was no way I could borrow money from Chad.
I tested my mouth with a tortilla chip. The salt scalded my cut lip, but I maneuvered the food around so it didnât sting much.
Raymond stirred his chili sauce with his fork, not eating.
I listened, and as I did I thought: If I donât go along with these two, they will get themselves shot. Or worse yet, maybe they wouldnât do anything at all, maybe just talk about it.
There was no way I could ask my cash-strapped dad for the money, and I wasnât about to call my mom that night and steer the conversation around to how much it costs to make it in amateur sports.
I was going to have to take a risk.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Outside our apartment you can sometimes hear conversation, even when you canât make out the words, a rise and fall of sounds, unmistakably human, but obscure.
I thought my mother had come back.
I took a moment before I opened the door, listening to my fatherâs voice and a womanâs. The key slipped almost soundlessly into the slot.
A woman who looked nothing like my mother, a petite, well-coiffed woman, was perched on the sofa. She looked at me with wide eyes, like someone startled. Dad often invited his women friends here, but I had expected him to take a vacation from this habit for a few days, out of respect for Momâs visit.
This woman certainly didnât dress like my mother, wearing a puffy-sleeved concoction, dark, creased pants, and the kind of shoes that look dressy, except they have Vibram soles with serrated treadsâyou can walk nine miles to the office.
Dad was sitting beside her, a folder open on his lap, receipts and business forms all over the coffee table. He glanced up and smiled, a brighter, happier man than the shell I had left this morning.
The woman ran her hands up her arms to keep the overlarge sleeves from slipping down, younger than Mom, and someone who paid more attention to her looks.
Dad stirred himself out of whatever airy mood he was in and said, âSteven, this is Emily Shore.â
She was a voice I recognized from the phone, the husky, slow-speaking financial advisor. She had quite a grip, and plainly put some effort into it, letting me know she was used to shaking hands with big bucks.
âIâm so glad we could meet at last,â she said, low and careful, someone who had trained herself out of a hometown accent. She had more of a figure than my mom, and maybe the stylish parachute-blouse was a way of disguising this, keeping the male mind on the bottom line.
âIâm going to give piano lessons,â said Dad.
I said I was glad to hear it. Actually, Emily Shore seemed nice enough, but I knew it was pointless to get friendly with the women Dad brought home. A few turns of the calendar and Dad would have a replacement.
âEmily says we can write off the rent we pay on fifty percent of the unit,â Dad was saying. You could see what women saw in him, his enthusiasm for the subject at hand, whatever it was.
A single plate with crumbs gleamed in the breakfast nook. Two cups of chamomile tea, three-quarters gone, the tea bags sitting soggy in the sink. The tea was cold. The carpet is so new you can see the footprints, ghosting here and there down the hall, toward the bedroom.
âWe can write off cookies and coffee for the piano students, and a percentage of the rent on the furniture,â Dad was saying, picking up sheet music company invoices like they were long-lost family letters. âWeâre taking a proactive tax strategy.â
âA tax strategy,â I said, trying out one of Momâs dry echoes.
Couldnât you work things out better with Mom? I wanted to say. You had to call up this living ad for eye shadow and ask her to drop by to discuss how to avoid paying taxes on a gaunt income?
The way I stood there got Dadâs attentionâhe isnât stupidâand when he swings into full focus you know it.
He said, âWhere have
I tested my mouth with a tortilla chip. The salt scalded my cut lip, but I maneuvered the food around so it didnât sting much.
Raymond stirred his chili sauce with his fork, not eating.
I listened, and as I did I thought: If I donât go along with these two, they will get themselves shot. Or worse yet, maybe they wouldnât do anything at all, maybe just talk about it.
There was no way I could ask my cash-strapped dad for the money, and I wasnât about to call my mom that night and steer the conversation around to how much it costs to make it in amateur sports.
I was going to have to take a risk.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Outside our apartment you can sometimes hear conversation, even when you canât make out the words, a rise and fall of sounds, unmistakably human, but obscure.
I thought my mother had come back.
I took a moment before I opened the door, listening to my fatherâs voice and a womanâs. The key slipped almost soundlessly into the slot.
A woman who looked nothing like my mother, a petite, well-coiffed woman, was perched on the sofa. She looked at me with wide eyes, like someone startled. Dad often invited his women friends here, but I had expected him to take a vacation from this habit for a few days, out of respect for Momâs visit.
This woman certainly didnât dress like my mother, wearing a puffy-sleeved concoction, dark, creased pants, and the kind of shoes that look dressy, except they have Vibram soles with serrated treadsâyou can walk nine miles to the office.
Dad was sitting beside her, a folder open on his lap, receipts and business forms all over the coffee table. He glanced up and smiled, a brighter, happier man than the shell I had left this morning.
The woman ran her hands up her arms to keep the overlarge sleeves from slipping down, younger than Mom, and someone who paid more attention to her looks.
Dad stirred himself out of whatever airy mood he was in and said, âSteven, this is Emily Shore.â
She was a voice I recognized from the phone, the husky, slow-speaking financial advisor. She had quite a grip, and plainly put some effort into it, letting me know she was used to shaking hands with big bucks.
âIâm so glad we could meet at last,â she said, low and careful, someone who had trained herself out of a hometown accent. She had more of a figure than my mom, and maybe the stylish parachute-blouse was a way of disguising this, keeping the male mind on the bottom line.
âIâm going to give piano lessons,â said Dad.
I said I was glad to hear it. Actually, Emily Shore seemed nice enough, but I knew it was pointless to get friendly with the women Dad brought home. A few turns of the calendar and Dad would have a replacement.
âEmily says we can write off the rent we pay on fifty percent of the unit,â Dad was saying. You could see what women saw in him, his enthusiasm for the subject at hand, whatever it was.
A single plate with crumbs gleamed in the breakfast nook. Two cups of chamomile tea, three-quarters gone, the tea bags sitting soggy in the sink. The tea was cold. The carpet is so new you can see the footprints, ghosting here and there down the hall, toward the bedroom.
âWe can write off cookies and coffee for the piano students, and a percentage of the rent on the furniture,â Dad was saying, picking up sheet music company invoices like they were long-lost family letters. âWeâre taking a proactive tax strategy.â
âA tax strategy,â I said, trying out one of Momâs dry echoes.
Couldnât you work things out better with Mom? I wanted to say. You had to call up this living ad for eye shadow and ask her to drop by to discuss how to avoid paying taxes on a gaunt income?
The way I stood there got Dadâs attentionâhe isnât stupidâand when he swings into full focus you know it.
He said, âWhere have
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