But then it occurs to me he wouldn’t know.
And I plan to keep it that way.
∞
“How was class, honey?” Mom asks when I come through the door. She doesn’t look up from her crossword.
And Dad doesn’t wake from where he’s snoring in the recliner.
I toss my messenger bag to the floor near the stairs and slip the empty highball glass out of his hand, where it’s precariously balanced on the arm of the chair, wedged into the webbed space between his thumb and index finger. He snorts and his foot jerks on the leg rest, but he doesn’t wake.
He’s a harmless drunk. He buries himself in his job all day, and I guess he’s really good at it, but as soon as he’s home, he’s got a drink in his hand. I think it’s his escape. Work is easy for him, calculations and formulas and very little human interaction. Dealing with his family is an entirely different story. We’re messy, unpredictable, and human, and don’t fit into any algorithm or formula. I’ve never had an actual conversation with my father. He’s more like an acquaintance from the neighborhood—the guy you have an awkward exchange about the weather with when you cross paths putting the garbage out or picking up the mail from the box.
“This one’s going to be a lot more work than last semester,” I say, crossing to the kitchen and putting Dad’s glass on the counter. I tug open the fridge and grab a can of Diet Coke, making a mental note of what we need. I can stop at the store on my way home from school tomorrow, since I only have night class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
She erases something on her puzzle. “You need to update your Stanford application and be sure they know you’re taking a five hundred level literature class.”
“And Berkeley,” I add.
“And Berkeley,” she repeats absently, adjusting her glasses and scowling at her puzzle. She went to Stanford, so I think she forgets there are other options.
I only seriously applied to Stanford and UC Berkeley. UC Davis is my fallback, but my high school guidance counselor is pretty sure it won’t come to that. Berkeley’s Literature program is more rooted in the classics, so it’s my first choice.
Mom jots something down, then immediately erases it. “Marcus is heading back to school Sunday morning. You should plan to be here for dinner tomorrow night to say goodbye.”
“Surprised he didn’t have to be back sooner for training,” I say, popping the tab on my Coke.
“Guess his coach decided they’ve earned winter break off after winning that tournament last month.”
My brother and I could be the same person…if I was two years older and a six foot four guy. We look just alike, with Dad’s wavy espresso hair, Mom’s amber eyes, and skin that doesn’t tan no matter how much time we spend in the sun—which is a lot, considering we both play water polo. Marcus graduated valedictorian of his class last year, but his focus was always more on athletics. He’s on a full-ride water polo scholarship at UCLA, which he chose because they consistently rank at the top of their conference. “That tournament” they won last month was the NCAA Championship. It was a huge deal, televised and everything. But I don’t think Mom really gets it.
The brains, Marcus and I can’t really take too much credit for. Mom is a biochemical engineer and Dad is a nuclear physicist. They both have multiple degrees, Mom’s from Brown and Stanford, and Dad’s from Harvard and Cornell. They met at Platinum Biomedical, where they both work. Which makes sense, because in addition to the fact they’re both cripplingly socially awkward, work is all either of them ever do. They’re out the door at the crack of dawn, before I’m even up for school, and never home before eight or nine at night. From the time we were six weeks old, Marcus and I were raised by the nice ladies at Marie’s House of Discovery and Day Care Center.