Dinner smells good,I think to myself as I walk into the dining room and sit next to Fallon at the long oak table. My mom is a great cook, and dinner is ready at six sharp every day. It’s always hot and homemade. My dad is always five minutes late, and we always wait for him. Fallon and I sit, while my mom chooses to stand.
My littlest sisterEmersyn hasn’t even come to the table yet. Her brand of defiance is stealthy, and I admire the heck out of her for it. As Whit would say, Em has balls of steel. I, of course, would never say that. I don’t swear and I don’t cuss. My mouth is a mouth that should serve the Lord; that’s been ingrained in me since before I could talk. And it’s a hard habit to break.
“Emmy,”my mom calls down the hallway just as Em appears in the opposite direction at the top of the steps. That girl is never where she’s supposed to be, and I think she’s usually up to no good, not that you can ever prove it. She’s crafty. And cute. Her big blue eyes and sweet smile will forever be her saving grace.
Em takes a seat,and we all wait silently as the garage door signals my father’s impending entrance. Fallon can feel the vibrations; I can tell by the way she tightens her shoulders. I tap her on the knee and sign,Everything ok?She gives me a look as if to say,Is it ever?
My family is notthe harmonious unit everyone thinks it is. But for the most part, we can keep up appearances—my parents insist on it. I play the part of the dutiful son. Do I like my dad’s high-handed commands and judgmental glares? No. But I go along with his edicts because the alternative isn’t viable. I’m probably too much like my mom that way. We’re peacekeepers. Fallon? Not so much. She and dad butt heads more and more these days, and she’s not quiet about it. She’s a freshman at Rockvale Christian Academy, where I’m a senior. High school’s hard enough, but Dad’s not making it any easier.
“Smells good, Kim,”my dad says, hanging up his coat and taking his seat at the head of the table. Mom sits between him and Em. We all join hands as Dad says grace. After serving himself, he passes the food to me since I’m the eldest and the boy. Fallon’s next, then Em. Mom will eat last, even though she cooked. It’s weird to me, but it’s just how things are.
We eat mostly in silence,pausing infrequently to pass food or talk about our days. Mom, Em and I talk and sign simultaneously, so everyone’s involved in the conversation, but often I’ll notice Dad turn toward Mom and talk quietly. I think he does it just to tick Fallon off. It works.
After Em tellsall of us about the dwarf hamsters her fifth-grade teacher has, silence descends again. I take that as my cue.
“I have really good news,”I tell everyone, my fingers moving rapidly. “I got an email from the coach at Meridian. They want me on the team next year.” I smile, but I’m greeted with silence.
“Meridian?”my mom asks, just as Em says, “Isn’t that far away?”
“Yeah,”I answer them both. “It's in Vermont. But it’s a good school. A really good school. Their hockey team has made it to the Frozen Four for the past three years. And a lot of their guys get drafted or end up in the pros as free agents. Playing there will give me a real shot at—”
“No,”my father says, shaking his head.
His word is final.I know that. But, dumbly, I can’t end the conversation here. “What? Why?”
“Because I said so, Booker,”my dad says calmly, taking a sip of water. “I have my reasons, but I certainly don’t have to explain them to you.”
In any other situation—scratchthat—ineveryother situation, I’d drop it. I hate conflict as much as my father loves making rules. And nothing in my life has ever mattered enough for me to go against his will, or even question it.
But this is hockey.This is my future.
I clear my throat. “Respectfully, sir,”I start, my hands still signing every word, “I don’t understand why I can’t go. It’s a full ride. And a great opportunity. I’ll get a top-notch education while also getting looks from major league teams.”
Dad takesmom’s hand in his as he looks at me, and that’s when I know I’ve already lost. She’ll take his side; she always does.
“Son,I’ve been right where you are. I was just seventeen when I was courted by schools in every conference—Penn State, Auburn, USC. And I was naive when I accepted my offer from Fulton. It sounded so good at the time. But those years were filled with debauchery. College programs, particularly college sports, are a pit of sin and indulgence. And that’s to say nothing of the pros. The things my teammates did? The drinking, the drugs, the sexual temptations. Well, I thank God daily I had the foresight to leave professional sports when I did.”
“Dad,I’m not like that. I don’t drink and I don’t do drugs. I don’t even use swear words. And—”
“Booker Elliot Zabek,I have given my decision, and it’s final.”
An uncomfortable silence descends,and I feel anger radiate through Fallon as she sits next to me. If I know my sister, and I do, she’s about two seconds from standing up and giving my dad a piece of her mind. That won’t go well. It never does.
“Booker,”my mom interjects, no doubt sensing Fallon’s mood, “I guess I just always thought you’d go to Bainbridge, like I did, like Grandpa did, and like generations before him did.”
I always figuredI’d go to Bainbridge too. It’s a small, well-respected private school about an hour from here. It’s not quite Ivy league, but close. My great-great-great-great grandfather founded it over a hundred years ago. There are pictures of me on campus as a baby, in the arms of Willie T. Wolf, the mascot, on the football field, and I’ve got enough Bainbridge gear in my closet upstairs to start a store.
Bainbridge is fine,but it’s not Meridian.
“I know,”I hedge, hating the desperation I can hear in my own voice. “It’s a good school. A great school. But Meridian has a top tier hockey program. Bainbridge’s program is fine, but they’re not winning national titles. They’re not even getting close. Besides, all my friends are going to Meridian, too. Ty’s already been accepted into the literature program, and Whit’s going too.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. My dad is not Whit’s biggest fan, by any stretch. He tolerates Ty, but dad prefers it when I hang out with the kids from church.
“There is absolutelyno way you are going eight or nine hours away to do God knows what, all in the name of earning a degree and playing a sport.” My dad repeats, his voice firm.
I don’t pointout that that’s exactly what he did. I want to, but I don’t.
“Bainbridge is an excellent school, Booker,”my mom pleads gently. “And you’ll be close by. It’s just an hour away.”
“I know, Mom, but—”before I can think of anything to say, Fallon pushes back her chair and stands, commanding everyone’s attention.
