pads for safekeeping. As I yank off my glasses, my brother turns over and inhales. I turn off the lamp, wait a moment, then cross to hismakeshift bed and look down at him. A few seconds later, Justin breathes out with a little whistling noise and starts grinding his teeth again.
I tug on his pillow.
We had a weirdly good time tonight. Even though Justin bailed on me—the punk—Dad and I met a guy who raises bees, and Dad bought some honey, then he picked out some vegetables, and we bought olive bread and some cheese to take home, and then Justin came back with three big things of nachos, lemonade, and cinnamon churros. We went to the benches at the gazebo on the corner and had a little junk food picnic.
I expected … something else. Some kind of confrontation. Some kind of evidence Dad was going to spring on us that let us know that everything had changed. Even Justin kept looking at Dad out of the corner of his eye, and when we got home, he was just kind of waiting, tense. And nothing happened. We called Mom and talked. Dad puttered around in the kitchen and put the food away, then he sat on the couch with the paper and the news on like he always does. At about ten, he said he’d see us tomorrow at breakfast, and then he went to bed.
And that was all.
I sigh as my brother starts grinding his teeth again. It’s been a long day, my beads suck, I’m in a weird, generic town house in the middle of nowhere, and I want to try and sleep.
“Justin,” I say, poking him on the shoulder.
He’s awake immediately, coming up on his elbows, alert. “Ys? You okay?”
“Where’s your teeth thingy?”
“What? Oh.” Justin wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and sits up, grimacing. “Sorry.”
“It’s no big deal, but Dr. West says you’re screwing up your jaw sleeping without it.”
Justin sighs. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” He scratches his long, skinny arms, then rolls to his feet and stumbles to the door. A few moments later, he’s back, the red plastic case in his hand. He plops down on his makeshift bed and looks up at me, his eyes barely visible in the dimness.
“You okay?”
I shrug. “I guess. It’s kind of quieter here than I’m used to. It didn’t make sense to pack my stereo when we’re only here for a few days.”
“Stereo.” Justin shakes his head. “Would it
kill
you to try something smaller? You’re the last person in America without at least an MP3 player.”
“I can’t sleep with anything in my ears.”
“If you’re asleep, you don’t feel it.”
“
Whatever
, Justin.”
My brother snickers. “Wow, that’s a great comeback, Ysabel. ‘Whatever.’ You should join a debate team, you know that?”
“Shut up.” I lean over the edge of the bed and whack him with my pillow, and he yanks it out of my hands. After a brief struggle, in which we basically beat each other until Justin wimps out and begs for mercy, I lie back, wheezing but victorious.
At least in my version of the fight.
When he’s caught his breath, Justin breaks the silence. “Ys?”
“Yeah?”
“Seriously, though, you’re okay, right?”
I nod, then realize he can’t see me in the dark. “Yeah.” I chew my lower lip, rolling the bedspread between my fingers. “I just …?”
“Hm?”
“Just thinking about Mom at the airport.”
Justin leans against the bed, his head a darker blob against the burgundy spread. “Yeah. She was …” Justin sighs. “This is all so messed up.”
“I know. I think our being here is part of something they’re doing, though. That’s why she was so upset.”
“What do you mean?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know for sure. I mean, I just heard some things.”
Justin slides his arm across the bed until he touches my leg, and then he flicks me hard with his middle finger.
“Ow! Cut it out.”
“Well, stop stalling.”
“Okay, fine,” I blurt, rubbing the sore spot. “I think they’re selling the house.”
There’s a tense little silence, then
I tug on his pillow.
We had a weirdly good time tonight. Even though Justin bailed on me—the punk—Dad and I met a guy who raises bees, and Dad bought some honey, then he picked out some vegetables, and we bought olive bread and some cheese to take home, and then Justin came back with three big things of nachos, lemonade, and cinnamon churros. We went to the benches at the gazebo on the corner and had a little junk food picnic.
I expected … something else. Some kind of confrontation. Some kind of evidence Dad was going to spring on us that let us know that everything had changed. Even Justin kept looking at Dad out of the corner of his eye, and when we got home, he was just kind of waiting, tense. And nothing happened. We called Mom and talked. Dad puttered around in the kitchen and put the food away, then he sat on the couch with the paper and the news on like he always does. At about ten, he said he’d see us tomorrow at breakfast, and then he went to bed.
And that was all.
I sigh as my brother starts grinding his teeth again. It’s been a long day, my beads suck, I’m in a weird, generic town house in the middle of nowhere, and I want to try and sleep.
“Justin,” I say, poking him on the shoulder.
He’s awake immediately, coming up on his elbows, alert. “Ys? You okay?”
“Where’s your teeth thingy?”
“What? Oh.” Justin wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and sits up, grimacing. “Sorry.”
“It’s no big deal, but Dr. West says you’re screwing up your jaw sleeping without it.”
Justin sighs. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” He scratches his long, skinny arms, then rolls to his feet and stumbles to the door. A few moments later, he’s back, the red plastic case in his hand. He plops down on his makeshift bed and looks up at me, his eyes barely visible in the dimness.
“You okay?”
I shrug. “I guess. It’s kind of quieter here than I’m used to. It didn’t make sense to pack my stereo when we’re only here for a few days.”
“Stereo.” Justin shakes his head. “Would it
kill
you to try something smaller? You’re the last person in America without at least an MP3 player.”
“I can’t sleep with anything in my ears.”
“If you’re asleep, you don’t feel it.”
“
Whatever
, Justin.”
My brother snickers. “Wow, that’s a great comeback, Ysabel. ‘Whatever.’ You should join a debate team, you know that?”
“Shut up.” I lean over the edge of the bed and whack him with my pillow, and he yanks it out of my hands. After a brief struggle, in which we basically beat each other until Justin wimps out and begs for mercy, I lie back, wheezing but victorious.
At least in my version of the fight.
When he’s caught his breath, Justin breaks the silence. “Ys?”
“Yeah?”
“Seriously, though, you’re okay, right?”
I nod, then realize he can’t see me in the dark. “Yeah.” I chew my lower lip, rolling the bedspread between my fingers. “I just …?”
“Hm?”
“Just thinking about Mom at the airport.”
Justin leans against the bed, his head a darker blob against the burgundy spread. “Yeah. She was …” Justin sighs. “This is all so messed up.”
“I know. I think our being here is part of something they’re doing, though. That’s why she was so upset.”
“What do you mean?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know for sure. I mean, I just heard some things.”
Justin slides his arm across the bed until he touches my leg, and then he flicks me hard with his middle finger.
“Ow! Cut it out.”
“Well, stop stalling.”
“Okay, fine,” I blurt, rubbing the sore spot. “I think they’re selling the house.”
There’s a tense little silence, then
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