Page 3 of This Darkness Mine

Isaac

I roll my eyes.

Whatever, B. Give your little bro his phone back.

Brooke’s time would be better spent perfecting the new cadence on her quads than screwing with me over text, or next week the woodwinds are going to march right into the brass when we try to pregame. I turn off my phone as Mom’s voice sails up the stairs.

Dad likes to say the only things you can count on in life are death and taxes, but I’ll add our seating arrangement at dinner to that. Dad at the head, Mom at the foot, me to his right. There are scuff marks on the wall behind me where I’ve shoved away from the table too hard, the back of my chair scraping away slivers of wallpaper and digging into the drywall underneath. Seventeen years’ worth of minor arguments and a few dashes for the bathroom are imprinted there, marking my place.

I’ve charted the conversation while staring at the empty chair across from me. I know what to expect the moment my butt is in my spot, so I have my answers preloaded, my mouth ready to convince them I’m present and accounted for while my hands work through some fingering, tapping on the dead silence of fork and spoon.

“How was school today?” from Mom is a middle E, simple and sweet, a good warm-up for more complicated things to come.

“Fine. We played insert current band piece here and Brooke said, ‘fill in with best friend’s witticism of the day.’” One note up, the F, all throat, which is fitting, since this is the most I’ll say in the dinner hour.

Mom says, “How was work?” This is my cue to launch into the A flat major scale, because I’m not needed here. Dad will talk about foreign and domestic taxes, 529 payouts and offshore banking, then complain about people who don’t understand these things. He fills his plate while he talks, making sure none of his food touches.

Much like the chairs around the table, safe distance is always assured.

He’ll ask how her day was next, and Mom will talk about a long phone call with a friend, reiterating it almost word for word. I once made it through all twelve major scales while she informed us about someone’s spinal fusion. I don’t remember whose.

Sometimes I wonder what Mom’s day is like once Dad and I are gone, if she’s relieved to see our backs or if the house feels empty without us. Her coffee cups have permanent rings on the inside, her levels of determination rising as they drop. I imagine her day, starting with getting everyone else moving, ending with turning out bedroom lights. Though she always has something to say at dinner, I’ve noticed that Mom’s stories are never about her.

My fingers have stopped moving, a spoonful of mashed potatoes paused halfway to my mouth.

“Sasha?” Mom asks. “Everything okay?”

“My day was fine,” I say, and a line of worry forms between her eyebrows. I’ve interrupted the flow of dinner, said a line from the beginning here at the end, where it doesn’t belong.

“How are you?” I ask, and the line deepens into confusion. Dad always asks how her day was, which is something else entirely.

“I’m . . .” Mom shakes her head, not able to improvise an answer to an unscripted question. “I’m fine,” she says. But her voice goes up at the end, turning it into an uncertainty.

Dad clears his throat. “Sasha.”

“I’m fine too,” I say.

And my chair smacks the wall as I leave.

Homework waits for me, reliable as ever. I turn on my phone so that I can have some Pachelbel in the background while I work. Everyone else in the world might prefer the Canon, but his Ciaccona in F minor blows it out of the water. Brooke says I only listen to it to be elitist.

I smirk while my phone powers up, thinking about Brooke. I’m sure I’ve got either an apology or a long line of texts from her still trying to convince me she’s Isaac. Instead I get this:

WTF you gave me your #

U want me to txt you or not?

A new one comes in just as I’m about to crack some sass.

Whatever

Brooke may be my best friend, but she knows better than to whatever me, over text or otherwise. My phone shakes in my hands as I consider the alternatives. There aren’t many. Either someone who doesn’t like me is screwing with me—and I’ll admit, that list is long—or this actually is Isaac. Which puts me in an odd place because I have nothing to say to him. I settle for

I think you have the wrong number

Then I mute my phone and fire up the Pachelbel.

Brooke says life is easier in the key of F.