Just Don't Mention It, Page 3

  “Now,” Mom says as she pops some bread into the toaster. When she turns back around to examine us all, she leans back against the countertop and folds her arms across her chest. “Is any homework due today done?”

  We all nod. I always nod. My homework is always done as early as possible. Dad makes sure of that.

  “Backpacks packed?” she continues. “Got everything you need for today?”

  Again, we all nod. I don’t think I like mornings either. I hate this routine. It’s always the same questions and it’s always the same answers. The entire time, I feel nauseous as I wait for Dad to join us.

  Jamie’s eating his cereal with his mouth open, purposely crunching it loudly in my ear. Mom’s turned her attention to the TV mounted up on the wall, messing around with the remote as she tries to get the news on, and when she does, she lowers the volume and watches the screen out of the corner of her eye as she spreads Chase’s toast. He grins when she sets the plate down in front of him, and they all seem to be satisfied, just like they always are.

  I feel so far away from them. And I know truly that I’m right here beside them, but sometimes it feels like I’m not really. Everything is just so numb, so empty. I’ve grown so used to tuning everything out that I can’t remember how to tune back in. I feel lost halfway between being here and being elsewhere. The truth is, I don’t really know where I am. I’m just somewhere.

  I’m torn back from my trance when I hear Dad coming down the hall. His footsteps are heavy as he whistles the same tune he only whistles on his good days. I think I’m the only one who ever notices. Mom doesn’t even know that he has bad days.

  I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut, composing myself. When I open them again a few moments later, he’s stepping through the door with a smile on his face. I hate it when he’s happy in the mornings. Does he remember what happened last night? If he does, there’s no guilt, and that makes me feel like I could throw up.

  “The things I would do for coffee right now,” Dad murmurs. He runs his hand through his hair and down the back of his neck as he walks straight past the table, straight toward Mom. I watch him closely, just like I always do.

  “Right here,” Mom says. She slips a steaming cup of black coffee into his hand and he gently tightens his fingers around hers as they exchange a smile. She does this every morning; she always has his coffee ready. It’s all part of that routine we seem to have gotten so comfortable with.

  “Thank you,” Dad tells her, then presses the cup to his lips and takes a large mouthful. He swallows and passes her his blue tie. He tilts his chin up and watches her with warm affection as she fastens the top buttons on his shirt, slips the tie around his neck and ties it with the utmost care. “Thank you,” he says again, then leans forward and kisses her cheek.

  “Dad,” Chase says, calling his attention. “Jamie pushed me.”

  “You call that being pushed?” Jamie fires back across the table, shooting upright onto his knees again as he holds up his fist. “I can show you what being pushed is like.”

  So could I, I think.

  Dad turns around, furrowing his eyebrows in disapproval as he glances back and forth between them both. He pulls out the chair next to Chase and sits down, leaning back. “When will the two of you quit the fighting? C’mon now, Jay, you’re ten in January. Double digits. Did you know that you can’t keep picking on your brother once you’re into double digits?”

  Jamie sinks in his chair. “Really?”

  “Really,” Dad says. He widens his eyes and nods, right before he cracks into laughter and glances sideways at Chase, nudging him with his elbow. He takes another swig of his coffee, and that’s when he looks at me for the first time this morning. His eyes find mine over the rim of the cup, and the warmth in his expression disappears as he sets the cup back down on the table. “Someone’s quieter than usual this morning,” he says.

  “Most likely because of this,” I hear Mom comment, and the color drains from my face the second I look over and see her reaching for that letter again. Please don’t show him it. Please, please, please. “He’s skipped gym class five times recently,” she tells him, and my stomach clenches with nausea as she leans over his shoulder and hands him the piece of paper. “I need to write back and let Mr. Asher know it won’t happen again. Right, Tyler? You promise?”

  I feel so sick, I can’t even speak. I just nod as fast as I can, over and over again. Dad’s reading the letter with his mouth nothing more than a bold line, and I hate the way the expression in his eyes keeps on hardening with each word he reads. The second he is finished, he locks his glare on me. “Why the hell are you skipping class? You’re ruining your attendance.”

  “Someone’s in trouble,” Jamie snickers from beside me, and he’s right—I am.

  Today is no longer one of Dad’s good days. Today is now a bad day, and I’ll feel the force of another one of his bad days later.

  I can’t get any words out and Dad’s expecting an explanation. For a moment, I feel like I can’t breathe. If we were alone, I wouldn’t even answer him, but I know I have to say something, so I stick to my earlier excuse. “I felt sick,” I finally mumble.

  Dad raises one eyebrow in suspicion. “Five times in a row?”

  I should have thought of something better. He isn’t believing this. Why would he? I’m lying and he knows it. All I can do is shrug and drop my eyes to my lap, staring at the small cut on my palm that I’ve never noticed until now.

  “No more skipping class,” Mom reminds me, this time with a sterner tone to her voice than before. I nod without looking up, and all I know is that it’s a relief to hear her increase the volume of the TV. It’s a relief to hear Chase ask for more toast. It’s a relief to know the conversation is over.

  For what feels like five minutes, I can’t bring myself to lift my gaze. I can’t look at anyone, especially Dad. My stomach still hurts. I know he’s mad at me and I know that he isn’t going to let this go. I hate Mr. Asher for sending that letter.

  “Right,” Dad says loudly. I force myself to look at him as he finishes off his coffee, wipes his mouth with the pad of his thumb, then gets to his feet. He runs his eyes over the gold Rolex on his wrist. “I better get you to school.” Even though he doesn’t bother to look at me, I know who he’s talking to. Dad always drives me to school on his way to work. Mom always drives Jamie and Chase on the way to hers.

  “Go and get yourself ready,” Mom tells me over her shoulder from the sink. I don’t think she’s even sat down yet. She never does in the mornings. “And don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

  I’m desperate to leave the kitchen. I’m scared of Dad’s glowering eyes and my shoulder stings and I’d rather go anywhere but school right now. I kind of hope I do hurl so that I can stay home, but I know that won’t happen, so I slide off my chair and head straight for the door. I’m just about to take the first step upstairs when Dad sticks his head out into the hall.

  “Tyler,” he says, and I freeze. I don’t turn around, but I do look back at him as he slips on his jacket and straightens his tie. He doesn’t look so angry anymore, but he isn’t smiling, either. His entire face is just blank, and I receive nothing but a single, firm nod. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  And as I turn back around and run upstairs, I’m really wishing that he wouldn’t.

  4

  PRESENT DAY

  Fuck, I think. The barbecue.

  I can see the commotion in the backyard the second I pull up outside my house, braking so hard that I end up skidding a little. There aren’t any cars parked out front, but that’s because Mom only invites our neighbors. She does this every year, and every single year without fail half our neighborhood comes strolling down the street with their crates of beer. I don’t know why Mom continues to insist that I be here each year. I can’t think of anything more lame than this, especially considering I hate half our neighbors. Mrs. Harding from a couple doors down? She once called the cops on me for walking
across her lawn. Mr. Fazio from across the street? He decided to let my mom know about that time I threw a party while she was out of town. Mrs. Baxter at the very northern end of Deidre Avenue? She does nothing but complain about the amount of noise my car makes every time I drive past her house.

  So yeah. I usually pass on this annual tradition.

  Killing my engine and pulling the keys out of the ignition, I kick open my door and step out. I can hear the music from the yard now and the disgusting scent in the air makes me feel almost nauseous for a moment. I hate barbecues, not because of the social nature of them, but because of the gross smell of burning meat. I haven’t eaten meat in years, and I have to shove my hand into my hair as I take a second to compose myself. I’m already pissed off and coming home to this definitely isn’t helping.

  Narrowing my eyes, I head for the backyard. I may be furious, but I have an act to keep up, so I slam my fist against the gate to throw it open. The mixture of voices immediately hushes until only the music is left, and I spot Mrs. Harding in the corner, glowering at me in disgust.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I announce. My eyes search the crowd in front of me as I try to spot Mom, but I’m glad when I can’t find her. I don’t want to see her face right now, because I know I’m embarrassing her, but with this many people around, I can’t afford not to. So I may not spot Mom, but I do spot my asshole of a stepdad over behind the barbecue. Dave’s already fixing me with a threatening look that warns me not to say anything else, which gives me every reason to continue. “Did I miss anything besides the slaughtering of animals?” I flip him off at the same time, and there are some murmurs of disapproval which I choose to ignore. I could cause a bigger scene than I already am; I could kick over the stack of beer that’s on my right, but I decide not to, only because I’m still trying to figure out the argument I just had with Tiffani. “I hope you guys enjoyed the cow you just ate.” I have to laugh, because it’s the only thing I can bring myself to do right now. If I don’t, I think I will seriously throw a punch at someone, anyone.

  I turn away before my temper flares up again, and I hear Dave say, “More beer?” There’s some awkward laughter from the guests as I head inside through the patio doors. I slide them shut again as harshly as I can, and I blow out a breath of air, relieved to be inside at last. The AC is on and the kitchen is refreshingly cool as I stride into the hall, ready to bolt my way upstairs to my room so that I can chill out and calm myself down.

  But just as I’m turning onto the stairs, Mom’s voice calls my name, and I know I have to talk to her despite how angry I am right now. I hang my head low for a second before I turn around, gathering my thoughts and my excuses. I hope she can’t smell the beer from me. She would flip if she knew I’ve been driving like this.

  “What the hell are you thinking?” she snarls under her breath. She’s gritting her teeth when I turn back around to look at her, and at first, all I can do is shrug. I’m not great at answering questions I don’t know the answers to.

  “Where have you been?” she asks, demanding more answers. She’s mortified, I can tell, and I feel slightly guilty as she glances over her shoulder to ensure no one is here, then grabs my elbow and pulls me into the living room. “I told you to be here tonight and you think you can just stroll in here now acting the way you just did?” She closes her eyes in exasperation and massages her temples, like I’m a headache she’s trying to soothe away.

  I’m still super aware that I’ve been drinking, so I take a couple steps back from her, increasing the distance between us. I don’t want to add any more fuel to the fire. “I’m not even late,” I mutter, because, technically, she told me to be here and I am.

  “You’re two hours late!” she yells at me, her eyes flashing open again. She usually lets me off the hook a lot quicker than she is now, and I really wish she wouldn’t choose right now to argue with me.

  I laugh again, but only to stop myself from losing it. “You really think I’m gonna come home to watch a damn barbecue?”

  Mom exhales as her gaze softens. “What is your problem this time?” she asks, pacing back and forth in front of me as though she’s trying to figure out the underlying reason for my behavior tonight. Admittedly, I’m not usually as agitated as this. “Forget about the barbecue. You were acting like a little kid before you even got out of the car. What’s wrong?”

  I’ve never been able to look Mom in the eye when I lie, so I clench my jaw and turn my face away from her, looking at the window. “Nothing.”

  “It’s clearly not nothing,” she snaps back, and the softness to her expression is gone. I hate it when she gets like this. She gets mad at me a lot, but usually more in the frustrated, helpless sort of sense. This time, I really have pissed her off. “You just humiliated me again in front of half the neighborhood!”

  “Whatever,” I say.

  Mom goes silent for a second, and when I look back over at her, she’s shaking her head at the floor and murmuring, “I shouldn’t have let you leave. I should have just made you stay, but no, of course I didn’t, because there I was, trying to cut you some slack, and you throw it back in my face as usual.”

  “I would have left anyway,” I argue, because this is true. Even if I didn’t already have plans tonight, there’s no way I would have stuck around here, and Mom knows that. I don’t know why she even tries anymore. I wish she’d just give up on me. “What are you gonna do? Ground me again?” I take a challenging step toward her, failing to hold back my laughter again. I’ve been grounded for the past two years, I believe. It’s nothing but an empty threat which Mom never follows through with.

  “You’re impossible.” She looks away then, staring straight past me and over my shoulder as her expression shifts. Her frustration with me seems to dissolve, and she furrows her eyebrows instead as she gently pushes past me and heads for the door.

  I heave a sigh and push my hand back through my hair, tilting my head back so that I can stare at the ceiling. If I have another argument tonight, I might just combust.

  Mom says something and I quickly spin around to find her lingering just outside the door, only it’s not me she’s focused on. I don’t know who she’s talking to, so I move across the living room and peer around the door.

  There’s a girl awkwardly spread across the staircase, eyes wide with alarm as though she’s absolutely terrified. I don’t know who the hell she is, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen her around before. I’m sure I haven’t. I narrow my eyes at her, studying her more intensely. She doesn’t look that much younger than me, so I seriously can’t figure out why I’ve never seen her around school before, and given the fact she’s a brunette, I’m sure I would recognize her. Her anxious gaze doesn’t leave mine, which makes me begin to wonder why she’s so nervous in the first place, but I don’t wonder for long because I become distracted by how plump her lips are as she presses them together and swallows. This girl definitely isn’t from here. I know for sure that I would recognize her if she was. How couldn’t I?

  The muscle in my jaw tightens when I realize what I’m thinking. Tiffani would have me for dead if she heard my thoughts right now.

  “Who the hell is this chick?” I finally demand, tearing my eyes away and looking expectantly at Mom instead.

  She takes a minute to think about her answer, and even she seems a little nervous too. “Tyler,” she says quietly as she places her hand on my arm, “this is Eden. Dave’s daughter.”

  At first, I don’t quite process her words. “Dave’s kid?”

  The girl straightens up, standing up, and she opens those plump, wet lips of hers and says nothing but, “Hi.”

  My eyes are drawn back to hers at the sound of her voice. It’s low and husky, even a little raspy, and it is so different and so new to me that I freeze on the spot, paralyzed by a single syllable. Even on her feet, she’s still several inches shorter than me, so I stare down at her, trying to make sense of the information that’s pushing down on me. This girl . . . This
brunette girl with the full lips and the husky voice . . . is my stepsister?

  No. Fucking. Way.

  When Mom said Dave’s kid was going to be living with us over the summer, I didn’t even pay that much attention, and now I’m really wishing that I had. I didn’t realize she’d be around my age. How old is she anyway? I want to ask, but I can’t even part my lips, let alone form words. I feel like someone has knocked the air out of me. I swallow hard and look at Mom again. “Dave’s kid?” I repeat, but it’s almost a whisper. I’m in complete and utter disbelief.

  Mom heaves a sigh. “Yes, Tyler,” she says, almost like she’s exasperated. “I already told you she was coming. Don’t act stupid.”

  Although I’m looking primarily at Mom, I’m also looking at the girl as surreptitiously as I possibly can out of the corner of my eye, because I seriously can’t look away. The makeup around her eyes is smudged a little. “Which room?”

  Mom’s expression flashes with confusion. “What?”

  My throat is starting to feel dry. “Which room is she staying in?” I urge.

  And then Mom says it, the answer I was dreading: “The one next to yours.”

  I release a groan, finally becoming unrooted from the spot. We have two spare guest rooms upstairs, and of course Mom has to give her the room next door to mine. I don’t want to be anywhere near this girl, not because I have a girlfriend, but because this girl is my stepsister. God. I never thought I’d ever have to stay away from a girl because of that reason.

  My anger is surfacing again and I don’t even realize I’ve been glaring at her until I feel the strain in my forehead from narrowing my eyes for too long. I couldn’t stick around at Tiffani’s place, but now I can’t stick around here either. Everything that has happened in the past hour is seriously starting to get to me.

  Nudging my way past Mom, I storm upstairs, and I have no choice but to brush past this girl who is going to be in my way for the entire summer. I knock against her shoulder, and I can’t bring myself to apologize, because all I can think about is getting the hell away from her. I march upstairs and into my room, slamming the door behind me and pacing around in a circle for a good minute or so until I collect my thoughts. They’re all over the place, and I have to play some music as loud as I can through my speakers in order to distract myself.