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Chapter Seventeen

Scarlett

“ Y ou definitely told him dinner would be ready in fifteen minutes when I asked you to?” Diane asks. She’s annoyed—like I knew she would be—that the meal is ready and served, and we’re all sitting down and Dylan still hasn’t bothered to grace us with his presence.

“Yup. I told him.”

Phil called up to him a couple of times before he sat down, but Dylan didn’t respond. Not sure why they expected him to; it’s not like he responds when he’s face-to-face. Now Diane sends Kenzie up to his room to get him, then tells us all to start without him. Conversations start flowing the way they usually do during these weekly meals. Everyone catching up, filling each other in on their week.

A couple of minutes later, Kenzie skips back into the dining room. “I think Dylan’s in the shower,” she announces, climbing into her seat. “I called outside the door really loud that dinner’s ready, but he didn’t hear ’cos his music was so so loud.” She giggles. “I never heard of putting music on in the shower .”

Phil is conversing with my mother, but he stops mid-sentence, his face suddenly pale. “Did you knock?” he asks Kenz, like this is somehow pertinent information.

She nods. “Yuuup! But he didn’t hear ’cos of the music.” She shrugs. “And the door was locked.”

Phil and Diane exchange a panicked look.

What am I missing here?

“Shit.” Phil throws his napkin on the table and shoves his chair out, then rushes down the hall, towards the stairs. The adults all exchange cryptic, concerned glances.

“How come Phil said the ’s-h’ word?” Sadie asks.

“He didn’t mean to, sweetheart.” Mom forces a smile.

“What the hell is going on?” I dart a look at the adults.

“Language, Scarlett,” mom says. And then nothing further to explain Phil’s bizarre reaction five seconds ago.

“Seriously, guys? Why is Phil so panicked about Dylan taking a shower?” I laugh nervously when no one answers. “Does he melt if he’s in there too long or something?”

No one even chuckles. Dad dismisses me, turning towards Diane instead. “These potatoes are fantastic, by the way,” he says, way too enthusiastically.

Conversations start up again, but much more stilted than before. We’re back to the food compliments, like last week. And five minutes later, Phil and Dylan still haven’t come down. Mom reaches over and places her hand on Diane’s. “I’m sure everything’s fine,” she whispers.

She’s sure what’s fine?

Suddenly there’s a loud banging noise from upstairs, like a door being slammed or something. And then Dylan’s voice. Shouting. “I’m not fucking lying to you! I was just taking a fucking shower!”

Our heads all swing towards the hall, then in Diane’s direction. Her eyes squeeze shut as she lets out a long exhale, then slowly flutter open. “Sorry,” she says softly, tilting her head towards the hallway. “For… that.”

“I just heard Kenzie’s new brother say the ‘f’ word!” Sadie gasps.

“ Twice ,” Chloe adds.

“I’m sure he’s just frustrated right now,” dad tells them, saving Diane from having to explain this one.

But I’m just as bowled over as they are—not about the swearing, but because I’ve never heard Dylan raise his voice beyond a husky drawl, let alone full-on yell. What the actual hell is going on?

“The ‘f” word is worse than the ‘s-h’ word,” Sadie informs everyone.

“Honey, please… just—we know. Okay? Let’s not talk about it anymore,” mom shushes her.

“He better be in big trouble,” Chloe singsongs.

Then from upstairs, Dylan yells again. “So I can’t even lock the door when I shower now?” There’s another loud crash. “They’re fucking hair scissors! Jesus fuck! ”

Then the faint sound of Phil’s even-keeled voice.

More screaming from Dylan. “You want to come sit on the tub and watch me shower next time? Will that make you happy?”

Phil’s quiet voice responds but then gets interrupted by another loud crash! Only this one sounds like something really heavy being pushed over. Like a large piece of furniture.

Then, “Bullshit! Do you see a hole? Or any blood anywhere? Huh? Anywhere at all?” Dylan sounds a lot older when he’s yelling like this. Kind of scary, honestly.

Dad must have the same thought, because he pushes his chair out, glances at Diane, then at mom. “I’m going up there.” He stands. “See if, uh…” his voice trails off and he folds his napkin and places it on the table, then disappears down the hall.

There’s a series of smashing sounds now. Like glass shattering.

“Chloe,” mom leans over and touches her arm. “Can you take the girls down to the playroom, please, honey?” She turns to Sadie and Kenz. “Okay, girls? You can all take your plates down to the playroom and eat down there. Like an indoor picnic.”

Chloe doesn’t even object, because clearly even she’s rattled by the crazed screaming and crashes coming from upstairs.

“Is Dylan okay, mama?” Kenz asks, so softly it’s almost a whisper.

“He’s fine, sweetheart.” Diane’s holding back tears. “He’s just mad right now. But he’ll be fine.”

“Is daddy okay? Is he mad, too?”

“Daddy’s fine. He’s… He’s not mad.” She forces a smile. “Go on down to the playroom with Chloe and Sadie, alright? We’ll come down in a little bit with pie and ice cream. Sound good?”

Kenz nods, still not looking convinced. But Chloe takes her hand, and the three of them disappear down the stairs to the playroom, just as the screaming starts up again.

“What the fuck? You’re getting the neighbors involved now, too? Are you fucking kidding me? Are you—” There’s a loud thunk! “Fine, you want a hole?” Another thunk! “There’s your fucking hole! Happy now?” Another thunk! Then a horrible crash, followed by Phil’s raised voice. I can’t make out what he’s saying, though, because of the racket drowning him out.

“Thought you said I could destroy the whole house!” Crash! “Isn’t that what you said?” Crash! Thunk THUNK! “That you don’t care if I destroy the whole place?”

“Ohmygod…” Diane mewls, white as a ghost, covering her face with her hands.

Mom looks panicked. “Should I—Should I call someone? Should I call the police?”

Diane swipes tears with her thumbs beneath her eyes, smearing mascara across her cheeks. “I don’t… I don’t know.” She swallows. “I really don’t know.”

“Hit me, old man!” Dylan yells. “Fucking hit me !”

Mom pulls out her phone.

There’s another crash! More swearing. Then the sound of a scuffle.

Dad’s voice… And Phil’s—louder now. “Dylan! Enough! That’s enough! ”

Diane reaches towards my mother, who has her phone out. “Mel, wait. We can’t—don’t call the police.” Her wobbly voice sounds nothing like her. “Phil won’t want that.”

“Oh.” Mom stops dialing. “Okay.” Her eyes meet mine and I can tell she doesn’t agree with Diane.

Honestly, I’m not sure I do either. But I have this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach because I’m pretty sure I unleashed all of this. I don’t understand why, but I know if Dylan hadn’t been up there locked in the bathroom when they were expecting him down here for dinner, none of this would have spiraled the way it has.

Based on the thumps and cursing coming from upstairs, it sounds like Phil and dad are still working together to contain him. And I think they’re losing.

Diane suddenly stands. “Oh! I can call Dr. Morley.” She grabs her phone from the side table. She glances at my mother as she dials. “He’s Dylan’s therapist. He’ll have some ideas on how to handle this.” She sounds so hopeful.

I’m less optimistic. Not sure how a phone call with Dylan’s therapist is going to help de-escalate a situation that’s sounding more and more like a full-fledged war zone.

The therapist guy must pick up right away, because Diane launches into a choppy debrief of the situation seconds later. And then she listens, nodding and pacing and casting nervous glances in our direction every once in a while. Forcing a brief smile that’s probably meant to reassure us, but just makes me feel so bad for her. She’s been tossed into the deep end with this whole thing, and she barely knows how to swim. And in this instance, I’m pretty sure I’m the one who did the tossing. I shoved them all over the edge, into whatever spiral is happening upstairs, because of my petty penchant for retaliation. Based on Dylan not being able to navigate his emotions on the same level as me, because of shitty life circumstances he had nothing to do with, that left him scarred and alienated and reeling.

My eyes blink back the tears threatening to expose my shame. I have no right to cry right now. I’m the instigator in this situation. Not the victim.

“Okay…” Diane blows out a breath, setting her phone down on the table, her brief conversation over. “I’m going up there.”

Mom stands. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I can do this,” Diane says. And she does sound more confident now. More like the Mom On A Mission she is with her own daughters when they’re misbehaving. “He’s a kid. He’s acting out because he’s hurting.” And then, as if to reassure herself, she adds. “The girls are downstairs… It’ll be fine.”

I don’t point out that Dylan's not really a kid; he’s seventeen and bigger and stronger than either of the men up there right now attempting to contain him. Or that the level of fury we’re hearing hardly qualifies as just “acting out”. But she’s right about the “why” of it all, and I think that’s probably all that matters right now.

Mom knows she’s not going to be able to stop Diane from going up. So, instead, she follows a few paces behind. And I follow a few paces behind mom.