Page 75 of Neat
I felt those words floating in the air, could practically hear them coming from my mother, from my brothers, from myself— though no one spoke them out loud.
For all intents and purposes, it was a Christmas like any other. We all gathered at Mom’s last night after the party at the distillery, and Mom made cookies that we decorated just like we did every Christmas Eve since we were kids. Her favorite Frank Sinatra Christmas album played on the speakers, we all wore matching flannel pajama bottoms, and though we were quieter than usual, and I was a fucking wreck inside, we all kept it together on the outside.
No one spoke about the promotion.
No one asked me about Mallory.
No one gave away that we were all hurting, that we were all upset, and that once again — our family had been disrespected by the Scooters.
Instead, my brothers and I put on our happy faces for Mom, and she put on her happy face for us, and we made cookies and watched old Christmas cartoons and then we made a big pallet in the middle of the living room floor. The three brothers slept there while Mom slept on the couch, and though it felt wrong to not have Noah there, it was still home.
It was still Christmas.
I wished it was a rainy, cold day in the middle of November that I felt this kind of pain. I wished I could be alone, in my bed, in my own home. It felt like a betrayal to my soul to open gifts that morning, to eat a lavish Christmas dinner, to pretend I gave a shit about anything other than running to the person who had caused me more pain than I’d felt since my father passed away, and somehow finding a way to make it right with her.
And perhaps more than anything else, I wished I could open up to my family about what I was feeling. I wished I could lean on my brothers, on my mom, on the ones who had always been there for me. But I already knew what they would say.
They’d sayI told you so.
And I couldn’t stand to hear it — not now, maybe not ever.
I’d been so sure that they were wrong about Mallory, that the acts of her father didn’t speak for her. I was so sure she was different — not just from the other Scooters, but from every other person in this town, period. I’d seen this deeper side to her, this diamond she kept hidden from everyone else — at least, that’s what I’d convinced myself.
And even now, even in the middle of the pain caused by her hand, by her father’s hand — I still believed it.
I’d lashed out at her the night before, and shame heated my neck again at the memory of it. I was hurt, and unable to control my anger, and I’d taken everything out on her when I knew she hadn’t meant to hurt me.
But shehadhurt me.
And I didn’t know if the intentionnotto even mattered anymore.
She had her hands tied. That, I could understand. She was out of college, without a job and without a home, and her father gave her the opportunity to have an art studio of her own, a home above it, a place and a purpose. Could I have said no, had that same opportunity been presented to me — even if the strings attached to it were sticky and dirty and suffocating?
I sighed, readjusting the pillow behind my back on the couch. Jordan, Mikey, and I were taking turns playing Madden while Mom cleaned up in the kitchen. Pie would be served soon, and then I could make an excuse to leave and finally be alone.
“You sound like a bull with all that huffing and puffing you’ve been doing,” Jordan said, keeping his eyes on the screen where he was currently making an offensive running play against Mikey. Mikey’s defensive end took the running back down easily, and the screens popped up for each of them to select their next formation and play.
“My back is aching,” I lied. “Just trying to get comfortable.”
“You know you can cut the bullshit anytime, right?” He hiked the ball. “I think we’re all tired of pretending like last night didn’t happen.”
“I’m not pretending anything. I just don’t feel like talking about it.”
“Why? Because you’re too big and bad for feelings?” His tongue jutted out as he pressed the buttons that sent the ball flying out of the quarterback’s hands and down the field to a wide receiver. It was caught, and he ran it all the way to the ten-yard line.
“Bullshit,” Mikey mumbled. “You’re not getting into that end zone, brother.”
“We’ll see,” Jordan replied with a smirk as they picked their next plays.
“No,” I said, answering his assessment. “Because I already know what you guys will say, and I don’t want to hear it.”
“Oh, you hear that, Mikey? Logan’s a mindreader now. Knows what we’ll say before we do.”
“Should sign him up for the circus,” Mikey chimed.
I rolled my eyes. “Come on, like you’re both not waiting for the chance to say you told me so, that Mallory is a Scooter and I should have known better? That I should have kept my distance?”
Jordan paused the game, and he and Mikey both turned, confusion on their faces. “What are you talking about?”
