“I can see that,” he says, switching his weight from one foot to the other, and I’m afraid the conversation is about to flounder again until I hear the unmistakable sound of Caleb Whitman singing “Baby Got Back” as he walks through the entryway.
“Ian!” Whit calls, stepping into the kitchen and dropping his bookbag on a chair. “What’s up? Hey, Rosey-Posey. Book, don’t spoil your dinner with that protein shake. I’m in a pissy mood, and that calls for fried chicken and biscuits. Now kindly step away from the counter so I can work my magic.”
Booker wipes the counter and takes a seat at the table as I set my empty glass in the sink and say my goodbyes to Rose.
“The hell? Ian, you’re not staying for dinner? Did you miss the part where I said I’m making fried chicken? These biscuits will reduce you to tears, my friend.”
“As tempting as that is, I’ve actually got to go. I have class in an hour.”
“You’re teaching a night class too?” Book asks.
“No, and technically, I'm not even teaching your class, just assisting. But tonight, I’ll be at Drip. It’s Knit Night, and I'm picking up sticks.”
“You knit? That’s badass. I have a Cricut, you know. We crafters have to stick together,” Whit tells me as he mixes up dough.
“I wouldn’t call myself a knitter, by any stretch,” I clarify. “For right now, I’m a man who owns a pair of knitting needles and a ball of yarn. In an hour or so, I'll sit down with a bunch of retirees and pray they take mercy on me. I’m trying new things this semester, and I gotta say, this sounded like a really good idea last week, but now, I’m not so sure.”
Booker mumbles, “I know the feeling,” and I find myself smiling as I leave The Chapel.
* * *
Booker
As much as I wish I could stay for dinner, even though fried chicken and butter-laden biscuits are not on my meal plan, I’ve been summoned home.
Since Santos has my car, I borrow Whit’s. The drive back to Annapolis takes an hour, and it goes by too fast. Before I know it, I’m stepping inside my childhood home.
I’ve only been at school almost three years, and not much here has changed. I think my mom redecorated the living room at some point, but I can’t really tell the difference between last year’s blue and this year’s.
Everyone’s already seated when I arrive, which earns me a look of disappointment from my mom. Dad won’t even look in my direction. I’ll get the silent treatment in return for my tardiness, though I have to admit, it doesn’t feel like a punishment.
“Was there traffic, honey?” Mom asks, fixing me a plate.
I take it and smile. This is the part where I should lie and say I hit every red light. “No,” I shake my head. “I’m sorry I’m late. I was talking to the guys and headed out fifteen minutes later than I planned. Dinner looks great, though, thanks.”
She smiles, and we all resume eating. Fallon catches my gaze and rolls her eyes in camaraderie.
Dad begins quizzing Emersyn about who’s going to be at an upcoming party she wants to go to, so I ask Fallon about her classes.
“They’re boring, as expected,” she signs, smiling. “But Humanities with Mr. McGregor is pretty decent. Did you take that?”
“Nah,” I tell her, talking as I sign. “I couldn’t fit it in with hockey. But I had friends who loved that class. At the end, you go to a bunch of museums or something?”
“Or something. We’re going to New York. To the MET, MOMA, and the Guggenheim. And we’re going to see if we can get tickets to a Broadway show.”
“That sounds awesome. Are you staying over?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could eat them back up.
My dad’s fork clatters to the floor. “Fallon,” he says, overexaggerating his pronunciation so she can read his lips. It’s ridiculous. Fallon’s been deaf since the age of three and he refuses to sign unless it’s absolutely necessary.
“We have discussed this. You are not permitted to go on an overnight trip. I can’t believe the school is allowing a co-ed trip like this. In fact, I already have a call in to the dean about it.”
Now it’s Fallon’s turn to drop silverware. “You can’t call the dean and cancel the trip,” she signs furiously. “Fine, forbid me to go, but you’re not ruining the trip for everyone.”
My dad’s face reddens as the vein in his temple throbs. “I am the head of this family and will guide it as I see fit. You, Fallon, are a child. You don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m not a child. I’m eighteen. You can’t tell me what to do,” she signs.
“Oh, can’t I?” he challenges, condescension clear in his face. “Last I checked, I pay for your car, your school, your clothes, this house, and the food you’re eating. So, in fact, I am in charge of you.”
