The entire house is filled with smoke. It’s pouring out the windows and through the screen door. Mateo and I are standing on the lawn, but we can hear our father inside shouting at Lucas to find wet towels, and about whose idiot idea was it to not own a fire extinguisher, and goddammit. He tried to deep-fry the Thanksgiving turkey and no one is surprised that it’s gone as badly as it has.
Laura is still in New York. Grandmother is in Toronto, and then Hawaii, and then Germany and Italy, her yearly round of talks. But Lucas and Mateo came home, and Jolene might go over to her parents’ for dessert, and Hector stopped by with some of his mother’s tortilla soup because we are friends again, I think.
Jolene volunteered to go to the co-op and find something not burned to eat, and Hector ran back home to see if his mother could spare some of the second turkey she always cooked for just-in-case. And I’m outside with the grass tickling my calves, a little chilly in the darkening light, feeling a little bit useless and incredibly irritated. “Not now, Ashley,” my father had said, pushing me back from the flames pouring out of the oven, and I had stormed out the door. Let him burn down the house. I didn’t care.
I stomped down the back stairs to where Mateo was lounging in the grass. Mateo never bothered to try and help.
“I’m hungry,” Mateo says, squinting up at me and taking a swig of his Corona.
“Nice to meet you,” I say absently. “I’m Ashley.” I cross my arms over my chest and tap my foot. “If he had just listened to me for once he would have known—”
“Forget it,” Mateo interrupts. “He’s never going to listen. He has to learn from his own mistakes.”
“That would be great if he ever learned anything.”
Mateo knocks his knee into mine, hard. “Hey. He tries, you know. He really does.”
“Tries to screw everything up?”
“That’s not fair,” Mateo starts, but I’m not finished.
“Don’t try to defend him. You don’t live with him anymore. You don’t know what he’s like. He’s just—he’s exhausting.” We’ve barely made eye contact since our argument on the lawn.
Mateo shrugs, swigs his beer again. “He’s gone through a lot of shit,” he says, glancing up at the deck. The smoke has gone white instead of dark, but it’s still pouring through the windows and door.
“He just tried to set us all on fire.”
“Mom used to take care of him,” he said. “And Clara just kind of ignores him. She’s always focused on you.”
I look at him sharply. “Well, he’s an adult,” I say.
“Mom still calls me to check in on him,” he says, and I suck in a breath.
“You talk to Mom?” I want to ask questions, but I smash all those words right back down. I’m sorry I said anything at all.
“Yeah,” Mateo says. He looks at me. “You look just like her. It’s weird.”
“You’ve seen her?” I can’t stop myself from saying it.
“She’s on Facebook,” he says.
“Of course she is,” I say. I’ve never been tempted to search for her.
“She’s doing good,” he says.
“Okay,” I say. “I wonder if Jolene is back yet.” I start across the yard toward the driveway, but he grabs the sleeve of my sweater.
“Hey,” he says. “She worries about you.”
“Yeah, it’s too late for that,” I say.
“She knows that,” he says.
“Good for her.”
“I’m just saying don’t believe everything Clara tells you.”
“I don’t,” I say. I want to brag about turning down the coupons, but Mateo and I don’t have heart-to-heart talks. It would be ridiculous to start now, but he seems determined.
“You’re more like Mom than you are like Clara.” He won’t stop talking. I yank the beer out of his hand.
“You’re drunk, right? That’s the only reason you could possibly be saying these things. Mateo, I don’t care.”
He hesitates, and I freeze, then close my eyes. I remind myself that I don’t care what people think anymore. These are easier words to say than to live every day. Every time I flinch in a spark of humiliation, I get furious with myself and crush it out.
“I’m not getting weight-loss surgery,” I say. “Dad knows I’m not.” And then I realize I haven’t actually let my father off the hook yet. “I’ll tell him I’m not. Because I’m not.”
“Mom is furious about it,” he says, and I shove the beer back into his hand and stalk away.
“I don’t give a shit,” I call over my shoulder, and then spin around, my hands on my hips. “Do you know she never really went to Harvard? I bet she couldn’t even get in. All these years I thought she had maybe done something worthwhile in her life but it was a lie. And I’m nothing like her.”
“And you’re pissed at Mom for not having gone to Harvard instead of at Clara for lying to you.”
“I’m pissed that—” and I stop. I shake my head and everything is rattling loose. I tuck my arms around myself again because it’s starting to get cold.
Mateo doesn’t say anything. He’s just standing there, looking at me kindly, almost like he isn’t my jerk older brother.
“I’m not getting weight-loss surgery,” I say finally.
Mateo shakes his head. “She’ll bully you into it.”
The wind sends a gust of smoke whirling around our heads. He doesn’t follow me when I turn and walk away without a word.