The Truth by Jeffry W. Johnston

brother. Mad at your dad. Mad at him even now, right? Truth, remember? You know the penalty if you lie. The man’s using his private time with you, his oldest son, to talk about Devon. Then he dies saving another kid’s life. Where did you fit in? When were you going to get your moment? When were you going to become important enough for him to—”
    All at once, he starts to cough. It doesn’t last as long this time. When he’s finished, he leans back, even pulling the garden shears away.
    I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t. “What do you care? Why is it so important to you?”
    I don’t know how he’s going to react, and I shut my eyes. When nothing happens, I open them to find him staring at me.
    After a long silence, he sighs. “Fathers,” he mutters. “They can be a pain sometimes. You should have met my dad; he was a real prick. You’re not the only one who had to watch over a younger brother…” He falters.
    I wait, expecting him to continue. He says nothing for a long time. I hate this silence game. Am I supposed to say something now? He’s holding the shears in his lap. Maybe he’s had a change of heart. Maybe…
    And just like that, the blades slide easily back into place.

11
    Then
    Monday. My first day back at school since the shooting. I have no idea how my classmates or teachers will act, but I need to be ready. I’ve thought it through, and if I’m going to get through this, if I’m going to make this work, I have to own it. That means, if people ask, I’m going to talk about it. This is my fault, my responsibility.
    It’s what Dad would want.
    Eating this morning in the dining room instead of the kitchen, Devon is still subdued. He talks to Mom but not to me unless he has to. Something’s changed between us, and I’m not sure how to fix it.
    â€œPlayoffs start tonight,” I try after a bite of Frosted Flakes. Like he doesn’t already know that. “Does Coach think you guys are ready for the big game?” I sound inane.
    After a moment, he shrugs. “I think so.”
    â€œDo you think you’re ready?”
    Silence. Followed by a nod. He continues to stare at his cereal instead of looking at me.
    â€œDid you hit any balls out of the park at Saturday’s practice?”
    â€œA couple,” he mumbles. He looks at Mom. “May I leave for school a little early? I can play on the playground.”
    â€œSure,” she says. “Make sure you brush your teeth first.”
    â€œJust give me a minute and I’ll be ready to go too,” I tell him. I always walk with him in the morning since his school is on the way to the high school; he gets a ride home from Brady’s mom in the afternoons.
    â€œI wanna walk by myself,” he says at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m big enough.”
    I stare at him, but he’s looking at Mom, not me. “You bet you are,” she says after a moment. “That’s fine.”
    He hurries upstairs. I hear the faucet go on in the bathroom.
    I say nothing. I’m not sure my voice would work if I tried.
    After a moment, Mom says, “I made an appointment with some professional cleaners. They’re coming today to work on the kitchen while I’m at the diner. It’ll be done by the time you get home.”
    The faucet turns off and Devon comes back downstairs. He’s got his backpack on, and he goes up to Mom and gives her a hug. “Have a good day,” she says, smiling.
    He turns and starts out of the room. “Hey, Devon,” I call out.
    He stops, waits.
    â€œI’ll see you after school, okay?”
    He nods without looking at me, then leaves the room. I hear the front door open and close a couple seconds later.
    I dip my spoon into my cereal and leave it there. Mom says, “Don’t take it to heart, Chris. When you were his age, there were times you were so mad at me I