Page 10 of Most Valuable Player
You’re just really interesting.
It’s easy to talk to you.
You seem like a warm, fun person.
Lies. I’m not interesting. I can’t hold a conversation. And I’m certainly not warm and fun. It’s why I haven’t made any friends in the seventeen years I’ve been living in this town.
But that’s not something I need to spiral about right now.
We snake through the town’s varying hubs of activity—the strip mall, a cluster of business buildings, the local gallery (my favorite place), Annie’s Brews (my second favorite place). We drive along Lake Evergreen, where people lounge around in sweats along the sandy, twig-laden beach, before branching off into a subdivision.
Tension prickles under my skin. My garage lights are on, shedding warm gold over the beige house. Instinctively, my eyes fan the area—the sidewalks, street, porch, roof. Nothing seems out of theordinary. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, scooping up my backpack. “I’ll start the study sessions with Cameron right away.”
“Take care of yourself, Gray,” he says, offering a friendly wave.
I jog up to the porch and push inside. The interior of my house is no brighter than the exterior, save for the chandelier over the kitchen table on its dimmest setting. My father is on the edge of a chair, mindlessly scrolling on his laptop, the light overhead casting lengthy shadows across his worn, tired face. His skin seems more sallow than usual, and the bags under his dark brown eyes sag further.
He unglues his attention from his screen to look up. “Mason,” he says, relief flashing across his face. He probably thought I was Mom. “Been missing you around here.”
His words scrape my chest just deep enough to unearth some guilt I’ve been burying. I don’t intentionally avoid my father, but it’s a side effect of staying out of this house as frequently as possible. “Yeah,” I mumble. “Been busy with games and practices. And the gallery. It’s easier to study at the coffee shop, too, so…” I glance at the digital clock above the stove. “Where’s Mom?”
“Out.”
“What was she upset about this time?”
He doesn’t answer for a long moment, like he’s carefully considering his words. He doesn’t have to, since it’s just the two of us, but he’s used to it. Weighing every syllable is something I’m familiar with, so I won’t chide him for it. “I didn’t buy organic yogurt when I went grocery shopping earlier,” he says.
She’s blown up over more menial things. The other day, I was running late for a shift at the gallery and tossed a spoon from a pudding cup into the sink on my way out. When I got home, I had to spend the next two hours hand-washing every single dish in the kitchen while she breathed heatedly over my shoulder.
I amble into the kitchen, hands working through the darkness as I pry a glass from an overhead cabinet and fill it with water, then nudge it toward him. Wordlessly, he scoops it up and drains it. “You never hydrate,” I say quietly.
A smile lifts his lips, but it’s the fake kind I learned from him. The one that functions as an aesthetic. “Good thing I have such an attentive kid. I might shrivel up otherwise.”
I want to press him about…something. Everything. Why is he sitting in the dark, browsing article headlines? Has he looked over those brochures I sent him? He never responded to my last few texts about them.
I know better than to press, because he’ll probably shut down. So I leave him and head down the hall. I don’t have anywhere to be, so I take a shower to scrub the pungent macho energy of the football field off my body, then disappear into my bedroom.
The pastel paintings on the walls relax my shoulders. They’re smaller ones gifted by the gallery, painted by local artists with my favorite colors. Soft lilac purples, peachy pinks, baby blues. Vibrant horizons and frosty mountains and radiant skies. I trail past the dusty guitar in the corner of my room, as well as the dried-out paint set and canvas I abandoned not long ago. The bookshelf filled with novels, which have makeshift bookmarks trapped in the middle. A pricey camera I received as a gift, which I used to take pictures of things I found lovely. Until I was informed that my definition oflovelycould use some work.
It’s not wintry cold, but I fish out my fuzzy flannel pajamas anyway, check to make sure the window is locked, and crawl into my bed. I guess I’ll do homework so I can help Cameron focus on his. As I prop open my notebook, though, the sight of my screen lighting with a message locks my muscles tight.
I won’t look. I don’t need to look.
I should probably eat something.
I climb off the bed and start down the hall toward the kitchen but slide to a stop when I realize Mom is home. She’s sitting across the table from my father, arms knotted over her cardigan, her blue eyes frigid enough to send ice crawling up the walls. They’re having a tight, irritable conversation, her fingers trembling with anger.
At least they aren’t yelling. Yet. Quietly, I go back to my bedroom to avoid getting close enough that Mom will notice me and demand I take her side about something. I retrieve an emergency peanut butter snack bar from my desk drawer, then sink into my bedsheets. As my glazed eyes rove the textbook section we’re supposed to read before Monday, I nibble my snack.
But I can’t ignore it. I know who the text is from, because there’s nobody else who would want to talk to me on a Friday night. If I don’t look now, I might do it during a time when I’m less stable. So I should get it out of the way.
I pick the phone up.
Hope you’re well. I understand if you don’t want to talk. But I’m always here for you :)
A lump expands against the walls of my throat. My fingers fumble along the screen, typing and retyping messages, the words blurring more with each attempt.
Don’t text me.
