Authors: Ginger Scott
T
here are
some sounds that simply never happen in the Prescott house on a Saturday morning. We don’t hear a lot of pots and pans, for example, so when I catch the first few clanks, my eyes pop open instantly as if to alert the rest of my body that a foreign intruder has broken into the house.
Clank-clank-clank!
I jolt to a sitting position at the sound of a heavy pan careening off the counter onto the floor. At least, that’s what I
think
that sound is. It goes quiet, and I wait for another sign, but nothing happens until my nose recognizes the most magnificent scent.
Bacon.
I slide out of bed and crack open my door, leaning forward to listen closer. Then I hear something even
more
foreign.
Whistling.
I rub my hands over my eyes and yawn, letting my feet slide down the hallway, pausing at my brother’s door. I touch it with my fingers, relieved that it’s closed. He must be inside. He came home.
Quietly, I slide the rest of the way down the hall to the very front of the house, the blinds all still shut. I squint, looking at the clock over the refrigerator—five o’clock. My dad has four pans going—one on each burner—and he has something crackling in each. I was right about the bacon, but he also has some peppers and onions, sausage and eggs. The smell is surprisingly amazing, and I take a seat at the breakfast bar, letting my chin fall into my hands while my feet kick at the rail underneath.
“Whatcha doin?” I ask, and my dad jumps, his back to me. His eyes are red, and I doubt he slept at all last night.
“Do you know that I used to want to be a chef?” he says.
I bunch my lips and furrow my brow.
“I’m being serious. In college, when I met your mom. I had this dream that we would graduate Alabama, and then I’d head to culinary school,” my dad says, picking up the pan with eggs and rolling it from side-to-side with his wrist before giving it the perfect flick, folding the egg in half. He chuckles at it and grins. “Still got it.”
“Why didn’t you?” I ask, leaning back at the sound of my parents’ bedroom door opening at the end of the hall. I smile when my mom’s weary eyes meet mine, and when her expression looks questioning, I jerk my head toward Dad.
“I got the job at Cornwall. And I don’t know…I just couldn’t say
no
,” my dad says.
“Honey, what in the hell are you doing? It’s…Saturday. Aren’t you going in to watch films?” My mom shuffles over to the coffeemaker, pulling the water container out and filling it at the sink. My dad leans into her, kissing her cheek, and she raises an eyebrow at him.
“I am. But, film can wait…for breakfast,” my dad says. “Omelet?”
He holds the pan forward for me to see, and I take in the perfect egg speckled with cheese, peppers, bacon, and onion.
“Wow. Yes, please,” I say, sniffing one last time before he pulls the pan away and slides the perfect breakfast creation onto a plate.
“You want one, Lauren?” my dad asks my mom. She stands still, the water container for the coffeemaker now full in her hands, and she stares at my dad with an expression of disbelief.
“Uh…sure,” she says, her lip curling on one side.
“Cheese?” my dad asks as he cracks two eggs.
“Yes,” my mom says, her brow still bunched. She turns to me, and I shrug, pushing my fork into my breakfast and lifting a steaming bite to my lips. I blow for a second or two, but shovel it in quickly—unable to stave off the desire any longer, because the smell is just so damned tempting.
“Holy crap!” I say, the delicious flavors melting around my tongue. My breakfast is usually a granola bar, and the only other times we’ve had food prepared in our kitchen, it was from a caterer making mini-somethings for a party.
“Glad you like it,” my dad says, sliding a napkin toward my plate.
“I’m planning the homecoming barbecue today with Linda. She’s coming over at noon, which is in…seven weeks,” my mom says, her lips blowing the steam from her cup of coffee while she holds it between her fingers under her mouth. My dad twists to the side and lowers his head, looking at her with pursed lips, and my mom’s mouth bends into a smirk. “What?”
“It’s not
that
early,” my dad says.
“Chad, I haven’t been awake this early in…”
My dad interrupts her with a kiss on her lips, and my eyes are frozen on my parents. The moment is unnatural, but sweet nonetheless. My mom’s mood shifts from surprised to shy, her cheeks red and her eyelashes fluttering. It’s been so long since I’ve seen my parents look like love. All it takes is a single phone call to end it.
The machine picks up after the second ring. The only reason we even have a home phone is for all of my mom’s party planning. But that’s not who’s calling at this hour. They won’t leave a name—they never do. My father’s voice on the recording clicks in.
“You’ve reached the Prescott home. We are unable to take your call right now, so please leave a message. Thank you.”
I stare at my plate, only four bites gone, but my appetite no more. The beep follows.
“You’re a disgrace to this program, and if you think we’re going to let you continue to make a mockery of this team, you’re sadly mistaken! Last night was unacceptable. Do you hear me? Your days are numbered, Coach Prescott. We want change! We want results!”
The woman hangs up.
Our kitchen is silent.
My dad leans back, clutching the handle on the oven while he bends, leaning his head forward and shutting his eyes. He can make all of the omelets he wants, but the fact of the matter remains—my dad isn’t a chef. He’s the coach of The Tradition. And with that great honor comes great sacrifice.
“I’m going in,” my dad says, the light gone from his eyes.
He flips the dials on the stove forcefully, and grabs two of the pans, stepping on the lever for the trash and tipping them over so the food—freshly made—slides in. He drops the pans in the sink heavily, and my mom steps to the stove, grabbing the final two pans with him, their hands overlapping.
“I’ll get these,” she says.
I watch them stare into each other, so goddamned helpless. After a few seconds, my dad nods, leaving her to finish what he started. He grabs his keys from the counter and pushes his Cornwall hat down on his head, the brim low enough to hide his eyes from view.
“I’ll be late,” he says, flipping the door open and shut without another word.
I’m no longer hungry, so I stand and move to the trash, sliding my uneaten breakfast in, then moving to the sink to help my mom rinse dishes. I hear her pull out her bottle of pills behind me, the rattling sound as she shakes them into her hand. I glance over my shoulder, relieved only to see one in her palm. She puts it between her lips, then turns to find her coffee, taking a sip and tilting her head back while she shuts her eyes.
“Sometimes it all just doesn’t feel worth it,” she sighs. When her eyes open on me, they seem sadder than they have in months.
I turn the water off on the sink and dry my hands on the towel, stepping close to my mom and wrapping my arm around her waist. Her eyelids tremble closed as she leans into me.
“Hoorah,” I whisper.
It takes her a second, but eventually, my mom’s body quivers with her laughter. It’s quiet, but it’s not crying, and that’s all I can ask for.
“Hoorah,” she says back, raising her arm over her head in a fist. She looks around the kitchen, nodding, her mouth curving into an even bigger smile, until she laughs louder.
“What a goddamned mess!” she says. “You go on; I’ll finish this up.”
“You sure?” I ask.
She nods, then takes the towel from my hands, urging me to head back down the hallway. I do as she says, gathering fresh clothes, showering, and then piling my equipment into my backpack, ready to go by six.
By the time I leave my room, the kitchen is shining and the house is once again quiet. My mom’s door is open, so I look out the front window to the driveway, noticing that her car is gone. My brother’s door is still closed, so I leave a note on the counter that I went to the lab room at school. Nobody will see it to care, but just in case.
The streets are empty, and the sun is barely up over the horizon. I pull into the closest spot to the lab, squinting when I look to the bottom of the hill, noticing my dad’s car in its usual spot. He’ll be here alone for several hours. The rest of the staff won’t show up until nine or ten.
With my heavy bags slung over my arm, I tug on the main door for the school, relieved when it opens. Cornwall encourages students to come in on weekends. Usually, it’s the arts programs, or the music and dance studio rooms that are being used. The media lab is always empty, so I don’t think twice when I flip on all of the lights as I enter the first room on the left.
Nico jumps from a chair, his hands cupping the headphones on his ears as he spins and glares at me with wide eyes. I drop my bags and fall flat against the door, gripping my chest.
“Shit!” I say.
Nico pulls the headphones down so they hang around his neck, then presses his palm into his left eye, looking at me through his other.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask.
He glances behind him at the editing desk, then swings his focus back to me.
“I…this place is open, right? Like…anyone can use it. Or…do you have to check it out, or sign up? I’m sorry. I…”
“It’s open. No, it’s fine. It’s just…I’m the only one who ever comes in this room,” I say, feeling finally making its way back down my arms and legs.
I bend down and grab my things, and Nico steps over the chair he was straddling clumsily, his leg caught in the cord of his headphones. He hops on one leg until he frees himself, meeting me a few steps inside the door.
“Here, I got it,” he says, taking my bags from me and carrying them to the main work area. I walk slowly to catch up.
“You’re always carrying my shit for me,” I say.
“It’s how I court girls,” he says back, glancing to me with half a smile. I blush.
“Oh,” I say, pulling my lips in tight.
“I didn’t expect your shit to always be so heavy, though,” he winks.
“I’m filling my bags with rocks. I just want to see how far you’re willing to go,” I tease.
He stands tall and turns to face me, the chair he was just sitting in now the only barrier between us.
“The distance,” he says.
I wrinkle my forehead.
“I’m willing to go the distance,” he repeats. “No matter how far that is.”
My lips twitch, and I bend to their will, smiling while he looks at me. My pulse picks up speed, too.
Nervous, I reach for the chair between us and slide it out so I can sit. Nico takes a step back, making room for me. He leans forward to pull his headphones from the jack on the side of the computer, and loud music fills the room from the computer’s speakers.
“Sorry, I was kind of cranking it up,” he says, his arm brushing mine as he bends forward and clicks the volume down. He looks at me as he stands back up, and for a second, I think he might kiss me. He doesn’t, but I sort of think he wants to. Our eyes meet, and we both laugh lightly, Nico turning to rest on the desk next to me while I tuck my hands under my legs. I’m wearing the same sweatshirt I wore last night, along with my skinny jeans instead of my leggings, my hair still damp and twisted over my shoulder. I notice Nico’s eyes follow the length of it down my arm where the ends are dripping, so I pick them up and comb my fingers through.
“I took a shower before I came here,” I say.
He nods, and his eyes stay on mine. I wish we had something to argue about right now. Arguing with him was always so easy. This—
this
is hard. The quiet. It’s too honest.
“So what are you working on?” I ask, shifting in the chair and reaching to the mouse to bring the dark screen back to life.
I see Alyssa paused in a video timeline. She’s making a face, her hands pressed on her cheeks, which she has puffed out with air. It’s silly, and I laugh before I look at Nico with a smile. He stares at his niece’s image and runs his hand on the back of his neck, sighing.
“Actually,” he says, kneeling down so his eyes are on my level.
He holds the front of the desk inches away from me as he bends, and my eyes take a moment to notice the muscles of his forearms, the size of his hands and the way his nails are cut short, but not to the skin. He breathes, and I feel it against my arm—I tense, giving my focus back to the screen.
“I kind of don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, clicking the PLAY button and letting the video clip play on.
Alyssa blows out, her lips making a raspberry noise, and her giggles soon taking over. She waves close to the camera, then covers her mouth with both hands before blowing a huge kiss.
“I love you, Daddy!” she yells, and hearing her voice—so high, so loud, so proud—causes my eyes to tear.
Nico rests on his hands, his chin against them as they lay on the desktop. He lets his head fall to the side, and I watch his eyes dance over the joy playing out on the screen. The way she loves her daddy is the same way Nico looks at her.
“I want to make Vincent a video,” he says, stopping short, his tongue pinched between his teeth until he breathes out a short laugh, and his lips curl into a smile that dents his cheek. The video ends, and I click STOP just as Alyssa runs off the screen. Nico blinks at the visual slowly, his face frozen in the same expression, like he’s afraid to tell me the rest.
“I can help you,” I say. His eyes flit to mine, and his smile grows.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Sure,” I say.
Our eyes stare into each other for a few beats, until I can’t take it, and look back at the screen, dragging the player back to the beginning. Nico grabs a chair from the other end of the room, sliding it up next to mine so close that the metal touches. I feel his body against mine when he sits, a series of barely-there grazes that fire off a million sensations down the length of my body. I shift in my seat, moving just enough to the left that I can’t feel him any longer, though somehow, even through inches of nothingness, I can still feel his heat.
“So, do you just want me to cut all of these clips together?” I ask.