Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
I can only avoid doing my homework for so long. The stack of assignments is continually growing, piling up on the corner of my desk, almost ready to spill over. I’m supposed to be keeping up with my classes from home, but most of the assignments are untouched.
Every day, about this time, I try to focus enough to do some of them. That way, when Mom comes home, I look busy. It’s an excuse not to talk.
My chair is covered in laundry that needs to be folded. I push it off, knowing full well that I’m not going to touch it again until I need something new to wear.
I sit and add the new homework packet to the pile.
Then I take the newest math assignment and set it on the center of my desk, smoothing out the wrinkled edge.
Math is the one class that I enjoy the homework from.
There’s something about how every problem has an answer that I find therapeutic.
The answers never change. They’re written in stone, just waiting to be discovered.
I reach into the overfilled drawer on my left, searching for my pencil pouch.
The pencils are mostly new and sharp, but I shove my chosen pencil into my sharpener anyway, twisting it against the blade.
Small ringlets of wood with yellow fringes flutter onto the desk.
I brush them away, replacing them with a light smear of lead.
I take a deep breath and glance at the first problem. It’s not that complex. At least, it shouldn’t be, but for some reason, I can’t bring myself to find the answer. I just . . . stare. The problem might as well be written in a foreign language because the numbers are blurring together.
My phone buzzes, breaking my feeble attempt at concentrating. There’s a text from Mom reminding me to let Buddy outside, but I swipe it away. Muscle memory takes over my hand, and I open my socials, something I do so often it comes as second nature.
I don’t ever “like” anything, but I’ll scroll for hours, watching mind-numbing videos—everything from movie bloopers to thirst traps to people icing cakes.
And while I never open up the app with the intention of wasting half the day, one thing leads to another and, before I know it, I’ve sunk into the deep, dark hole of the internet where cats are terrified of cucumbers.
The first video that pops up in my feed is a lava cake that oozes when a fork slides into it. Next is a kid that runs into his room—well he tries to. A sheet of clear plastic wrap gets in the way of that plan, knocking him to the ground. His sister giggles in the background as he glares at her.
I continue swiping, searching for something more entertaining, but my hand freezes when I see him. Ethan.
His hazel eyes are full of life, and he’s smiling ear to ear with Sadie’s arms wrapped around him from behind. She’s kissing his cheek, and when she pulls away, she laughs.
I remember that day. I was the one holding her phone, recording them. She’s laughing at the face I made when she kissed my brother. It was at Ethan’s graduation party over the summer. He was only a year older than Sadie and me.
My cheeks warm and tears well in my eyes, threatening to spill over.
The caption underneath the video is enormous, and before I can comprehend any of the words, I click the big fat “unfollow” button. Her profile switches to private, and I toss my phone onto my bed.
I pick up my pencil again and read the math problem over and over, not wanting to acknowledge the fact that I just unfollowed my best friend.
We’ve been inseparable since the day we met back in fifth grade—until three months ago.
She’s obsessed with keeping his memory alive, and she’s posted way too many long sappy reminders about him.
She’s constantly declaring how much she loved Ethan. I can’t stomach it anymore.
My scribbles start to fill in the blank space under the problem, but I make a mistake right away and flip the pencil over to erase it.
A deep loud thud fills my room.
I jump. The pencil slips from my hand and clatters on the desk.
The thud repeats, forming a chaotic pattern of hard notes.
I trudge over to my window with my hands in fists, ready to fight.
Why does he have to practice his annoying drums right now?
The drumming only gets louder when I open the window to poke my head out. “Shut up!”
Yelling doesn’t do any good. I can’t even hear myself.
I slam the window closed and cover my ears, returning to my homework. I have nineteen and a half more problems to go before I can justify watching another movie.
Yet, no matter how much I contort my body, I can’t find a position where I can successfully muffle the sound in both ears while still holding on to the pencil. The terrible repetitive sound passes through me, ricocheting off my eardrums and directly into my brain.
I groan and throw my pencil down. In a fury, I shove my chair away from my desk, grabbing my long robe off the pile of clean clothes on my way out of my room. I stuff my arms into the sleeves as I march down the stairs.
Halfway down, the back of my robe snags on a nail, jerking me off balance. The only thing that saves me from a fall is the death grip I have on the handrail. My hair covers my face, and I let out an irritated huff, blowing the strands out of my mouth.
The crashing noise increases, and I’m moving again. I slip my feet into Dad’s shoes, which are obviously way too big. They make me look like a clown, but I don’t care. I rip the door open, stomping toward the sound. It’s unmistakably coming from next door.
My cheeks burn red from all the rage building up in my body. My hands clench so tight my nails leave red marks on my skin.
I screech to a stop in front of the Parks’ open garage. A drum set is dead center. Caleb’s arms fly through the air and his head bobs with every beat. His eyes are squeezed shut.
“Hey!” I yell. My heels bury themselves into the concrete.
It doesn’t do any good. His head keeps bobbing.
My jaw slams shut, hard. If I was a cartoon character, smoke would be coming out of my ears.
“Hey!” I shout. I move closer and wave my hands in the air.
The rhythm breaks, and he clutches the cymbal in his hand to steady it. His deep brown eyes dart over to mine as a pink hue flushes his cheeks. “What are you doing over here?”
What am I doing over here? Isn’t it obvious?
My nonexistent patience is crumbling by the second. I march up to him, crossing my arms. “Some people are trying to focus and actually be productive, which is pretty much impossible to do while you’re out here making all this racket.”
Turning to me, he smiles. His eyebrows meet in the middle, one slightly higher than the other. “Racket? What, are you ninety years old? And this,” he gestures toward the drum set, “is music.”
“Well, I’m trying to do my homework, so stop playing your music.” The word is thick on my tongue because it’s the furthest thing from music I’ve ever heard.
Caleb tilts his head and pauses for a second before he smirks. “No.”
Excuse me?
He turns away, and a soft rhythm starts up again.
My eyes shoot lasers into his hands. “I told you to stop.”
The sound is pounding against my brain, and while old Becca would ignore it and walk away, new Becca is going to explode.
“Make me.”
My jaw drops. Before I can talk myself out of it, I lunge forward, wrapping my hands around his to stop the movement.
He leaps out of his seat, eyes widening with a grin, as if he didn’t think I’d actually do anything.
I rip the drumstick out of his hand and reach for the other. “Give that to me.”
He holds it high above his head, moving every time I get close to grasping it.
I want to smack the smile off his face, but instead, I just stand up taller, reaching for it as if there isn’t a mountain of height difference between us. “Give it to me.”
He staggers back, raising it higher with every step. “Come get it.”
My heart is racing from the fire building in my chest as I jump up.
Again, he moves it out of reach, doubling back.
I grab on to his sweatshirt to give myself leverage for my next jump, but it throws us off balance. My feet slip when they meet the ground, sending all my momentum his way.
I shriek.
One second I’m colliding into Caleb as he tries to catch me, and the next, I’m falling to the ground on top of him. I crash face-first into his toned chest.
My cheek is already sore.
He’s always wearing baggy shirts. I never would’ve guessed that he was hiding washboard abs.
I lift my head and cringe as we make eye contact.
His face is bright red, and I can hear his heart pounding inches away from me.
My mouth gapes open, searching for anything to diffuse this awkward moment, but nothing comes out.
His hands are frozen at his sides, careful not to touch me. “Are you,” he pauses, “going to . . . move?”
I snap back into reality and push off him, scrambling to the side. My eyes are still as big as saucers.
He laughs, still lying on the concrete floor. “I didn’t realize I was that irresistible.”
“What?” I demand.
“You just fell for me.”
I pull myself up, glaring. “In your dreams.”
“Those would be nightmares,” he says.
My jaw rocks, and I roll my eyes. I knew better than to come over here. He probably wanted to annoy me because this isn’t the first time I’ve come over to complain about his drumming.
It was bait . . .
I spin on my heels and stomp away, chucking the drumstick as far into the street as my arm will send it.
“Leaving so soon, Bec?” Caleb says.
My hands ball into fists, and I keep walking. I’m not going to turn around or say anything else. That’s what he wants me to do, and I’ve had enough of his games for today.
I try not to let my dysfunctional afternoon ruin the rest of the day because Friday is the one day of the week I look forward to.
It’s movie night. Mom goes to her spin class, leaving Dad and I alone to get our sci-fi fill in peace.
We learned a long time ago if Mom watches a movie with us, we have to rewatch it later because she inevitably talks through the entire thing.
Dad and I take turns picking out which movie to watch. I like the scarier ones, even though I always end up hiding behind pillows. Dad, on the other hand, likes the nostalgic ones that remind him of the movies he grew up with.
Despite all of that, it doesn’t matter what we watch.
The best part is we can spend time together, and there’s no pressure to talk.
We can sit through the entire movie without saying a word.
It isn’t because we don’t have anything to say.
We just know each other well enough we can communicate with gestures and looks. We’re that close.
At least, we were that close.
Over the last few months, Dad has gradually pulled away from me. He’s been working late hours, and by the time he comes home, I hardly get to talk to him before Mom starts arguing with him over meaningless problems. He can only stand so much before he gives up and heads to bed.
He’s missed our last few movie nights, but this one is different.
Once a year, we rewatch our favorite movie—the one that started our ritual.
No matter how much work he has, he would never skip our movie anniversary.
One time, he even canceled a business trip because it was scheduled on the same day.
I set a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table and straighten the remote next to it. Then, I sit criss-crossed on the couch, waiting for Dad to come bursting through our front door.
I check my phone to see if I have any messages from him.
There’s none, so I send him one.
Me:
The popcorn is ready! :)
So far, he’s only a couple minutes late, but with each passing second, my hopes drop a little more. When those minutes turn into an hour, I finally decide to eat the popcorn. I shove it into my mouth by the handful, even though I hate getting it stuck in my teeth.
I don’t bother to turn on the TV. The movie isn’t the same without him. I wanted him to show up more than I wanted to watch the movie. I had convinced myself that he wouldn’t stand me up this time—that I mattered enough to show up, but I was wrong.
My hands are greasy from the butter, so I wash them in the bathroom. I turn on the water just as the front door creaks open.
I smile as I speed through rinsing my hands. I pat them dry on my pants because I don’t want to take the two extra seconds to reach for the towel.
“Dad?” I say, rounding the corner. But I immediately slow back down.
He stands in the entryway, staggering toward the bench. His hair is tousled, and the lighting makes his graying sideburns even more noticeable than usual. His eyes droop, dark shadows settling beneath them, begging for more sleep.
I inch closer, and the hair on my arm stands up. “Dad, are you okay?”
He looks at me with a sheepish smile. “Yeah. I just had a long day at the office.”
He reeks of alcohol.
“I have the movie set up, if you still want to watch it,” I say, grasping at straws.
So what if he went to the bar? He’s here now. We can still have our special movie night.
He rests his head on the wall with a groan. “I forgot about the movie.” He checks the time on his watch. “It’s getting late, and I have an early meeting tomorrow. Can I take a rain check?”
My chest is heavier than ever, but I force a smile. “Yeah. Next Friday?”
He nods. “Yes. I’ll make sure I’m here. I promise.”
I ignore the part of my brain screaming at me that he’ll forget again. Dad is under a lot of pressure from work and Mom. I don’t need to add to it. Once everything calms down, things will go back to normal. I just have to be patient.