carefully everywhere descending by L.B. Bedford Page A

that’s right. It’s next week, isn’t it?” I had completely forgotten. Prom isn’t on my radar in the slightest. I tell him so and say, “You know that. I’m not going.”
    â€œSure, sure,” he says. “So what happens next Wednesday, then?”
    â€œScarlett’s papers are due to her teacher. She won’t need me anymore. Seriously, Dad, why are you being so weird? This isn’t like you.”
    â€œThis isn’t like you , you mean,” he counters. “Hanging out with new girls. Going out for ice cream? Ice cream, for God’s sake!”
    â€œIt was just ice cream!” I shout, storming off to my room and slamming the door. I don’t dare tell him it was actually gelato. I toss my bag on the floor and fall face-first onto my bed, barely clearing the wall with my head. My room is so small, I can brace my feet against the wall and lie with my hips just off the edge of my bed, which I roll over, shuffle down, and do. It’s been one of my favorite positions to think in since I was tall enough to accomplish it.
    I puzzle through the bizarre day. Studying with Scarlett, laughing with Scarlett, then fighting with Scarlett…. My father’s bizarre vigilance kicking in…. And that whole fight at the gelato store. I still don’t know what to make of that.
    Mom comes out of her room for dinner, and Dad doesn’t bring up anything about girls, perhaps for fear of upsetting her. Sam keeps looking between me and Dad but doesn’t say anything either.
    Saturday I go for a long, brisk jog to clear my head and work my muscles. When I get back, I sit down with Sam, and we go over his homework like we do at least twice a week. I’m thinking about bumping our sessions up to three times a week because he’s been acting out at school. He’s skipped a few times, and Mom’s been forced to come get him. Then I watch TV for a while before I go to babysit Jeremy and Astell McCullum, a referral from the Uzuns. They’re cute and fairly well behaved. We play outside a lot because it’s a beautiful spring day, inching toward warmer, summery weather. I make up an impromptu scavenger hunt that I’m pretty proud of.
    I think of Scarlett a surprising amount. I end up with three draft e-mails to her, trying to vocalize an apology, a defense, and a general “how are you?”—none of which ever get sent.
    Sunday morning I sleep late. When I stagger into the kitchen for brunch in my pajamas, Sam is sitting at the table with his head on the pillow of his arms, not moving.
    â€œYou okay, bean?” I ask, frowning. I comb my fingers through his hair and grow worried at how hot he is.
    â€œI don’t feel good,” he says in a tiny voice, solidifying my diagnosis.
    â€œYeah, it feels like you’ve got a fever, sweetie,” I say, resting the back of my hand against his forehead. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
    He stirs when I try to guide him from his chair. “I can’t! I promised Mr. and Mrs. Pirinen I would mow their lawn today, remember?”
    I pause. I do remember, mostly because of how excited Sam had been, and how concerned I had been that he would chop off a foot. He kept saying that it wasn’t that complicated a mower, and when I appealed to Dad, he’d sided with Sam.
    â€œLet him make some use of himself,” he’d said. Then, in an undertone to me: “It’s just a little push mower. He’ll be okay.”
    Sam looks miserable as I tuck him into bed, mostly due to the loss of getting to mow for the first time. He’s always been fascinated with machines. It also would have been his first real job. I remember very clearly the terror and responsibility of being left alone to babysit for the first time.
    â€œThey’re gonna be mad,” he whimpers as I pull the thermometer from his mouth. He’s got a slight temperature.
    â€œIt’ll be