Prime Time TV

As I get home from the dance studio, I see Mom in the kitchen. Cooking. I’m flabbergasted. Why would my mom be cooking? She hates it. My parents had the arrangement that my dad would cook while my mom would clean. Like everything else in this family, it was taken to the extreme. My mom did no cooking, only reheating leftovers, and my dad did absolutely no cleaning, not even the dishes.

I had planned to cook tonight. Apparently, Dad was on a “business trip.” He had been gone for three days already, and I had made dinner for those nights, no problem! So why would Mom cook tonight of all nights? I didn’t really buy the idea that Dad was gone for work. We are leaving for our beach vacation tomorrow, the car is packed, and the reservation is made. He would only have left if they got into another fight. After the last fight, he was gone for two days; now he’s been gone for three. It’s a new record. Mom has always gotten worse when he leaves. I just always figured that he goes to Uncle Dan’s place to decompress. This isn’t the first time he’s left after a fight. I just hope he comes home soon. Mom is taking all of her stress out on us, yelling easily, and snapping more.

I quickly put my bags upstairs and take a quick shower, wanting to be downstairs to help Mom use the oven. I guess Sarah was having chicken nuggets and French fries for dinner tonight. My mom's specialty. By the time I get downstairs, Wheel of Fortune is just starting. Pat Sajak is making small talk with the contestants as I gingerly approach the oven to check if the nuggets are burnt.

“I just put them in.” My mom interrupts my looking from the dining room. Her voice is flat. Controlled. She's working on her computer as she says this, not looking up.

“I’m just checking,” I say. “Is Dad back yet?” I already know the answer. His car isn’t in the driveway.

Sarah looks up at this, wanting to hear the answer.

“Not yet,” is all my mom says, blue light reflecting off her glasses.

I make eye contact with my sister Sarah, and she looks scared. I wonder what she’s heard. She spends the most time at home, constantly surrounded by tension and raised voices. I’m always at dance practice, and Elliot, our brother, is never home anyway. I don’t know where he goes. He seems to disappear into thin air. I wish I could do that, but too many people depend on me.

“Mom?” Sarah asks.

“Yeah?” she responds.

“When is Dad coming back?”

“I already told you, I don’t know. And anyway, that’s his business.”

His business. Not our business. Not family business.

I check the oven again, and the chicken tenders are done, but the fries need more time to get crunchy, the way Sarah likes them. Setting a timer for ten minutes, I start to set the table for the three of us. I don't know where Elliot is, and it seems Dad won’t be joining us.

Wheel of Fortune still blares on the TV.

Pat, I’d like to buy a vowel.

Which vowel would you like?

“E.”

Yes, there’s one “E”

I try to lighten the situation that’s saturated with tension. Mom is taking out her stress with her words again. Making the whole house a victim.

"Sarah, could you get water for everyone?" I ask. My voice sounds weird, too bright. This is one of the tasks that's parent-approved. They don't let her cook, scared she'll cut herself on a knife, but getting cups of water is risk-free.

Sarah is the oldest. Twenty years old, but in so many ways still treated like a child. She was born with heart defects and Down Syndrome. The three main veins that are supposed to connect from the aorta to the rest of the heart were missing. They were artificially put in the minute she was born, her tiny chest opened up before Mom even got to hold her.

It terrified my mom. She never really got over the thought of losing her. Never stopped seeing her as fragile. Breakable.

Now, Sarah lives a life of dos and don'ts that Mom drew up and never revised. She votes but doesn't drive. Babysits for the neighbors but doesn't have a real job. She graduated from high school, but was never encouraged to apply to college, even though her guidance counselor said she could do community college courses.

She wanted to study early childhood education, become a nanny, or work at a daycare. Mom said it was too much, too far, too risky.

So, she stayed home. Reads her Magic Tree House and Harry Potter. Watches her shows and waits for someone to tell her what she's allowed to want. For Mom to let her live a life that hasn’t ever changed.

As Sarah starts to get up, Mom suddenly stands and fills her own water cup from the fridge dispenser. The water sounds too loud. Sarah sits back down slowly, her hands in her lap.

"I'd like to solve the puzzle."

"Go ahead."

"Mom?" Sarah tries again. She's picking at the edge of the couch cushion, pulling at a loose thread.

"What?" Mom's tone has an edge now.

"When is Dad coming back?"

"I told you I don't know!"

"But when will you know?" Sarah's voice cracks.

Mom slams her laptop shut. The sound makes both of us jump.

"Sarah. I don't have an answer for you. I don't have answers for any of this right now, okay?"

BEEP BEEP BEEP

As the timer goes off, I rush to the oven.

She presses her fingers against her temples. "Look, can we just—can we just eat dinner?"

The fries are perfect, golden brown and crispy. I fill the plates carefully, arranging the nuggets and fries just how Sarah likes them, ketchup in a little pile on the side, not touching anything.

When I bring the plates to the table, Mom is already sitting down, staring at her phone. Sarah slides into her chair and  starts to build a ketchup moat around her fries. She used to do this when she was little, and Dad would play along, making forts out of the nuggets. Seeing her do this makes me feel a little better. Sarah is the best part of this house. The part that makes me want to stay.

We eat in silence except for the Wheel spinning on TV and Pat Sajak's voice. Cheerful and oblivious.

"Congratulations! You've won a trip to Maui!"

Mom's nails scrape against her plate. She's not really eating, just moving food around. Sarah takes tiny bites, her eyes darting between Mom and the door, like Dad might walk through it any second.

He doesn't.

His empty chair might as well be screaming in the silence of our dinner table.

***

After dinner, Mom goes back to working. Laptop open, glass of red wine in hand. Sarah watches Jeopardy as I clean up the kitchen. I try to focus on loading the dishwasher with our plastic plates. Hannah Montana and the Green M&M stare at me, ketchup turning gloopy. I run soapy circles on the pans covered in fry grease. Mom’s on her second glass. She left her plate on the table. Barely touched. I make sure to save her leftovers.

After Jeopardy, Sarah goes upstairs to get ready for bed. Mom stays glued to her computer, working on god knows what. I never understood how an audiovisual company had that many Zoom calls.

Around ten p.m., I go downstairs. I need to stretch, need to move, need to do something with my hands that isn't cleaning up after the mess that's become our family.

Over Covid, the house became a minefield. We each claimed a corner and tried not to set anyone off.

I moved to the basement. Gave up my room so Dad could turn it into an office, even though he never actually worked there. He just needed somewhere to go that wasn't near Mom. There was a barre that Dad had installed for me when I was twelve, and a spin mat, so I could practice my ballet. Keep my splits. Stay in shape for auditions that feel further away every day.

Elliot would simply disappear. At thirteen, he would leave the house for a "walk" and wouldn't return until the next morning, smelling like something feral. Sometimes it’d be two mornings. If my parents were sober enough to notice, it probably would have been a problem. But they didn't notice. Hell, Dad didn’t notice the weed going missing from his drawer; he just kept refilling it.

They were too busy drowning themselves in their own separate corners of the house.

Mom and Dad were spending too much time together and somehow not enough. They'd be in the same room but worlds apart. Every week, they’d get a new case of wine shipped to the house. Twelve bottles. Gone by Sunday. They'd drink at dinner, drink while watching TV, drink while pretending to work. As if red wine would ease the distance. It just made it worse. They’d get drunk and argue. Sitting in separate rooms, yelling across the hall to each other.

I feel guilty that I have a place to escape to. A whole basement where I can close the door and pretend I'm somewhere else. Elliot doesn't have that. He just leaves and doesn't come back. And Sarah, well, Sarah doesn't have anywhere. She's stuck in her room with her books and her routines, waiting for someone to tell her that everything's okay.

I’m almost five years into this nightmare, and I’m just aching to go to college next year. I'm planning to audition for ballet schools, Juilliard, Ailey, maybe even some programs in Europe. If I can afford it. I've been working toward this since I was seven years old. It's the only thing I've ever been certain about. I will leave, and I will earn.

The other thing I’m certain of is that when I leave, Sarah and Elliot will be all alone.

I put Diners, Drive-in and Dives on the TV, using it to distract my thoughts from “wandering” into the middle of the freeway,

We’re in Mississippi, trying the best breakfast foods east of the river.

I'm on my spin mat, trying to work out the knots in my shoulders, when I freeze.

I hear the front door.

It's 11:47 p.m., I can see the clock on the old DVD player glowing in the dark.

Dad's home. Thank god. I don’t know how many more days I could take parenting my own parent.

I hear his footsteps above me. Heavy. The fridge opens. Closes. Then Mom's voice, low at first. I can't make out the words, but I know the tone. That careful, controlled edge that means she's furious. That brings tears with every sharp word.

I hear Dad say something back, also low.

I should stay down here. I should mind my business. But my feet decide before I do walking up the stairs as if in a trance. But I don’t open the door.

“–three days, Michel–”

“Don't start–”

“You said that you would figure it out.”

“I am! I am trying to figure it out!”

Figure out how to survive, Mom. We’re all trying to figure that out.

“Three days!”

“I told you I needed time!”

I’d have been gone longer.

“What is this? Some kind of midlife crisis? Because news flash, we don’t have time for that.”

Silence. The only noise was Guy Fieri eating a breakfast burrito.

Damn, that’s good!

I held my breath.

“No, Becca, this has been a long time coming.” I could almost see Mom's face getting redder. “I feel like I’m drowning here.... I wake up, go to work, eat dinner, and nothing ever changes. Hell, this will be our twelfth beach vacation. Can’t we ever go to New York? Try something new? Would it kill you to learn how to cook–”

“Would it kill you to do the dishes?”

Mmmmhmmm, that takes me to Flavortown.

“Look, Becca... I just don’t know how much is left for me here. I need something more... something else.”

“What three kids, a wife, and a house aren’t enough for you?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, Michael, what isn’t fair is that I have raised your kids—”

“Our kids.”

“Oh, NOW they’re ours.”

I could put this on a flip-flop, and it would taste good.

“They’ve always been ours!”

Neither of you has raised us. I have. I raised myself and my siblings. The audacity to say you raised us...

“Three days! Where were you that whole time? Do you know how many times Sarah asked where you were? God, Elliot hasn’t even noticed! And Kate, the daughter that you always seem to forget about? She had to make dinner and pretend everything was fine because I couldn’t hold a sentence together!”

“What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? Well, I’m sorry! I’m sorry that I can’t keep lying to myself and pretending I’m happy!”

I’m not happy either! Why do you get to leave and I’m stuck here?

“Well, I’m sorry I married you if you were just going to back out after twenty years!”

They breathe heavily for a moment.

“...God... what happened to us Becca?” he asks, silently pleading for a past life. A time when they slept in the same bed and celebrated anniversaries. I can’t even remember that time. It’s been years since COVID. Years since they said I love you.

"Look... I'll sleep in the office tonight," he says. "And tomorrow... tomorrow we'll figure it out."

"There's nothing to figure out," Mom says. "You left."

I hear the stairs creak as Mom goes upstairs. A few minutes later, Dad follows.

I lie back on my spin mat and count the slots in the air vent. If I keep my mind busy enough, then I can put off thinking about what will happen next. Tears slip out anyway.

But I can’t stop, I can’t put it off.

What if this is it?

***

The next morning, we were supposed to pack the car for our yearly beach trip. But when I woke up, both cars were gone from the driveway. Probably trying to get away from each other. I feel guilty relief that I won’t have to endure a ride through hell.

I go upstairs to get Sarah breakfast.

Bewitched was playing on the TV while I cut a grapefruit in half and put one piece of toast in the toaster oven.

Bewitched, Bewitched,
You've got me in your spell.

Elliot bangs into the house. Smelling like weed, sweat, and McDonald's.

Without looking up, I call out to him, “Wipe your feet.”

“Okay, Mom.”

I freeze. I set the knife down carefully, my hands shaking slightly. I count back from ten and take a deep breath. I can feel Sarah's eyes on me, and I quickly pull myself together before Elliot walks into the kitchen.

“Do you want breakfast, Elliot?”  I ask, “I can make some pancakes?”

Elliot gives me a look. One eyebrow above the other and mouth pulled down incredulously.

“What?” I ask, almost edgy. God, I do sound like Mom.

“Are you being for real?” he asks.

Elliot doesn’t even wait for me to answer, grabbing a Red Bull from the fridge and heading upstairs.

I feel resentment and anger for a fleeting second, then I remember that he doesn’t know. Then I feel guilt. And pity. At thirteen, all I could do was be a safe space for him. I couldn’t try to control him. I couldn’t be another parent to him. He didn’t deserve that.

“I want pancakes,” Sarah interjects, a little timidly.

On the TV, a cartoon Samantha Stevens wriggles her nose and flies above the skyline on her broomstick. She’s a good witch.

You know your craft so well.
Before I knew what I was doing
I looked in your eyes

Sarah sits at the table, picking the crust off her toast.

“Did you hear them?” I ask. But I already know. Sarah’s a light sleeper.

She nods silently and my heart sinks.

“What's going to happen?” she asks.

I want to lie. I want to look her in the eyes and say that everything is going to be okay. That parents fight, but it’s normal.

I can’t do it.

“I don’t know.”

She makes a face; it’s her least favorite answer, I know, but it’s all I have.

She tears another piece of crust off. “Will we still go to the beach?”

The beach trip. Our one family tradition that hasn't completely fallen apart yet. Every August, we'd pile into the car, all five of us and way too much luggage, and drive four hours to the same rental house in Rehoboth. Dad would blast classic rock and sing off-key. Mom would do crossword puzzles and Sudoku in the passenger seat. Elliot, Sarah, and I would fight over who got the good spot in the back, until I eventually got middle, and we all fell asleep somewhere around the Maryland border.

“I don’t think so.”

She nods and tears off another piece. She’s not eating them, just putting them in a line, nice and neat.

I think about last year's beach trip. How nobody sang. How Mom took Ambien and slept the whole way. How Dad's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Elliot had his headphones in. Sarah kept asking if we were there yet. I kept lying and saying soon. Soon. I was lying to myself too.

Mom and Dad seemed to be drunk before we even unpacked. They'd sit on opposite ends of the deck, shucking and cracking crabs in angry silence while the sun set. Leaving crab carcasses on the floor of the porch like a graveyard of everything unsaid. How Elliot disappeared for hours and came back smelling like bonfire smoke and someone else's cigarettes. How Sarah and I built sandcastles that the tide washed away every night, and every morning we'd start again.

Sarah finishes arranging her crust segments. Twelve of them, perfectly lined up. She looks at me, waiting.

"Do you want me to make the pancakes now?" I ask.

She nods.

I pull out the mix, the eggs, and the milk. I heat the griddle to exactly the right temperature.

I make sure each pancake is perfectly round. Perfectly golden.

It’s the one form of control I still have left.

***

I like control. I stayed with ballet because of it. I’m good at it. I enjoy it to some degree, the precision, the right and the wrong, the all-encompassing attention to detail needed for every movement, every breath. It’s nice to have control of at least one aspect of my life when everything else is falling apart.

The week before Christmas, after a Nutcracker performance, I found my mom in the kitchen drinking eggnog. Alone. It must have been past midnight; I was exhausted. I had just performed the opening night of my debut as Snow Queen. My most important role to date. My parents did not come to the performance, leaving a taste of resentment and disappointment on my tongue, but I was not surprised.

When I found Mom alone in the kitchen, she was drunk.

“Heyyyy youuuuu!” She slid in to hug me from behind. I slipped out of her grasp, repulsed. I didn’t want to deal with her.

“Hey!” she said, offended. “Come say hello to your mama.”  I hugged her reluctantly. I could smell the alcohol on her breath. I knew this wasn’t real. She wouldn’t remember this, and I couldn’t expect it from her ever again.

“Hi, Mom.” I detangled myself from her. I resent her when she's like this. Her entire personality changes, and she turns into a mother I wish I had. Gives love that I wish I received. And reciprocated.

She looks at me and seems to finally see my face. “You look like a clown, Kate. Go fix your face.”

“Thanks Mom.” I don't know what I expected. I still had my stage makeup on, and she says this every time. I’m so sick of her, I just want to go downstairs and sleep this off. It’s Thursday, I have school tomorrow, then another show. I need to roll out my muscles and sleep off my tired bones.

“Ugh, Kate! You’weeeerrrrrrrre so good with Sarah and Elliot today.”

“All I did was make them dinner before I left...” I was trying to slowly sneak away. But Mom draped her hands over me and hugged me again.

“Yeessss, so gooood.” God she was drunk. “You’re so much easier than them. You have no idea how hard it is.”

Really, Mom? I have no idea? I do more than you.

“I’m so glad we had more kids...” What?

“What?”

“Yeahhhh, more kids to take care of Sarahhh.”

“...What?”

“Shhhh don’t tell Elliot, he wouldn’t help... But you! Youuuuuu’re so good.”

I have always thought I was a Valentine's Day baby, and that didn’t feel great. But now I don’t know which is worse. To be conceived from an arbitrary holiday or for the sole purpose of taking care of your siblings.

But...the more I think about it, the more I accept it.

I’m happy to do it. I will gladly live for her. I will go to an amazing ballet school for her, get a contract in some city somewhere for her, and when I’m successful, I will happily take Sarah and Elliot with me. I will get them out of that house if it kills me. It doesn’t matter how indifferent I am about ballet; it’s my ticket to freedom. To newness. To therapy. If I work hard enough, survive these next few years, and get enough opportunities, then my ticket out will be theirs too.

“Okay... Goodnight Mom.”

***

Elliot bangs back into the kitchen as I'm washing the dishes from the pancakes.

"Hey," he says. Actually, says it to me.

I look up, suspicious. "Hey."

"You want to come upstairs? I'm going on the roof."

The roof. That's where Elliot goes when he's planning to smoke. When he wants to disappear without actually leaving.

I should say no. I should finish the dishes, check on Sarah, and maybe try calling Mom or Dad to see where they went. I should be responsible. But... I don’t want to be.

"Yeah," I say instead. "Give me a second."

I dry my hands and follow him upstairs, through the disaster of his room, clothes everywhere, empty Red Bull cans forming a small mountain on his desk. He grabs a small backpack, and we climb out his window onto the section of the roof that sits over the garage. It's flat enough to sit on but still angled enough that you feel like you might slide off if you're not careful.

Elliot's been coming out here since he was eleven. I found him here one night during Covid, just sitting in the dark. He wasn't smoking then. Just sitting. I caught him one night. He was just lying there. Eyes facing the stars.

Now he pulls out a joint and a lighter from his backpack.

"Where do you even get this?"

"Dad's drawer." He says it so casually. "He doesn't notice. Just keeps refilling it."

Of course he does.

Elliot lights up, takes a hit, holds it, exhales slowly. He offers it to me.

I've never smoked before. I’ve always had the “my body is my temple” mentality.  I’m a ballet dancer, my body is my instrument. I’m practically one injury away from ruining everything. Whether I like it or not, I need to take care of myself. Like I take care of everything.

I take the joint.

The smoke burns my throat, and I cough immediately, embarrassingly hard. Elliot doesn't laugh, though. Just pats my back and takes it back.

"Small hits," he says. "You'll get used to it."

We pass it back and forth a few times. I do get used to it. Sort of. My throat still burns, but my chest feels looser somehow. Like all the weight that’s been sitting there has been lifted. Like I finally learned how to exhale.

"Did you hear them last night?" I ask.

"Yeah." He's quiet for a moment. "I was in the garage. Came in around midnight. Heard the whole thing through the door."

"And you just... went to your room?"

"What was I supposed to do?" He takes another hit. "Go in there and magically make it better? You know I can't. You're the only one who can do that."

"I can't either, Elliot. I just... I just make dinner and pretend."

"Yeah, but you're good at it." He's not even being mean. Just honest. "You've always been good at pretending everything's fine."

I want to argue, but he's right. It's what I do. At ballet, at home, everywhere. Smile. Be perfect. Don't let anyone see the cracks.

"They're getting divorced," I say. The words feel huge in my mouth.

"Yeah," Elliot says. "Probably."

We sit with that for a while. Watch the neighbors across the street load groceries into their house. Normal Saturday morning things. It feels out of place.

"Where do you even go?" I ask. "When you leave."

"Trevor's, mostly. Sometimes just around."

Trevor lives three streets over. Close enough for Elliot to bike to, but still far. His parents let Elliot crash in their basement, no questions asked. I've always wondered what they think is happening at our house that a thirteen-year-old needs a place to escape to.

"You ever think about it?" Elliot asks.

"What?"

"Just... not coming back."

The honesty of it catches me off guard. "Yeah."

"But you don't."

"No."

"Sarah," he says. Not a question.

I take the joint from him. "Sarah. You. The whole thing."

"That's bullshit"

"What is?"

"That you think you have to stay."

I don't know what to say to that. We smoke in silence. I feel my resolve getting fuzzy.

"Do you think..." I start, then stop.

"What?"

"Do you think it's our fault?"

Elliot looks at me like I'm insane. "What? No. Kate, they've been miserable since before I was born, probably. You really think we did this?"

"Mom said something to me once," I start, then stop.

"What?"

"Nothing. She was drunk."

"So? She's always drunk." He looks at me. "What'd she say?"

"Just... something about why they had more kids. After Sarah."

Elliot goes very still. "Oh."

That's all he says. But I can tell he gets it.

"She was drunk.” I repeat, “It was Christmas. After my Nutcracker show."

"Jesus." He takes another hit, longer this time. "That's so messed up."

"Is it though? I mean... look at us. You disappear, I cook and clean and parent Sarah—"

"You think I disappear because I want to?" His voice has an edge now. That classic family trait. "You think it's fun sleeping in Trevor's basement because I can't stand being in this house?"

"I didn't say—"

"You have somewhere, Kate. You get your barre and your music and a door you can close. What do I get? A room between Mom's office and Dad's office, listening to them drink and yell through the walls."

"I'm sorry," I say.

"It's not your fault." He passes me the joint again. "None of this is your fault. Or mine. Or even Sarah's. It's just... them."

We smoke in silence for a bit. I'm starting to feel it now; my edges softening.

"What are you going to do?" Elliot asks. "Next year. When you leave for college."

There it is. The question I've been avoiding.

"I don't know."

"You're going to go through with it, right?" He looks at me directly. "You're still auditioning?"

"I have to."

"No, I mean—you're not going to stay here because of us, are you?"

The way he says it, like he already knows the answer I'm afraid to give.

"If I leave-"

"If you leave, I'll be fine," he interrupts. "I'm serious. I'll be fourteen. Old enough to take care of myself. I already do anyway."

Somehow, saying this makes him look younger still.

"What about Sarah?"

"Sarah's twenty, Kate. Just because Mom treats her like she's made of glass doesn't mean she is."

"But who's going to—"

"Make her breakfast? Check if she took her meds? Help her with stuff?" He shrugs. "I will. Or she'll figure it out herself. She's smarter than Mom gives her credit for."

I want to believe him. I want to believe that I can leave and everyone will be okay. But who am I without them? Without taking care of them?

"You've been doing this since you were my age," Elliot says quietly. "Raising us. Taking care of everyone. Making sure we're all okay while Mom and Dad drink themselves stupid."

"Someone has to."

"Yeah, but it doesn't have to be you." He takes the joint back out of my hands.
"Do you know what I think about when I'm at Trevor's?”

I shake my head.

“I think about how his parents are boring. They have jobs, make dinner, and ask him about school. That's it. That's all they do. And it's so normal it's weird."

"We're not normal?"

"No shit." He almost laughs. "But you—you could be. If you left. If you went to Juilliard or wherever and just... had your own life. Without all this." He waves his hands around, gesturing at our world.

"And leave you here?"

"I'll leave too. Soon as I can. Maybe not fancy ballet school, but somewhere." He looks out at the street. "We're all leaving eventually, Kate. That's the whole point. That's what you're supposed to do."

I think about what Mom said. About having me to take care of Sarah. About how I'm "so good" at it.

"What if that's all I'm good at?" I ask. "Taking care of people."

Elliot snorts. "You're an amazing dancer. Don't act like you don't know that."

"I'm good because I work hard. Not because I love it... But I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have it as an escape."

"Welcome to having shit parents. We all have escapes." He offers me the joint again, but I shake my head. I'm already feeling floaty enough, and being on the roof is starting to freak me out. We sit there as the high settles over us. The morning sun is getting warmer. I can hear Sarah inside, probably watching TV. I practically feel the Australian accents of Bluey.

"You want to know what I really think?" Elliot says after a while.

"What?"

"I think Mom and Dad splitting up might be the best thing that ever happened to us."

I want to argue, but something in me knows he might be right. Maybe it would be good. No more waiting for the next fight. No more pretending we're a family when we're just people who happen to live in the same house.

"When they finally do it," Elliot continues, "when they actually get divorced and sell the house or whatever, maybe that's when we all get to figure out who we are when we're not just trying to survive them."

“At least there’d be an end.”

“Amen to that,” Elliot says as he takes a long drag.

I lean back against the shingles, letting the sun hit my face. My head feels light, but my body feels heavy. Good heavy. Like I could just melt into the roof.

"Elliot?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For this."

"For getting you high?"

"For talking to me like I'm not Mom."

He's quiet for a second. "You're not Mom, Kate. You're nothing like her. You actually give a shit."

It's maybe the nicest thing he's ever said to me. I see Dad’s BMW vroom into the driveway, then Mom’s Toyota, still packed with surfboards and towels. Both of them. Home. The floaty feeling evaporates as reality settles like a shroud.

"Here we go," Elliot mutters.

We sit there for another minute, neither of us wanting to go back inside. Not wanting to face whatever comes next.

"You know what?" I say finally. "Screw the beach trip."

Elliot looks at me, surprised, then grins. "Yeah. Screw the beach trip."

"And fuck them for making us think any of this is our fault."

"There she is." He puts the joint out and picks up his backpack. "Angry Kate. I like her better than Perfect Kate."

"I'm not perfect."

"No shit. That's the whole point."

I can see Mom and Dad below. Not yelling. Worse: whisper yelling. Quietly fighting as they walk inside. Angrily gesturing and pointing at each other.

Sarah appears in the window. "They're back."

"We know," I say.

"Are we going to the beach?"

Elliot and I look at each other.

"No," I tell her. "I don't think we are."

She nods slowly. She already knew. She just needed one of us to say it out loud.

"Want to watch a movie?" Elliot offers. "I downloaded The Princess Bride last night."

Sarah's face lights up. "Really?"

"Yeah. But I pick the next one after."

"As you wish."

And just like that, we disappear together. We close the door. Turn the volume up loud enough to drown out the voice’s downstairs.