Page 22 of Room to Breathe

“Hello,” he answered on the second ring.

“Do you know what I want?” I asked, sitting at my desk chair. I pushed off from the ground with my foot so I spun in a full circle.

He chuckled a little, probably because I started with a question instead of a greeting. “A photographic memory? Perfect penmanship? A lifetime supply of those Taco Bell Cinnabon treats?” he said, recalling the food I’d assigned his personality to.

“Already have that last one.”

“You don’t own me,” he said in a dramatic voice.

“Don’t I?”

“What do you really want?”

“I want one of those houses you see in movies where you can step out of your second-story window right onto the roof to sit and ponder life.”

“You’re scared of heights.”

“I wouldn’t be scared on a roof like that. It’s basically flat. I might have more insights on one of those roofs.”

“Everyone would,” he agreed. “What do you need insights about?”

“So many things, but tonight, uncooperative parents.” I summarized the dinner interaction.

“Could he just be stressed about work? I know my dad sometimes gets stressed about work.”

“Yeah…” That reminded me of the documents he hadn’t been able to find several weeks ago. I went to my backpack and pulled out my binder, flipping through the pages.

“What are you doing?” Beau asked.

“Looking for that essay we turned in a while ago. We got it back, right?” I remembered anAwritten in red ink at the top of the page. I wouldn’t have gotten an A if I’d accidentally stapled my dad’s documents at the end of my essay, would I? At the very least, she would’ve mentioned it. Unless she didn’t read the entire essay. Mr. Whit was known for not reading the entire essay. I heard that people started writing nonsense on their last page just to be funny. I’d never done that. Too risky. But Mrs. Lloyd was not Mr. Whit.

“Yes, we got it back,” Beau said. “Why?”

“Maybe I accidentally turned in some of my dad’s work papers. Here it is,” I said, once again noting the red A. I flipped to the back; there were no extra pages.

“Anything?” he asked.

“No.” I sighed. “You think I’m overreacting?”

“I didn’t say that,” he said.

“No, I want you to say if you think I’m making too much out of nothing here. It’s a sibling thing.”

“Excuse me?” he said.

I picked up a highlighter from my desk and twisted the cap several times. “That’s what siblings do for each other, right? They’re brutally honest, but in a loving way.”

“One, I’m not your sibling.”

“I know, but you’re the closest I have. And two?”

“Two?” he asked.

“You saidone, so I assume there is at least a two. Maybe even a three and a four.”

“Oh, yes, there is a two. Two,” he said in a serious voice, “that’s not what siblings do for each other. At least not my siblings.”

“What do you do for each other?”