Chapter Two #2
The money stayed in his account, and the old things stayed where they were.
“Marcos, can you get the bowl from the top shelf, please?” Diana asked, and Becca raised her eyebrow.
He slipped by his mum, reached up, and grabbed the bowl, placing it on the counter. “There you go, Ma. See, Bec. Needed.”
Becca hummed and rolled her eyes, handing a plate to Marcos for him to dry. “So, how is the new team going?”
“It’s good. It’s been a few weeks, and I mostly see them in the gym, but they seem chill.”
That was mostly true. They were better organised than he had expected in some ways, stranger in others, because every club had its own rhythms and he was still learning where to stand without someone telling him to move.
He had learned names. He had learned who lifted too hard too early, who complained through every mobility block, who wanted to be first in sprints, and who pretended not to care when they were.
He had learned that the Mustangs’ gym had better equipment than Bendigo’s, but the drinks in the vending machine were much worse.
“So, you’re actually going to do good this season?”
Marcos glanced at Becca. “Me specifically?”
“Yeah. ‘Cause you’re bad.”
“No, no. I got that part.” Marcos clicked his tongue, then turned to his mum. “See what I mean? So cruel.”
Diana waved him off as she focused on cooking, muttering something under her breath that he didn’t catch.
Marcos dried another plate and set it on the bench. Becca washed with too much water and not enough care, getting the front of her shirt wet. Outside, a tram bell sounded faintly through the evening traffic, softened by distance and the closed back door.
“Have you hit that Seb guy yet?” Becca asked. “You complain about him enough.”
“I have not hit him. Yet.”
“My baby would never hit anyone. He is too precious,” Diana said, shifting behind Marcos and giving him a quick kiss on the shoulder, then rushing out of the kitchen.
Marcos watched her disappear with the towel still in his hand.
“Since when did Mum lie?” Becca whispered, and Marcos shoved her.
“You understood all that?”
“No. But ‘precious’ is not a word I’d use to describe you.”
“You’re as bad as Dad.”
“What did I do?” Marcos’ dad’s voice came into the kitchen before he did.
Greg Reyes filled doorways even when he was not trying to. He was almost as tall as Marcos and broader through the middle. He had no hair left on his head and had grown a moustache to compensate. He wore work pants still marked from the day and a dark shirt stretched tight across his shoulders.
“Aye, Greg,” Becca said, and gave a salute.
Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that.”
Becca shrugged it off.
“Her Spanish is a wreckage,” Marcos explained, placing the dish towel on the bench.
“A wreckage?” Becca questioned, the word choice clearly throwing her off.
“That not right?”
“You mean ‘terrible’. Like your English, apparently.” Becca laughed.
“What has that got to do with me?” Greg questioned, stepping to the side as Diana passed him and went back to the stove.
“You also don’t speak it.”
“I work fourteen hours a day. I don’t have time to pick it up.”
Marcos had heard different versions of that line his whole life. “No time,” “too tired,” and “your mum’s English is good anyway.” Diana would roll her eyes or tell Greg he was lazy, depending on her mood, and Greg would grin or grumble, depending on his.
Greg had learned to sign, though.
That was the part Marcos never knew where to put. Greg had learned because Paula needed it. Classes after work and practice at the table. Big hands working clumsily at first, then better.
Marcos glanced toward the doorway, past Greg, and saw Paula standing there, eyes shifting from Greg to Becca to Diana, gathering pieces by posture before anyone gave her words.
She had always been good at that. Too good, sometimes.
People thought silence meant missing things, and yet Paula missed less than most of them.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
Marcos dried his hands on his shorts and signed back, ‘Dad’s making excuses. I think he’s just lazy.’
“I know sign language, dipshit,” Greg said, stepping further into the kitchen and turning to Paula. ‘Your brother is being an idiot.’
Paula raised her eyebrow at Marcos.
He shrugged, then signed something that was not normal. His hands moved differently for the private language, looser and quicker, cutting around proper structure because proper structure was not the point.
‘Pretty sure he meant to say super smart.’
It had started when Paula was little, and Marcos was too impatient to spell things out properly, both of them inventing shortcuts that made sense only because they had built them together.
Some of it came from the sign language they knew.
Some of it came from expressions, old games, family jokes, and random nonsense.
Paula watched his hands carefully, then her mouth twitched.
“I told you not to use that fake stuff,” Greg said, snatching the dish towel from the counter as Marcos danced out of the way of his father.
“It’s not fake. Just secret,” Marcos replied, stepping to stand next to Paula.
Paula responded in the same way, her hands messier, the movements shaped for Marcos alone. ‘You are gonna make his moustache hair fall out.’
Marcos let out a bark-like laugh as Greg grumbled and began drying the dishes.
Diana shifted between the stove and the bench, calling for things without always looking up.
Becca washed dishes badly enough that Greg took over twice and got told off both times because she had to learn.
Paula leaned against the bench and watched everyone, jumping in when Marcos signed something worth answering and ignoring most of Becca’s attempts to drag her into an argument.
Marcos passed between all of them without thinking too hard about it.
English to sign. Diana’s Spanish thrown over her shoulder and passed to Paula with his hands, which had become much easier over time.
Greg’s grumble translated because Paula asked for it with her eyebrows.
By the time they sat at the table, the windows had gone dark enough to throw back their own reflections.
The dining table was scratched and marked, though Diana still wiped it down.
Marcos sat opposite Paula, and Becca dropped into the chair beside him and immediately stole a piece of food from his plate.
Greg sat at one end, shoulders rounded in the first real sign that the workday had caught up with him. Diana sat last.
The conversation drifted from school, to Diana’s job altering clothes, to Greg’s job managing a steel mill warehouse. Marcos signed everything for Paula so she could keep up with the conversation. It was something he always did.
Sometimes he would do it when she wasn’t around out of habit. He had caught himself signing at training once, hands moving while he answered a question from one of the assistant coaches.
Eventually, the conversation ended up on the AFL and Marcos’ new team.
“It must feel good, though, right?” Greg asked, his mouth still full of food. “To have beaten out that Sebastian kid for the position.”
Marcos dropped his gaze to his plate. “I didn’t really beat him out. It just got offered.”
“Deserved as well. You’re a much better player.”
Becca made a noise into her glass. “His head is big enough, Dad,” she muttered, swirling the food on her plate.
“Becca,” Diana cautioned. “We are all proud of your brother.”
“As long as he keeps training and pushing himself and doesn’t slack off,” Greg added, which Marcos had expected.
There could never be a compliment without a caveat. Not from his father.
A good game came with a reminder to keep his head down. A nice mark came with a warning not to get cocky. Pride came with another push to train harder.