Rebel at Spruce High

“Dad’s gonna kill you,” Lee repeats. Then he turns and looks at me, his eyes softening. “You miss painting?”

I give him one short look, then slowly nod.

Lee lumbers over to an old thrown-out chair and drops into it like it isn’t covered in dust and cobwebs twisting around the legs. “I heard you and Vann broke up. That true?” He scratches a spot on his head. “You guys actually, like, ended things?”

I shrug. “I don’t really know, to be honest. Still in the air.”

“Huh.” Lee keeps scratching at his head then inspecting his fingers. “I guess he was bad after all, huh?”

I don’t even have the energy for intelligent banter. Maybe Lee is the perfect company to have right now. Simple questions. Dumb answers. No thought. “He wasn’t all bad.”

“Wish I went to the Strongs for Halloween. Then I would have seen Vann kick Julio’s ass.”

“Wasn’t much of an ass-kicking. You didn’t miss much.”

“Huh. Still, never liked that Julio guy.”

I shrug. “I feel like Vann should have kept his temper. It was a mistake to go at him like that.”

“Thought you guys were all in love or somethin’.”

“I don’t know what we were.”

“Huh.” Lee lets the chair spin as he peers at each wall, his eyes weirdly alight. “Remember when Mom and Dad used to take us to that beach town every summer? It was for a festival or something. Is that what this is? The beach town? Is that what you painted?”

“Maybe. That was so long ago. We must’ve been … what, ten?”

“Nine, ten, I guess.” He picks at his nails. “I wanna go again.”

I study Lee’s face as he fidgets with his fingers. The way we’re talking right now, how we used to talk before puberty hit and we both got weird and all these tensions that didn’t exist suddenly made our brotherhood complicated, is strangely healing to me. Of all people to suddenly pull through for me, my stepbrother is the very last on a long list of names.

Second to last.

Later when I’m in the kitchen fixing myself a sandwich, I hear a shout from the garage. Carl’s come home. The door flies open and in storms my very angry stepfather. “TOBY!” he bellows out, furious. “What in the HELL did you do to my garage??”

I lean against the counter and face him. “Bad day at work?”

He’s in his dark blue mechanic’s uniform, the stench of grease emanating off of him in waves. He jabs a finger in the air, pointing to the garage. “Explain to me what the hell you did to my garage!”

“Made it pretty,” I answer blithely, licking off a butter knife I used to spread peanut butter.

My dad is on me in seconds, swiping the knife out of my hand and throwing it at the sink. It misses, hits the floor, and slides under the fridge. “I don’t want none of your damned sass!”

“That’s not gonna be good for bugs,” I say in disgust, pointing at the bottom of the fridge where my rogue peanut butter knife slid. “Should probably fish that out of there. Wire hanger, maybe.”

He’s breathing so hard and has come so close to me, each of his breaths crashes against my face. Lee has appeared from his bedroom, standing now at the archway leading into the kitchen, a loose, limp-lipped expression on his face as he watches this.

“You go to that garage right now,” my stepdad orders me, “and paint over all of that nonsense. I am not starin’ at no damned seaside fantasy-land bullshit while I’m tinkering in my garage.”

I let out a lighthearted laugh in his face. “Your garage? That is so adorable, Carl. Is that really what this has been about? Some slow-motion war over territory? When you drunkenly crashed your vehicle into my art supplies and took back your garage like it’s a piece of land you stuck your big manly flag in?”

His eyes are murder. He swats my plate off the counter in a fit of rage, sending my sandwich to the tile. Completely unimpressed, I shake my head as I stare mournfully at my meal. “More food for the bugs. You must really like cockroaches and ants. Or gnats. You know my sandwich has honey in it, right?”

Then Carl grabs hold of my wrist.

My eyes snap to his at once, all humor gone. He’s never once put a hand on me. Yet something today has given him permission, whether it’s my attitude, or something terrible at work that’s put him in a combative mood, or my artwork.

Lee takes a step forward. “Dad …”

“Stay out of this, boy,” he growls at his son while keeping his furious eyes on mine. Then he brings his voice really low, to a near growl. “I don’t like your lip, Toby. I don’t care if you hate me. Or if you think you’re entitled to prance around here and do whatever it is you want. But you will address me and speak to me with the respect that I deserve.”