domestic issues with my parents. But instead he says, “I need a word that starts with T and has an X, an A, and preferably an N in it.”
No one responds. No one ever does.
My mom bangs another cabinet closed. This time, miraculously, my dad takes notice. “What are you looking for?” he asks.
“Nothing!” she snaps. “I’m not looking for anything at all. Why would I possibly be looking for something I have no hope of ever finding? At least not under this roof!”
I wince.
Talk about a drama queen.
Oh God. Is this where I get it from? Are meltdowns genetic?
I pop two pieces of bread into the toaster and return the package to the fridge.
“What did the text say?” Hadley asks.
“Nothing,” I mumble. “It was just a misunderstanding.”
Hadley nods knowingly. “Lost in textation.”
I lean against the counter and glare at her. “What?”
“Lost in textation. It’s that awkward part of texting where the context of a conversation is lost without being able to see the person’s face or hear their inflection.”
I sigh. “Will you stop looking at Urban Dictionary? Mom, tell her to get off Urban Dictionary. It’s completely inappropriate. Do you know what kind of things are on there? Words you and Dad don’t even know.”
My mom doesn’t respond. She pulls a frying pan from the cupboard and sets it down on the stove top with a boisterous clank.
“Textation!” my dad shouts excitedly, tapping at his screen. “Good one, Hads!” But a moment later his face falls. “Not a real word? WTF?”
I groan. How is this my life?
My toast is only half done, but I push up on the lever and force the bread to eject. I smother it with peanut butter, wrap it in a paper towel, and grab my schoolbag. I’m not exactly running late, but staying around here another second will make me want to stick my own head in the toaster.
“Ellie,” my dad says.
I stop just short of the door. I almost got out alive. So close.
“Yeah?”
At first I think he’s going to ask me for another word for his game, but instead he says, “Are you ready?”
I pat my bag. “Yup. Got my speech notes right here.”
He looks genuinely confused. “No, I mean, about softball tryouts.”
Oh, and I have softball tryouts today. On top of everything else.
“Making varsity your junior year would be huge. The state schools would definitely take notice of that.”
I’m itching to get out of this house. And my dad reminding me of yet another thing that’s looming over this day is not helping. “Yeah,” I agree.
He sets his iPad down and stares wistfully into space. “I remember when my varsity baseball team made it to the state championships.”
Aaaand he’s off.
“Standing on that pitching mound, I’d never been so nervous in my life. Your mom was in the stands. I just didn’t know it yet. It probably would have made me even more nervous. Remember that, Libby?”
My mom takes the butter tray from the fridge and slams it down on the counter so hard I think she might have cracked the plastic.
“Is something wrong?” my dad asks.
Quite the observer, he is.
“No,” my mom answers sharply, not even looking at him, as she cuts a piece of butter and drops it into the frying pan. “Why would anything be wrong?” It’s one of her snakebite questions. I call them that because she coils up, lunges at you, and before you can even answer, you’re dead from the venom.
“Are you sure?” my dad asks.
“She’s gone mom-zerk,” Hadley remarks.
My dad glances down at his iPad. “Ooh. I wish I had a Z!”
That appears to be the last straw. My mom storms out of the kitchen, leaving the burner on and the butter melting in the pan.
I am so not getting into the middle of this. I don’t need to add “mediate parental dispute” to my to-do list today.
I shove my shoulder against the garage door. “Great story, Dad. Okay, bye!”
Dropping my bag into the backseat of the car, I get behind the wheel and start the engine. It isn’t until the garage door opens and I back out onto the driveway that I notice it’s raining and I don’t have an umbrella.
But there’s no way I’m going back inside that house.
The Magic’s in the Music
7:55 a.m.
I sing along at the top of my lungs to “Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys as I take a left at the end of my street, then the first right, and pull into Owen’s driveway, putting the car into