LJ Idol Season 9, Week 02: The Missing Stair
You’re backing out of the driveway when you feel your brand new car scrape against one of the many others you were trying desperately to avoid. First thing that runs through your head is: of course I’d fucking back into another car in my own driveway, the second is: Fuck, whose car did I hit?
As you pull the car forward and step out of it, you grit your teeth and mentally prepare yourself for the answer. You scraped against the tire well of your roommate’s car -- there’s a line of red on top of gold. As you assess the (minimal) damage done to both cars, tears of relief sting at your eyes.
At least it was his car and not hers.
***
Your brother frowns, a quiet air of annoyance surrounding him. He gathers up a couple of things to take downstairs.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to watch him for her tonight?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as your brother emerges into the small living room the two of you share. The upstairs is its own standalone space, with its own kitchen and bathroom. With it so conveniently close to your son, it’d be an ideal living space --
Well, it would be, if she weren’t in charge of it.
Your brother just shrugs his shoulder, his voice then snapping you from your thoughts. “I don’t have to be at work until three tomorrow,” he says, his voice low. “She said she wouldn’t stay out too late, either -- and it has been a week or so since I last watched him for her....” He trails off with another shrug and makes his way to the stairs. “I just didn’t feel like hearing it, I guess.”
You nod, opting to remain silent as he disappears downstairs; there’s no need to say anything, after all. It’s best not to argue, not when she’s involved.
***
“Don’t tell her that I quit my job,” your roommate says, keeping his voice low as he speaks. The two of you are in the basement, in the area your ex had specifically designated as your roommate’s when he moved in, nearly a year ago. “Just -- you know how that would go.”
“I know,” you say, keeping your voice low as well. You settle into the small couch. “She would throw a fit.”
“Probably,” he says with a shrug. He looks away from you, eyes downcast for a moment as a small frown plays on his lips. He then picks up his X-box controller and puts on an episode of How I Met Your Mother. “At least I have enough money to pay rent for the next few months?” he asks, giving you a shaky smile as the episode begins to load.
Right, you think to yourself as you give him a grim smile back. At least you can pay her rent.
But you can’t -- a fact she likes to lord over your head, whenever the two of you discuss anything serious at length. How those conversations undoubtedly spiral into how she’s letting you stay here in her home as you get yourself back on your feet. How she could, if she weren’t such a nice person, kick you out on the street at any time she wanted. If she felt you did something that warranted expulsion from what you hesitantly refer to as “home.”
You dread the day you cross that invisible, ever-moving line. You know it’s coming, from her offering to “give” you the house (hah! Like you’d get the loan needed to buy it off her hands), from her calling the police on you to check on the welfare of your child. One day, you’ll say the wrong words, do the wrong thing, react the wrong way, and you might have no choice but to leave everything you’ve worked so hard for.
As the theme song plays, you hear a peal of laughter and the somehow thunderous footsteps of your child as he runs from one room to the other. You hear her footsteps lumbering behind them, slow and calculated and much lighter than your child’s. Her tone is stern, her voice booming and not at all garnering your child’s attention.
Your blood runs cold at the thought of leaving him with her. After all, he’s just a child.
How is he supposed to know when to jump?
As you pull the car forward and step out of it, you grit your teeth and mentally prepare yourself for the answer. You scraped against the tire well of your roommate’s car -- there’s a line of red on top of gold. As you assess the (minimal) damage done to both cars, tears of relief sting at your eyes.
At least it was his car and not hers.
***
Your brother frowns, a quiet air of annoyance surrounding him. He gathers up a couple of things to take downstairs.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to watch him for her tonight?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as your brother emerges into the small living room the two of you share. The upstairs is its own standalone space, with its own kitchen and bathroom. With it so conveniently close to your son, it’d be an ideal living space --
Well, it would be, if she weren’t in charge of it.
Your brother just shrugs his shoulder, his voice then snapping you from your thoughts. “I don’t have to be at work until three tomorrow,” he says, his voice low. “She said she wouldn’t stay out too late, either -- and it has been a week or so since I last watched him for her....” He trails off with another shrug and makes his way to the stairs. “I just didn’t feel like hearing it, I guess.”
You nod, opting to remain silent as he disappears downstairs; there’s no need to say anything, after all. It’s best not to argue, not when she’s involved.
***
“Don’t tell her that I quit my job,” your roommate says, keeping his voice low as he speaks. The two of you are in the basement, in the area your ex had specifically designated as your roommate’s when he moved in, nearly a year ago. “Just -- you know how that would go.”
“I know,” you say, keeping your voice low as well. You settle into the small couch. “She would throw a fit.”
“Probably,” he says with a shrug. He looks away from you, eyes downcast for a moment as a small frown plays on his lips. He then picks up his X-box controller and puts on an episode of How I Met Your Mother. “At least I have enough money to pay rent for the next few months?” he asks, giving you a shaky smile as the episode begins to load.
Right, you think to yourself as you give him a grim smile back. At least you can pay her rent.
But you can’t -- a fact she likes to lord over your head, whenever the two of you discuss anything serious at length. How those conversations undoubtedly spiral into how she’s letting you stay here in her home as you get yourself back on your feet. How she could, if she weren’t such a nice person, kick you out on the street at any time she wanted. If she felt you did something that warranted expulsion from what you hesitantly refer to as “home.”
You dread the day you cross that invisible, ever-moving line. You know it’s coming, from her offering to “give” you the house (hah! Like you’d get the loan needed to buy it off her hands), from her calling the police on you to check on the welfare of your child. One day, you’ll say the wrong words, do the wrong thing, react the wrong way, and you might have no choice but to leave everything you’ve worked so hard for.
As the theme song plays, you hear a peal of laughter and the somehow thunderous footsteps of your child as he runs from one room to the other. You hear her footsteps lumbering behind them, slow and calculated and much lighter than your child’s. Her tone is stern, her voice booming and not at all garnering your child’s attention.
Your blood runs cold at the thought of leaving him with her. After all, he’s just a child.
How is he supposed to know when to jump?