Page 169 of Lessons in Chemistry

Dad clenches his teeth before continuing. “But I am not a bully.”

Casey folds his arms. “I’ve had a lot of experience with bullies. I know one when I see one.”

Dad flicks his gaze over Casey. “You’ve been bullied?” He sounds incredulous at best.

“No.”

Dad scoffs.

“But I’ve stood up for kids who have been. Bullies are all the same. They pick on people who are weaker than them, younger than them, smaller than them, or people they’re in a position of power over. They ridicule them and make them feel bad about themselves because it makes them easier to push around when their confidence is at an all-time low. Plus, it makes the bully feel better about themselves when they can make the people around them miserable.”

Dad opens and closes his mouth a few times.

“You walked in here and demanded we left. You didn’t ask. You’re still not asking. You’re telling Auggie what to do and trying to do the same to us. Well, it won’t work. It’s no way to treat anyone, let alone your son. So no, we won’t leave our friend to be bullied by you. Whatever you have to say to him, you can say in front of us.” Casey narrows his eyes.

I’ve come to realise that he’s as gentle as they come. Even though he could hit like a truck if he wanted to, he never would. But Dad doesn’t know that, and right now, he’s quivering. I don’t know if it’s what Casey said that’s having that effect on him or the way he said it. Either way, I might be having a fan-boy moment while I imagine that Casey is standing there in lycra with a superhero cape and mask on. Forget the lycra. He can be my superhero in Speedos.

Emory pushes his glasses up his nose and steps forward to stand side by side with Casey. “I have been bullied. It’s the most awful feeling in the world.”

My heart aches. I know he was picked last for sports teams; I didn’t know he’d also been bullied. I want to wrap my arms around him and hold him tight, but that would give away that we’re more than good friends.

“Having someone tell you you’re not good enough because of who you are eats away at you little by little.” Emory’s voice trembles.

Casey’s fingers twitch, and I know he wants to reach out to Emory too.

“It’s one thing having kids at school tear you down like that or even someone you work with, but your parents? The people who are supposed to have your back no matter what? That must be a special kind of awful. Parents are supposed to love their kids unconditionally. You’re supposed to love Auggie unconditionally. You’re supposed to be proud of him. How dare you come here and belittle him and order him around? How dare you?”

“Em,” Casey whispers as his fingers ghost over our boyfriend’s wrist.

Emory turns to me. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stay quiet.”

“I don’t know what August has been telling you—” Dad begins. I’ve never heard his voice sound so weak.

“Nothing,” Emory snaps, whirling around to face him. It’s a lie, but Dad doesn’t know that. “You’ve done nothing but behave like a bully since the moment you walked through the door.”

Dad gapes like a fish on land.

“If it looks like a bully and acts like a bully, it’s probably a bully,” Casey says in a much calmer tone than Emory was able to muster.

Dad glares at me. “Are you going to let them talk to me like this?”

I fold my arms. “Yes.”

His expression falls.

“Because they’re right. You are a bully, and you do make me feel like I’m worthless. But I’m not.” I take a deep breath. “Stay for dinner. Get to know my friends and me, and then maybe you’ll see that I’m not the useless slacker you think I am. I’m not you. I will never be you.”

There’s a long pause before he nods. “Fine. I’m hungry anyway.”

He can’t concede. He has to save face somehow. I want to be able to say, hand on heart, that I never want him to change, but I do. Fucking hell, I do.

I make pasta while Emory and Casey clear the table. They’re careful to pack their books and study materials into their rucksacks rather than taking everything upstairs where it belongs. They pile my stuff on the coffee table in the sitting room. I finish around the same time they do, avoiding them having to sit in awkward silence in the sitting room with Dad.

We sit around the table, and I hold my breath while Dad tries the spaghetti in pomodoro sauce.

“This is so good,” Casey says.

“The sauce is from a jar, I presume,” Dad says.