Medicine
“This isn’t about me.”
“I’m going to Michael’s room. You go to hell.”
Michael hears his mother toss her purse on the kitchen table and
he scurries into his bed as she walks toward his room. His door groans
as she cracks it open.
“Are you awake, Michael?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
She steps inside carefully. Michael sees his father pacing the living
room again, clenching and releasing his fists, as his mother closes his
bedroom door.
“Can I sit down?”
Michael moves his legs.
“Thanks, honey. How was school?”
“I got a bad grade on my math test.”
“I’m sure you did great.”
“I got a seventy-six.”
She pats his arm. “Oh, that’s okay.”
“I tried really hard.”
“I know you did, sweetie. We’ll study for the next one, and if you get
a better grade we’ll go to Dairy Queen. How’s that sound?”
“I didn’t tell Dad.”
“Oh.”
“Is he gonna be mad at me?”
“No, no. He’ll understand. But I wouldn’t tell him tonight. He
thinks that . . . he’s upset. But it’ll be fine in the morning.”
“He seems really mad.”
“Don’t worry. You didn’t do anything.”
“Okay.”
“He’s mad at me. It’s my problem, not yours, honey.”
“Is it because you didn’t pick me up?”
She shifts on his bed. “Well, something like that. It’s grown-up
stuff.”
“Is he mad at you for going to Crystal’s?”
She coughs. “How do you know that?”
“Well, I was—”
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