Still Life with Tornado by A.S. King Page A

Random Places
    I observe Mom and Dad during the two hours they have together. I observe them while standing in random places—the thing I do. I stand behind the door to the kitchen while they talk about dinner.
    â€œI’m making fettuccine Alfredo,” Mom says.
    â€œAs long as there’s garlic bread,” Dad says.
    â€œYou make the garlic bread,” she says.
    â€œOkay,” he answers.
    Then silence until Mom plugs her phone into her headphones and plays heavy metal and I hear the thumping bass-drum triples of Lars Ulrich a room away. And if you think night ER-trauma nurses who listen to Metallica are original, you’re wrong. A lot of her coworkers are metalheads, too. She says metal makes them feel more at home when they’re away from the chaos of car accidents, crude drunks, and strokes.
    Dad hates metal. He makes the garlic bread. I hear the oven door open. I hear the oven door close. I hear him set the timer. He says, “That’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”
    She says nothing because she can’t hear him through her headphones. If she does hear him, she probably just nods. I can’t see them. I can only hear them.
    I move to the upstairs hallway and listen to Dad talking on the phone in his room. He has a room. Mom has a room. I never thought of this as unusual.
    I can’t hear much. I hear him say “I’m sorry” twice. I hear him say “Good-bye.” I don’t move when I hear his doorknob turn. I don’t care if he sees me. I congratulate myself for being original compared to most eavesdroppers.
    â€œOh. I didn’t see you there,” he says.
    â€œMe neither,” I say.
    I want to ask him who he was saying sorry to, but I don’t.
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    Fifteen minutes later, I’m cracking black pepper onto a steaming plate of Alfredo and crunching a piece of garlic bread. I wait for dinner conversation between them, but there is none. Between bites, they only talk to me.
    â€œWhere’d you go today?” Dad asks.
    â€œJust walked around town,” I say.
    â€œYou should have told me where you were going,” he says.
    â€œI had my phone. You could have called,” I said.
    Dad nods and shrugs.
    Mom puts her hand under the table for a second and I think she’s wiping it on her napkin, but her napkin is on the table next to her plate.
    â€œI saw the museum ticket on your dresser,” Mom says. “So you’re skipping school to look at art?”
    â€œYou were in my room?”
    â€œDelivering laundry. Can’t afford drones. Yet,” she says.
    â€œWhat are you going to do about school?” Dad asks.
    â€œI’m going to get expelled,” I say.
    â€œGreat life plan,” Dad says.
    I shrug and nod
.
    Mom looks at me a little too long and then takes a deep breath. Before she can say anything, I say, “I think I’ll just drop out this week if that’s okay with you.”
    â€œIt’s not okay with me,” Dad says.
    Mom chews on her garlic bread.
    â€œYou can’t go to college if you don’t have a diploma,” Dad says.
    Mom says, “Picasso didn’t have a diploma.”
    Dad shrugs. Mom puts her hand under the table. I just eat my food because no matter what they say, I’m not going to school.
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    I stand in the study while they do dishes.
    Mom says, “Did you unload the dishwasher?”
    Dad says, “No.”
    Mom says, “What did you do all day?”
    Dad says nothing. I picture him shrugging.
    Mom turns off the water and says, “I have to get ready for work.”
    When she walks through the study, she does it backward with her hands aimed at Dad in her sweatshirt pockets until she sees me. Then she turns around and walks normally through the living room and goes upstairs to take a shower and get ready for