Jumping Off Swings by Jo Knowles

took the money to buy beer for himself and a crappy pizza from the cheap place down the street instead of something I would want, like Chinese.
    Before I decide if I should wait for him to get back or just take off, the phone rings.
    “Josh?”
    My mom’s voice sounds a little nervous. She’s probably wondering if I’m mad at her for blowing us off again.
    “I’m sorry I can’t be home tonight, honey. Did you get the money I left?”
    I don’t want to be mad at her. I can’t really blame her for not wanting to spend time in this cave of a house.
    “Yeah,” I lie. “Thanks.”
    “Honey, maybe we could go out for lunch on Sunday. Your dad and Mike will be watching the game together. Or . . .” Her voice trails off, but I know what she was going to say. He’d be too tired. “It could be just you and me. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
    Yeah. That
would
be nice. But it won’t happen. Sundays are her volunteer days. Which means she’ll want me to go to the soup kitchen with her first.
    “You’re busy Sundays, Mom. Remember?”
    “Well, yes. I thought we could go to the soup kitchen together and then go out after. Just like old times.”
    I knew it. I knew she wouldn’t give up her routine for me. She has to save everyone.
    “I kind of have plans with Caleb,” I lie.
    “Oh. Well, just thought I’d try.” She attempts to sound cheerful but doesn’t pull it off. I squeeze the phone tighter.
    “Sorry,” I say. “Maybe we could go next week.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah. Why not?” But we both know not to get our hopes up.
    “OK, honey. Get something good to eat tonight, all right?”
    “Sure, Mom.”
    After we hang up, I sit at the dining-room table, looking out the window across the yard to the house on the other side of the street. There’s this little old couple that lives there. Whenever they leave their house, Mr. Kestler holds his wife’s elbow and leads her to the car. He opens the door for her and helps her in before hobbling over to his side and slowly backing the car out of the driveway.
    I try to imagine my own parents when they’re that age, my dad helping my mom into the car. But I just can’t see it. I just can’t see them together like that. I can’t even remember the last time I saw them touch each other. It’s hard to believe they ever did.

T HE LIGHT AT ELLIE’S FRONT DOOR has a motion sensor, so it doesn’t turn on until you get a few yards away. It always freaks me out. Like I’m suddenly onstage for the whole neighborhood to see, when a second before I felt like a prowler going up to their dark house.
    The door opens before I knock, and there’s Ellie’s mom ready to welcome her daughter’s savior.
    “Corinne!” she says. “Ellie’s on her way down. It’s so good to see you.” But I swear what she really means is,
Oh, thank God you’re here. Quick, take my troubled daughter and make her better. I know in normal circumstances I would hope for a more appropriate friend for her, but as things are a bit desperate, I’ll take you.
    Ellie’s family is so messed up. It’s like they don’t even know how to talk to each other except to say robot family phrases.
How was your day? How was work? Pass the peas. Dinner was delicious.
I don’t know how Ellie can stand it. My parents are the total opposite, which can be kind of a pain, but at least it shows they care.
    “Hi,” Ellie calls from the top of the stairs. She’s always coming from her bedroom. I wonder if she ever goes in any other rooms in the house. Once, when we were little, I convinced her to play in the living room while her mom was busy outside, and Ellie went nuts when she saw we’d left footprints in the carpet. She actually made me help her wipe them out with our hands as we crawled backward out of the room. The carpet in my house is so old and worn that until that day, I didn’t even know you
could
leave footprints on a rug.
    Ellie puts on her coat and says good-bye to her mother, who tells me to drive