That thing about putting the pillow over your head so you can’t hear? Doesn’t work. The battle going on in my parents’ room buzz-saws right through the flimsy bag of feathers.
The clock by my bed says 4:27 when I pull on my clothes and sneak out.
Not that I need to sneak. The parental units are too busy fighting to notice me creeping past their door, down the creaky stairs, across the messy living room, through the kitchen where a week’s worth of dishes are piled in the sink, and out into the dark.
I can still hear them shouting as I cut across the damp grass. Our neighbor’s light is on. Must be fun living next door to us.
On my way to Ben’s I pass a cat sleeping on the hood of a car. A couple of porch lights are on, but the houses are dark. Everyone’s asleep but my family—and our next-door neighbors.
I need to crash at the Floyds’, but getting inside is going to be tricky.
When I reach Ben’s driveway I stand there awhile, looking up. There’s Ben’s window. No light on. He’s asleep—like I’d be, if my parents didn’t fight all night.
I grab a handful of gravel and toss it toward the window. It splats against the side of the house. I try again and hear it clatter against the glass.
I hold my breath but the light doesn’t come on. I’m picking up another handful of pebbles when the window opens. “Jus?” Ben sounds hoarse, like somebody just woke him up from a deep sleep.
“Who else?”
“Wait there.” The window scrapes closed again.
Sneaking down the stairs takes time in a house where people don’t yell all night. I watch moths ping against the bulb of the porch light.
The door opens. He’s wearing boxers and an old T-shirt. “Sorry,” I whisper as I slide inside.
“I was awake anyway, thinking.”
“About what?”
“About how my uncle Paul used to hitchhike to Panama City Beach when he was in high school.”
“Why were you thinking about that?”
He turns on the little light over the stove and leans against the oven door—even in the dim light I can see that the kitchen is clean, no yesterday dishes anywhere. “Do you ever have the feeling all the cool stuff happened before we got old enough to do any of it?” he asks.
“Like hitching to the coast? Does anyone even hitch anymore?”
“That’s what I’m talking about!” He stares into the dark outside the kitchen window.
“I’d be up for it.” I pull out a chair and sit. “My folks wouldn’t even notice. But yours? Double heart attack. Plus, nobody hitchhikes anymore except mass murderers.”
Frustrated, he shakes his head. “When it comes to having a cool summer, we’re toast.” He gets a bag of coffee out of the freezer, then glances at me over his shoulder. “Your T-shirt’s inside out.”
I hold out the front of the shirt and look down, then shrug. “I wore it right side out yesterday.” At my house the score is dirty shirts, ten; clean shirts, zero. Still, inside out? I have some standards. I skin the shirt off and put it on right. “I dressed kind of fast,” I say, popping my head out the neck hole. I glance down, and there’s the ghost of yesterday’s ketchup stain. In better light, I bet you could see sweat stains too.
“They get up this early to fight?” Ben whispers, filling the coffee pot at the sink.
“What do you mean, get up? They’ve been at it all night.”
The only time it was peaceful at my house was for a couple of months when Dad left. Then he came back. I rub my burning eyes.
Ben makes an extra-big pot of coffee. He pours a mug for each of us, then sets the squeeze-top honey bear on the table. I squirt long drizzles into both cups. Ben sloshes in some milk.
We sit with our elbows on the table. Upstairs, a toilet flushes.
Mr. Floyd comes down in his boxers too, but no T-shirt. He stops scratching his hairy belly when he sees me. “Justin?” He stares at me like I’m the answer to the question, “What’s wrong with this picture?”
“Hi, Mr. Floyd. Good morning?”
“Did you spend the night?”
“No, sir. I just got here.”
He checks out the clock on the stove. “Do your parents know where you are?”
“Where else would I be?”
Mr. Floyd crosses his arms. “You better call them.”
“I don’t think they’d hear the phone.”
Ben takes another mug out of the cupboard. “Coffee, Dad?”
“And newspaper?” I ask. I go out to the box and bring in the Democrat, figuring Ben will explain. As I come back in with the paper, Mr. Floyd lifts a cast-iron skillet off a hook on the wall.
We’re about to dig in to hash browns and a cheese omelet when Ben’s mom scuffs down the stairs in a purple robe. Staring, she does a repeat of “What’s wrong with this picture?”
Mrs. Floyd thinks I should call home, too, then zeroes in on our heaped plates. We aren’t breaking any of her vegetarian rules, but she’s a big believer in fiber. Breakfast, according to Ben’s mom, should be like gnawing a chair leg.
“Comfort food,” Mr. Floyd whispers.
“Oh, honey.” Ben’s mom puts a hand on my back and rubs. “You look so tired.” She watches me eat until I clean the plate, then drapes an arm around my shoulders. “Come with me.”
I let her walk me to the sofa. “Lie down.”
Roll over…Beg…Sometimes I wish the snarky little guy in my head who turns everything into a joke would take a break.
I lie down and Mrs. Floyd shakes out the fuzzy pink blanket that hangs on the back of the sofa. It’s summer and plenty warm, but it’s the thought that counts. “I’m okay,” I mutter as the blanket settles.
I pass out fast, but it isn’t a deep sleep.
The front door opens and closes a couple of times as Mrs. Floyd takes off for the utilities office and Mr. Floyd heads for Baker’s Garage, his summer job until he goes back to being a high school auto mechanics teacher.
I open an eye and Ben is in the nearby recliner, zonked. The house is so quiet, I can hear the clock ticking on the book shelf. I count it off in 4/4 time until I drift…
I’m asleep for real when I feel someone sit down on my chest.
We both yell, and I bolt up so fast I dump Cody on his butt. The hat that kept him from seeing me pops off and rolls on its brim until it hits the bookcase.
Ben, stretching his arms over his head, yawns so big I can see his back teeth. It’s daylight out.
Cody crawls over to the bookcase. “You okay, hat?” Up on his knees, he brushes off some imaginary dust.
“FYI, Jus?” Ben snaps the footrest on the recliner down. “You drool in your sleep.”
“How would you know? You were asleep too.”
“Not the whole time. Trust me, you drool.”
“Great!” I flop back on the couch. “I can’t even sleep right.”
“So,” Ben says. “What do you wanna do today?”
Nothing much comes to mind. “Eat a big bowl of ice cream?”
“No,” Cody blurts out. “We’re not allowed!”
“He was kidding,” Ben says.
“Oh.” Cody looks sad that he didn’t get the joke.
“Hey,” I say. “Isn’t today seven minus six?”
“Yeah,” says Ben. “I think I saw something about that in today’s paper. Happy seven minus six. How about if you pick out what we do today, little bro?”
My buddy must be desperate if he’s asking Cody for ideas.
“Me? Choose?” Cody looks proud—then worried. “Just a second.” Cody puts the hat on and lets it drop over his face. He sits like that for a minute. “The hat says we should go for a walk.”
“A walk?” Ben doesn’t sound thrilled.
“The hat says seven minus six is a good day to look for something.”
Ben rests his forearms on his thighs, leans toward his brother, and nudges the hat back. “What kind of something?”
“I dunno. The hat’ll show us.”
“I’m up for it.” I toss back the pink blanket. “I gotta stay busy and out of the house for the next”—I pretend to study the clock on the bookshelf—“two and a half months.”
“Okay, Detective.” Ben thumps the top of the hat with a knuckle. “Find us something.”
“Check!” says the kid in the hat, throwing his shoulders back.