Page 5 of For Your Own Good
Of course they are. Anything to keep him on track to the Ivy League. This time, however, he didn’t want their help. He didn’t want them talking to Crutcher, didn’t want them asking to change his grade. The B-plus wasn’tthatbig of a deal—not on a single paper. It wasn’t his semester grade or anything.
No, they’d said.We can fix this.
But their idea of fixing had resulted in more work for him, not them. And Crutcher probably hates him more than he did before.
Perfect.
“Did Mr.Crutcher say what the extra assignment is?” Zach asks.
“He did not,” Dad says. “He’s going to mull it over, and I assume he’ll let you know directly.”
“If he doesn’t, let us know,” Mom says.
Zach nods. Sure he will.
“And let’s review that assignment together before you turn it in,” Dad says.
Another nod. That’ll never happen.
Dad’s phone buzzes. He takes it out of his pocket and nods to Mom, then walks out of the living room.
“Have you eaten?” Mom says.
It’s eight o’clock at night—of course Zach has eaten. Alone, as he does most nights. “Yes,” he says.
“Good.” She smiles, patting Zach on the knee. “I guess that’s it for now. Keep us updated about Mr.Crutcher.”
“I will.”
Zach walks out of the living room, passing by his father in the hall. Dad is yelling at somebody about something Zach doesn’t care about. He doesn’t bother eavesdropping anymore. Dad’s conversations got boring a while ago.
Back upstairs, he checks online for Lucas. Gone. He looks for a couple of other people but can’t find anyone, so he returns to the history paper he was writing. It’s hard to concentrate, though. His mind keeps wandering to that extra assignment and how much time Crutcher will give him to get it done.
Even though it’s early, fatigue sets in quickly. Between Crutcher and his parents, Zach feels like he’s been batted around like a pinball in their game.
He picks up his phone and texts his friend Courtney.
My parents suck.
The reply comes a minute later:Not exactly breaking news.
I wish they’d stayed out of it, Zach says.
Your teenage angst does not make you a unique snowflake.
Courtney is watching old episodes ofDawson’s Creekagain. She likes to do that when she’s high.
Zach doesn’t bother answering her. If he continued the conversation,Courtney might refer to his parents as “parental units” and Zach might throw his phone out the window.
He lies down on his bed and stares up at the modern, asymmetrical light fixture Mom chose for his room. He hates it. He also hates the furniture, the carpet, and the walls, which are all in varying shades of grey. Every time he walks into his room, it’s like stepping into a gloomy cloud.
Less than two years. Twenty-two months to be exact, and then he’ll be out of Belmont, out of this house, and away at college. Doesn’t even matter where at this point.
Shut up and smile.
Not one of his dad’s sayings. It’s a Belmont saying, one all the kids know. It’s how they survive.
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