Page 260 of Silver Sweet

“It’s pretty bad, dude.” Tom leaves just to return with a wet rag. He wipes my face for me, staining the cloth crimson, and he keeps asking if I’m disoriented.

“No,” I promise, knocking my foot with his since my hands are occupied. “I’m more wired than anything.” It’s not longbefore the medic makes a quick assessment and sutures my forehead.

Three stitches later, I’m bandaged up, and Birdie is leading our parents into the green room. Our mom has nervous energy. Her head is on a swivel, eyes swinging left and right in search of me like I’m a four-year-old about to be snatched in an airport.

I used to joke with Birdie that we must’ve been kidnapped when we were kids. Now, as I’ve gotten older, I wonder if something happened toher.If it has nothing to do with us.

Our dad carries an air of apprehension. Like he’s preparing for things to go to shit and to dig me and Birdie out of it.

“Mom!” I call out to save her the trouble. “Back here.”

“Phoenix?” Her gray eyes go bulbous at the bloodied towel in Tom’s hand. He tosses it over the couch.

“He’s fine. Totally okay. Barely scratched.” Tom flashes the least smug smile in his arsenal. One that’s very cute, very endearing. He’s tryinghard.

It works. My mom’s strict collar relaxes when she reaches us. No makeup, she has soft, fair skin and a delicate face. Almost the antithesis of Tom’s mom, who I saw earlier. Rose has red lipstick, smoky eyeshadow, and knives for cheekbones.

“What happened?” my mom asks, wincing.

“Take a seat, please. I’ll explain,” I motion to the loveseat adjacent to the couch. They both stiffly sit, and Birdie remains standing while I paraphrase the uninteresting ordeal and watch my dad’s lips downturn farther and farther.

I’m sure he’s thinking,This wouldn’t happen in the orchestra.

He pushes up the sleeves to his button-down. He might not be made of a billion dollars like Tom’s dad, but he cleans up well. He has a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and dark, nearly black, hair that he slides his fingers through several times.

“You should be at the hospital,” he cuts in, unable for me to even finish saying,I’m not dizzy. I’m fine.

Tom is restraining this stupid fucking smile, and I realize now…my dad is as impatient as me. Fucking hilarious.

“Dad—”

“Head trauma?—”

“I’m not even a little bit concussed,” I bark back.

“I’d prefer you go.”

“Me too,” my mom nods. “You need an MRI. CT scan.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It isnotthat bad.”

“Who told you this?” my dad asks.

“What medic checked you out?” my mom glances around like she can flag them down and ask a million and one questions.

“I’ll go to the hospital in like fifteen minutes,” I agree, just to end this.

“Did you take your bike?” Dad asks. “You can’t ride it?—”

“Aware. I won’t be on a motorcycle.”

“Take the train,” Dad suggests.

“If he wants to be mobbed,” Birdie says, popping a soda.

Mom’s face falls. “Mobbed?”

Thanks, Birdie.