I stayed after school today to run through a few of the rough patches again with the rest of the cast and our production staff. Today was the first time I really felt like I got it down. No forgetting a line at all, no looking to Ms. Terry for help. Just me and Mercutio. Perfect.
I got home a little after five and saw Dad outside talking to Mr. Greene. I trust the guy, especially after the seance night, him watching our backs and all. Hopefully it's nothing serious.
There's a copy of the paper in the kitchen. Dad has the right column circled, and what I read shocks the hell out of me, but I shake it off. Probably another prank. I go to my room to throw my CD copy of the play in to recite my lines to one more time when I notice my headphones are gone. I sigh. Ryan.
The apartment's pretty small, but there are still three bedrooms in it. I go to his room and knock hard. "Ryan, where are my headphones?"
He doesn't respond, probably because he's got the music on too loud in his ears. So I shove the door open. He's sitting there on his bed, no music, no...nothing. He's not doing anything but staring at something in his lap. It looks like a piece of paper.
No. A picture.
Mom.
"Ryan, what are you doing with that?" I ask suddenly, and he looks up, the picture suddenly flying under his bed.
"With what?" he asks suddenly, turning around to face me. Color rushes to his cheeks and ears. He knows he's been caught red-handed.
"Was it you who took the picture of Mom?" I ask, sounding more accusing than I mean to. "Were you the one who stole Dad's picture?"
"You don't get it," Ryan says, shaking his head. I sometimes forget that he's only fifteen now. "It wasn't Dad's 'object of love,' Derek. He didn't care about it enough." The bad poetry and the stolen items were common news, but this was something completely new.
He looked back to the floor. "It was mine."
That stuns me completely. I mean, I knew Ryan was closer to Mom than me or Dad, but I hadn't realized how big that gap was. None of us had.
"But--you got it back," I said, slowly piecing it all together. "Does that mean--?"
"Yeah."
"You burned...?"
"Yeah."
"But...why?" I ask, floored again.
"It's like I said in the paper--an accident. I...Mom had a stash in the liquor cabinet. There was a candle on the stove. One of Dad's bottles of whiskey fell out of the cabinet over the stove and broke, knocking the candle over, too. I just finished cleaning up the glass when the liquor caught from the wick. It practically blew up in my face," Ryan explained.
"Why didn't you get out?" I ask, scared in a way, both of what had happened and the sudden urge I had to break his face.
"I was scared," Ryan said numbly. "I panicked."
That's when the worst possible thing happened. Dad walked in the room. But he didn't say a word.
He wrapped me and Ryan in a huge bear hug, before saying, for the first time since before Mom died:
I got home a little after five and saw Dad outside talking to Mr. Greene. I trust the guy, especially after the seance night, him watching our backs and all. Hopefully it's nothing serious.
There's a copy of the paper in the kitchen. Dad has the right column circled, and what I read shocks the hell out of me, but I shake it off. Probably another prank. I go to my room to throw my CD copy of the play in to recite my lines to one more time when I notice my headphones are gone. I sigh. Ryan.
The apartment's pretty small, but there are still three bedrooms in it. I go to his room and knock hard. "Ryan, where are my headphones?"
He doesn't respond, probably because he's got the music on too loud in his ears. So I shove the door open. He's sitting there on his bed, no music, no...nothing. He's not doing anything but staring at something in his lap. It looks like a piece of paper.
No. A picture.
Mom.
"Ryan, what are you doing with that?" I ask suddenly, and he looks up, the picture suddenly flying under his bed.
"With what?" he asks suddenly, turning around to face me. Color rushes to his cheeks and ears. He knows he's been caught red-handed.
"Was it you who took the picture of Mom?" I ask, sounding more accusing than I mean to. "Were you the one who stole Dad's picture?"
"You don't get it," Ryan says, shaking his head. I sometimes forget that he's only fifteen now. "It wasn't Dad's 'object of love,' Derek. He didn't care about it enough." The bad poetry and the stolen items were common news, but this was something completely new.
He looked back to the floor. "It was mine."
That stuns me completely. I mean, I knew Ryan was closer to Mom than me or Dad, but I hadn't realized how big that gap was. None of us had.
"But--you got it back," I said, slowly piecing it all together. "Does that mean--?"
"Yeah."
"You burned...?"
"Yeah."
"But...why?" I ask, floored again.
"It's like I said in the paper--an accident. I...Mom had a stash in the liquor cabinet. There was a candle on the stove. One of Dad's bottles of whiskey fell out of the cabinet over the stove and broke, knocking the candle over, too. I just finished cleaning up the glass when the liquor caught from the wick. It practically blew up in my face," Ryan explained.
"Why didn't you get out?" I ask, scared in a way, both of what had happened and the sudden urge I had to break his face.
"I was scared," Ryan said numbly. "I panicked."
That's when the worst possible thing happened. Dad walked in the room. But he didn't say a word.
He wrapped me and Ryan in a huge bear hug, before saying, for the first time since before Mom died:
"Boys, I think we need to talk."
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