16.

Rochelle is mildly annoyed that I forgot to buy Splenda. We’re completely out, and she can’t drink her coffee without it.

“Can I make a suggestion, Keats?” she says. “Tape a piece of paper to the cabinet in the kitchen—or even better, mount a dry erase board. Then we can all write down whatever we need as things run out. Don’t you think that’s a better system than just trying to pull together a list at the last minute?”

She means well. I know she means well. But I’m not in the mood for a lecture on organization, not from Rochelle. When I first started working for her, the kitchen was a mess, just a grungy old coffeemaker and a couple of half-eaten boxes of stale cookies. I cleaned it up, stocked it, labeled, shelved, and jarred everything, and made sure there was always a fresh pot of decent coffee for anyone who wanted a cup.

Also, I just made her article a lot better.

Then I wonder why I’m reacting this way. Rochelle’s decades older than I am. She has a PhD in English. She’s poised and stylish and married with children. And she’s my boss. She has every right to give me advice, and this particular bit of advice is practical and easily implemented. So why am I chafing under one well-intended suggestion?

I don’t know.

Maybe I’m just sick of my job. Or of my life.

That evening, Tom and I are driving to meet Lou and Izzy for drinks and a movie, when I ask him if he thinks I should take the GREs in the fall.

“Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know. Just to see how I’d do on them.”

“I already know how you’d do. Great. You totally killed on the SATs, remember?”

“I did okay.” Not as well as Hopkins or Milton—they both got perfect scores. “I was just thinking that if I did really well on them, I could think about going back to school.”

“Where?”

“I haven’t gotten that far yet. Maybe get an MA in English literature somewhere. Or maybe think about law school.”

“Those are two really different things—don’t you have to take a different test for law school?”

“Yeah, I guess. I haven’t put that much thought into this yet. I just feel like I want a change. I’m starting to hate my job.”

“I thought you loved it.”

“I do.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“It’s a perfectly fine job.” I finger a tiny imperfection on my jeans leg. “I just don’t know if it’s what I want to do for the rest of my life.”

“It won’t be.” He reaches over and pats my knee. “You’ll probably end up running the whole college. Or another place will hire you away for a much more important job.” He squeezes my thigh. “Plus you know…Someday you might not want to be going to a job at all. You might want to stay home with the kids.”

“Oh, am I having kids?”

“I certainly hope so.” He grins. Man, he’s handsome.

“Someday,” I emphasize. “Not for a while.”

“Right. Anyway, I’m not saying you shouldn’t take the GREs. If you want to, you definitely should. I’ll even help you study—we can make flash cards and I’ll quiz you.”

I put my hand over his on my leg. “Thanks. You’re a pretty sweet guy, Tom.”

“Only pretty sweet?”

 I lean over so I can give him a kiss on the cheek. “Very sweet.”

When he smiles and tilts his head like that, he still looks exactly like the guy who gave me a ride home when he was in college and I was fifteen.

* * *

After we’ve gotten our drinks, he announces to Lou and Izzy that I’m thinking of taking the GREs.

“God, that’s like my worst nightmare,” Lou says. “Test taking is not a strength of mine.”

“I hear you, man,” says Tom, and they clink beer mugs.

“I did okay on mine,” Izzy says. “I mean, I’m sure nowhere near as good as Keats did, but okay. It didn’t really matter, though, because my parents wanted me to stay at home and go to community college, so I could help with Stanny.”

“Your phone’s ringing,” Tom says to me. The bar is crowded, and the four of us are crammed into a booth that would have been an intimate table for two. “I can feel it vibrating.”

I get to my feet so I can work the phone out of the pocket of my jeans. “It’s my mom.”

“Ignore it,” Tom says.

“I’ll just see what she wants.” The bar is noisy and hot, and I don’t mind having an excuse to walk outside onto the cool, quiet street for a second.

“Am I interrupting something?” Mom asks.

“We’re just at a bar with Lou and Iz. No big deal.”

“I need your help.”

“What’s up?”

“It’s just…I wanted Milton’s room to look halfway decent since all the real estate agents are coming to see the house. So I asked him to straighten it up, and he threw a fit.”

“What do you mean ‘a fit’?”

“Well, he threw something at me.”

“Seriously? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It was just a pillow.”

“A pillow?” I laugh. “That doesn’t even count as throwing something, Mom.”

“He was seriously angry. He also hurled a book across his room and put a dent in the wall. Just when I’m about to start showing the house and need it to look its best.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Come out here this weekend. Please? Tell him he has to accept that this house is being sold, whether he likes it or not. And maybe get him out of his room for a little while so I can clean it up.”

“I could come on Saturday. Tom’s playing golf with his dad all day. His mom wanted me to have lunch with her at the club, but I wouldn’t mind having an excuse to skip that.” Eating at the club with Tom’s mother is an agonizing experience. She talks too loudly for the hushed dining room, and people are always turning to stare at her. I don’t know why the Wellses were so desperate to join this particular old-money club. They don’t really fit in there.

Actually, that’s probably why.

“Tell Tom’s mother that I need you at the house. Because I do. I haven’t made a dent in the packing. I could really use as much time and help as you can give me.”

“You mean I get to pack, too? I can’t wait!”

When I get back to the bar, Lou is telling Tom about a TV show they’re “totally addicted to.” I slide in next to Tom, who whispers a quick “Everything okay?” and I nod.

Lou is describing the main guy on the show and how he works out and tans and has this on-again, off-again relationship with some trampy girl, and I realize that they’re talking about the show Jacob and I watched that night in my dad’s apartment. I can only remember it in flashes, but those flashes swirl around me now: the comically huge biceps on the best friend, the skimpy clothing, the deep kisses the girl kept giving the guy, Jacob’s saying they looked like siblings. Or did I say that?

Jacob and I used to be like siblings. Now we’re not even friends.

I fidget, cramped on the small bench, and massage my temples.

“You okay?” Tom asks, half shouting in my ear the way you do at a noisy bar.

“It’s hot in here, don’t you think?”

“Want me to get you an ice water?”

“That would be great.” I slide out of the booth so he can get up.

“Anyone else want anything?” he asks.

“Two more Coronas,” says Lou. “Oh, and did you want something, too?” he says to Izzy and laughs. He makes the same joke every time.

After Tom moves away and I sit back down, Izzy leans across the small table. “You’re so quiet tonight, Keats. Is everything okay at home? What did your mom want?” Her big blue eyes are concerned, the thick layer of mascara fanning her lashes into star points.

“Everything’s fine. She’s trying to sell the house, but my brother—he lives at home—doesn’t want her to.”

“How old is he?” Lou asks.

“Twenty.”

Lou snorts. “A guy that age shouldn’t be living at home anyway. I mean, unless he’s like Stanny.”

“You lived at home until you were twenty-five,” Izzy points out.

“That was different. There was a separate entrance, and I paid rent.”

“Well, maybe her brother does, too.”

“He doesn’t,” I say. “He’s not very independent. He’s got some issues.”

“Like Stanny?” asks Lou.

“No,” I say. “He’s got different issues. He doesn’t like to leave the house. I mean, he really doesn’t like to leave the house—I don’t think he walked out the door once this year. And I’m not too sure about the year before that.”

“Things are probably too comfortable for him at home,” Lou says. “Someone should just kick him out of there. Show him a little tough love.”

I realize I’m rubbing my temples again. “You’re probably right,” I say wearily.

Izzy pats my hand. “It’ll all be okay, Keats.”

Her reassurance is meaningless but her intentions are kind, and I thank her. When Tom comes back, I tell him that my head is aching and I’ll have to skip the movie. I urge him to go on ahead with Lou and Izzy, but he says he’d rather just go back home with me. When we get back, he turns on the TV, which just makes my head hurt even more.

* * *

“Okay,” I say to Milton on Saturday. He’s in his desk chair, working on the computer, and I’m sitting on his bed, watching him. “What’s this about your throwing something at Mom?”

He stares at the computer screen and types something. “Huh?”

“Stop doing that and look at me.”

“Hold on—this is important.”

“Why, are you winning?”

“It’s not about winning,” he says. “It’s about creating. You don’t understand.”

I get up. I forcibly swivel his chair around so he has to face me. “Do you have any idea how much she does for you?”

“Mom? Yeah, I guess. Let go.”

“She told me you threw a fit last night.”

“It wasn’t a fit. I was just mad.” He won’t meet my eyes. Then again, he never does. “She keeps saying she’s going to sell the house, and it’s a bad idea. I’ve tried to tell her why, but she won’t listen to me.”

“That’s because she’s going to sell it no matter what you say.”

“She shouldn’t. It’s not a seller’s market. I’ve looked at the comps—”

“That stuff doesn’t matter, Milton. Mom doesn’t want to deal with the house anymore. Hopkins and I and Dad have all moved out—”

“Dad would move back in a second.”

“But that’s not what Mom wants. She wants to live in a nice small apartment.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?” I hold on to the chair, certain that if I let go, he’ll spin away from me again.

“I don’t want to live in an apartment. This is my home.”

“I know, but it’s not your decision to make. It’s hers. And it’s not like she’s going to throw you out on the street. You’re just moving somewhere new.” I let go of the chair and stand up. “Now get up. Come keep me company downstairs. I want a cup of tea.”

“You’re just trying to get me out of the room so Mom can clean it before the real estate agents come.”

I shake my head, laughing. “How did you know that?”

“It’s obvious.”

“Well, come on anyway,” I say and tug on his arm, pulling him up out of the chair. “Give Mom a break for once.”

Mom must hear us coming down the stairs because she suddenly appears at the bottom with a vacuum, a can of Pledge, and some rags.

“Don’t move my stuff,” Milton says to her as she passes us.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she says without pausing.

“She’s going to move my stuff,” he tells me as we make our way into the kitchen.

“She’s just going to make it look neater. It’s a pigsty in there. You don’t want strangers seeing it like that, do you?”

“I don’t care. I don’t want them in my room anyway.” He sits down at the booth. “Will you make me something to eat?” His assumption that the rest of us will wait on him always astounds me.

And yet, of course, we do. “What do you want?”

“An egg in a frame?”

That sounds good actually. I decide to make one for myself, too. We still have over an hour before the agents come—plenty of time to clean up any mess we make. I find bread in the freezer where Mom keeps it, defrost a couple of slices in the microwave, pull out butter and eggs, and turn the burner on under the pan. I haven’t cooked in this house for a while, but everything’s where it’s been for the last two and a half decades.

Milton watches me as I cook. “Make it crispy but not burned,” he says. “I hate when it tastes burned. And keep the yolk runny. Not raw, just runny. It’s safe to eat so long as it’s pretty hot. Salmonella’s killed at fifty-five degrees. Celsius, not Fahrenheit.”

“What’s that in Fahrenheit?”

“One hundred and fifty degrees.”

“And what’s boiling again?”

“Are you serious? Two hundred and twelve. Come on, Keats.”

“Right. I knew that—I just forgot for a second.” I cook our eggs and take them on plates to the table.

“Celsius is so much more logical than Fahrenheit. I wish the U.S. would switch over to it already. Can I have a glass of milk?”

“Get it yourself. I made the eggs.” He doesn’t get up, just starts eating. I eye him. “You have it pretty good here. I don’t blame you for not wanting to leave. You get half the house entirely to yourself, Mom waits on you hand and foot, and you don’t have to work or study or do anything.”

“I study,” he says. “I’m taking courses.”

“Right.”

“I am. Seriously, Keats. I’m working toward a degree.”

“And then you’ll get a job?”

“Yeah, probably,” he says but without a lot of conviction. “And I work, too, you know, it’s just on stuff you guys don’t appreciate.”

I raise my eyebrows skeptically but don’t respond to that. I stick my fork into the middle of my egg in a frame and the yolk runs out dark yellow and steaming, just like Milton wanted. I feel absurdly pleased with my success. “I’m thinking of going back to school myself and getting a graduate degree,” I say idly.

“You should.”

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugs, forks some more bread and egg into his mouth, and chews noisily, his mouth open. There’s yolk at the corners of his mouth and a fleck of white on his chin. His manners are atrocious. He says with his mouth still full, “You’re too smart for that stupid job.”

“It’s not a stupid job. As jobs go, it’s a good one, but you wouldn’t know since you’ve never had one.”

“Mom thinks it’s a stupid job. She says so all the time.” He stuffs the last bite of yolky bread into his mouth, chews, and burps. “I’m really thirsty now.”

“Then get yourself something to drink. You’re a grown man, for god’s sake.”

He’s so startled that for a moment his eyes actually meet mine. “I know,” he says. “I was just about to.” He rises to his feet. As he gets a glass out, he swings the out-of-joint cabinet door back and forth a few times and says, “Maybe no one will want the house anyway. It’s kind of falling apart.”

“Someone will want it. It’s a big piece of property in a great neighborhood in a good school district. The house doesn’t matter that much—I wouldn’t be surprised if the new owners tear the whole thing down.”

Milton puts the glass down on the counter still empty and turns to me. “Mom should put in the contract that they can’t do that.”

“Once it’s not our house anymore, what difference does it make?”

“So long as it’s not destroyed, it will still be the same house we grew up in. I was even thinking that maybe one day I could buy it back with my own money.”

“Come on, Miltie. Be realistic. Is that ever going to happen? You buying this house with your own money?”

“It could.”

“It’s going to sell for over a million dollars.”

He shrugs. He stares down at the empty glass, his face morose.

I get up and touch his arm. “I know you love this house. I do, too. It’s our home. But that’s going to change. And it should. Just because you’re used to things being a certain way doesn’t mean that’s the way they should stay. Change is scary, but it isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” He keeps shaking his head. I can’t even tell if he’s really listening, but I keep going anyway. “You can’t just cling to something because it’s all you know, Milton. Being an adult is about making new choices, accepting that what was right for you once might not be right anymore, that sometimes you have to give something up to move on to something better, that—”

I stop. Milton’s staring at me.

“What?” I say.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying.”

“Yes, you are. You have tears in your eyes. And your voice is all shaky.”

“I’m just frustrated that you can’t see this.”

“No,” he says. “You’re not just frustrated. You’re crying. Why?”

“Will you just go get your milk?” I don’t want to admit that he’s right, I’m crying, because I can’t explain it. It’s just weird.

He obediently walks away and opens the refrigerator door. I take the opportunity to rub my face hard against my sleeve. It helps. The tears stop.

“The milk’s all gone,” Milton says, almost in amazement. “But I know we had some this morning. Mom brought me a glass.”

“She must have used it up.”

“Rats.” He shoves the door closed again. “I really wanted some.”

“Yeah? Then let’s go get some.”

“You can,” he says, backing away quickly. “I have some stuff to do. Don’t forget: I like two percent.”

“You have to come with me.”

“I’m not even really dressed, Keats.”

“You’re fine. People go out in sweats all the time. You just need shoes.”

“I don’t know where mine are.”

I believe him. It’s probably been months since he’s worn them. Maybe years. “I’ll run up to your room and see if I can find them. You wait here.” I don’t trust him to get within a few feet of his computer and be able to tear himself away again.

“It’d be faster for you to just go by yourself.”

I get up close to him and fix him with as steely a look as a short, curly, red-haired girl can pull off. “You are going with me to the supermarket if I have to kick you in the butt every single step of the way. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I understand you,” he says in an aggrieved tone. “I just don’t see what your problem is.”

“My problem is that my brother never leaves the house. But that’s going to change right now. Don’t move, or I swear I’ll make Mom promise never to run an errand for you again.” Before he can respond, I’m racing out of the kitchen and up the stairs, yelling for Mom, telling her that I need Milton’s shoes.

She meets me at the doorway to his room. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s coming with me to the supermarket.”

Her mouth falls open. “Really?”

“If I can find his shoes.”

“He hasn’t left the house in two years.”

“I know. Help me find his fucking shoes before I lose my chance!” I don’t think I’ve ever sworn in front of my mother before. Her eyes grow big, and then she nods quickly and helps me find the shoes.