The Full Cleveland by Terry Reed

chose.
    Everyone gasped.
    â€œShe said no way!” cried Matt.
    â€œQuiet, Matthew.” Then Mother asked me again. “Boyce, please give Cabot the minutes.”
    Skating faster and faster, I repeated my answer. “No way.”
    â€œBoyce Parkman. What did you say ?”
    As if turning on a dime, I said, “I said NO!!!”

    This was like the cock crowing three times when Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus Christ. Except it was I who was being betrayed here, and in no way shape or form was I going to let them crucify me. In fact, I was going to stick up for myself.
    I grabbed my minutes and made a flying camel for the door. Matt flew from his chair, lunged for my ankles, and toppled me to the floor. I rolled away. Then we were standing up. Then we were squaring off. Then we were dropping our chins. Then we were pronating our wrists. Then we were going to Sunday punch each other.
    Except before we actually connected, Mother had sprung from her chair and Clarine had come steaming like a ring referee on speed skates through the swinging dining room door.
    â€œI’ve had just about enough of this,” she said, picking Matt off me and tossing him aside like a used towel. She grabbed the tattered minutes, and held them high in the air.
    â€œI’ll take that, Clarine.” Mother made a swift pass and snatched the minutes out of Clarine ‘s hand. “They’re fighting over … schoolwork.”
    My mouth fell open. That was a lie.

    And it was just then that we heard the whir of a car in the driveway. We all turned to look out the window. Then we all spun back around to look at Mother, even Clarine.
    Matt and I dove for our seats. Clarine went back through the swinging door, and when it swung back in, Dad was standing there, frowning at us. “Forgot my case,” he said. We sat, hands folded on the table, lined up like a board meeting. “Everything okay?”
    It was my chance. I knew it. I could tell the truth, and he would defend it. But when I looked at Mother, I no longer knew what was right and what was wrong anymore. And then of course the moment passed.
    Dad went down the hall and came back with his case. “Well, I guess I’m off to slay the dragon again.” He said that sometimes. When I was little, I thought it was what he did for a living. “Bye, then,” he said, and stood there a second longer before he shook his head a little and left.
    When the Buick was down the driveway, Mother handed the minutes to me. I then had to stand up and walk around the table and hand them to Cabot. In total silence and absolute humiliation, I accomplished this. Immediately, either from joy or from terror, Cabot burst out crying.

    I could have lived with it. I really could have. I might have even learned from it. I might have learned lessons about selflessness, fair play, sharing. Stuff that was truly good to learn. I might have even learned one of the great lessons of the Catholic Church, to “turn the other cheek.” I might have. If it hadn’t been for one simple, innocent, childlike gesture of Luke’s.
    See, when Cabot cried, Luke felt bad. He leaned over from his chair and patted her shoulder to make her stop. But that just made Cabot cry harder. So Luke tried kissing her arm. That made Cabot degenerate into sobs. So, in a final, Hail Mary effort to cheer her up, Luke stood on his chair, flung himself facedown on the table, and tackled the centerpiece. In the center of the centerpiece was one, single, red rose.
    Before I had time to pounce on him, pummel him, kill him if necessary, Luke plucked the flower and threw himself back across the dining room table, landing, elbows bent, in Cabot’s plate. Covered with old breakfast but still clutching the single red rose, clutching it like it was the ball and he was a Brown and this was his winning touchdown in the final seconds of the Superbowl, he handed it to her.
    Cabot’s sobbing stopped