I tiptoe into the kitchen, so I don’t interrupt him. He scans the page in his hand, I’m invisible to him.
I score on point because he hasn’t freaked [yet].
“Why, hello, Emily.” He looks up from his page. “I didn’t notice you.”
Of course you didn’t notice me, you never do. “What are you doing?”
“Just some stuff for work…” He frowns at the papers.
“Well, um, I’ll just get a snack and go do my homework.” I start towards the fridge, but his hand shoots out and grabs my arm. The paper flutters to the floor.
“Wait, we need to talk, Emily.” He says. “It’s important.”
He’s still calm, that’s a good sign. Maybe it won’t be bad…
He inhales. “I have quite a few things to say, so please, I’d like your undivided attention.”
I stare at the patterns in the floor tile. My mind spins.
“Emily?” His voice is distant.
He steps closer to me, so there’s little space between us. The creases in his forehead are prominent, and his black hair has more grey speckles than I realized.
“Yeah, I’m right here.” I reply, tucking a lock of blond hair behind my ear.
“Oh good,” he murmurs. “Listen, I have to talk to you. Please pay attention, because I won’t be repeating it.”
I stare at him, waiting like a child who’s expecting a handful of candy.
He clears his throat. “I know it’s been tough on you… losing your mom… but, I really think you should be a bit more…” He struggles to find a word. “Social.”
“I’m working on it.” I mutter, avoiding his eyes.
“No you aren’t. You’re not working on anything – school, your friends, home responsibilities; it’s all going down the drain!” He says.
A bubble of laughter rises in my throat. “Like you’d notice.” The poison in my voice even shocks me.
“I have been.” He replies.
“No, you haven’t been! You’ve been throwing yourself into your work, distracting yourself.”
He frowns. “Well, maybe that’s just of my way of coping.”
I grit my teeth. “No, it’s not. If you were grieving, you wouldn’t have gone into that chat room. If you were grieving, you’d care for me more.”
“Who says I don’t care about you?” He hisses.
“Well… studies show…” I murmur. “You know what, never mind. I’m done.”
“Emily…”
I turn on my heels, and bound out of the room, before the tears come.
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I’m still sitting in silence.
He hasn’t knocked on my door, not yet.
I don’t want him to, because he’ll only criticize me, and mom,
a]nd outline all my bad, bad, bad faults.
