was happiest slipping through life invisible, which should have been difficult, at six feet tall with the build of a former football player. But he managed it most of the time. He could move like a ballerina on a spy mission whenever he detected a potentially awkward situation.
“My buddy has a line on a job,” he finally said. I didn’t try to hide my surprise. Laurence so rarely came through with the good news I hoped for.
“It’s in Oklahoma,” he finished.
Right. There was the Laurence I knew. Perpetually disappointing.
“You’re moving to Oklahoma?” Mom abandoned her mixing and gaped at my brother.
“It’s a good job,” he said apologetically. His gaze met mine, and he quickly looked away.
If I were being reasonable, I’d say I couldn’t blame Laurence for wanting to leave. He was twenty years old; he was supposed to move out on his own, not hang around to help support his mom and little sister. Objectively, he was allowed to have his own life.
In reality, I resented him. I wanted to ask him to stick it out for one more year, because surely—surely—I could figure out a way to escape when I was eighteen.
But I said nothing. I’d never been able to ask Laurence for anything. My brother and I barely spoke at all.
“When?” Mom asked.
“Next week,” Laurence said.
Mom nodded. “Call your father and tell him.” She paused. “And let me speak to him.”
My heart sank.
I retreated to my bedroom and didn’t listen to Laurence’s and Mom’s conversations with Dad. I didn’t need to. I’d heard it a dozen times. Mom always kicked Dad out, and she always asked him to come back.
This was my fault, anyway. It was my fault for thinking this time would be different just because Dad put my head through a wall. If he’d put only a tiny bit more muscle behind it, he could have killed me. Mom had lost it, screaming at him to get out with such ferocity I was surprised she didn’t damage her vocal cords. The world was still tilted as I listened to her throw his clothes out the window, and Dad was gone before I’d
