Melt by Selene Castrovilla Read Free Book Online

burgundy, overstuffed sofa across from them, hands tucked under the seat of his jeans, Nikes shuffling on the Persian rug. I sat next to Joey—cross-legged—getting more and more incensed by the change in my formerly liberal parents. Apparently an open mind closes real fast when your sixteen-year-old daughter’s involved.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â In her soothing voice Mom asked how old he was (seventeen), did he plan to go to college (he did not), then what did he plan on doing with his life (he was studying auto mechanics at Boces). She asked what his father did (police officer), oh, my, how did he feel about his dad having such a dangerous job (he didn’t feel anything about it, it was just a job), what did his mother do (homemaker), where did they live (on the other side of town), did he have brothers and sisters (two brothers, sixteen and nine). And, of course, she asked what had happened to his hands (he sucked in some air at this one, let it out, and then said he’s had some trouble with people egging him into fights). He answered Mom’s questions and took in Dad’s scrutinizing stare without complaint while I seethed. What was next? Maybe Mom would request blood and urine samples. Finally I said Joey and I were going to hang out in my room, and you would’ve thought I’d said we were going to go screw or something the way they balked. For a second I thought they were going to say no—well, at least Mom, as Dad had apparently forgotten how to speak—and if that happened, that would’ve been it ….
    Â Â Â Â Â Â But that didn’t happen, so I can’t say what I would’ve done or said.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Mom and Dad looked at each other, like they were having a wordless discussion, and then Mom sang-songed that it was fine. She said she’d call me for dinner. Then she asked if Joey would be staying, but her voice changed. The way she asked that, like the words were phlegm in her throat that she had to hack out, of course he declined the invitation.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â So much for the sing-song.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Upstairs, Joey said to cut them some slack. He said he could only imagine what was going through their heads, me bringing someone like him home, and he was only grateful they let him stay.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â That made me angrier, that he felt beneath them like that. They had no right, to judge him.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â And speaking of judging, they needed to trust my judgment. To trust what I saw in Joey ….
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Ever since that day, it’s like Dad’s had this permanent case of laryngitis around me. Either that or he’s morphing into an owl, the way he blinks, blinks, blinks with those questioning eyes. Like he’s waiting for me to pour my heart out, explain what was going on inside that made his good little girl go so wrong.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â He doesn’t say it, obviously, and neither does Mom—no, she’s too wrapped up in her little fake la la land voice—but I know that’s how they both feel. That I’ve gone astray or something. For god’s sake, this isn’t the Victorian age. Where’s my corset? Where’s my chastity belt?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Mom, she’s been shrinking me out ever since with that maddening tone. I have no idea how that tactic could possibly be successful with her patients but I sure wish I could cancel my appointments at the kitchen table.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â And the ironic thing is, I’d love to talk to them.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â I’d love to tell them how things have been, to get their advice on everything that’s been happening, good and bad. It’s all been so new, so much ….
    Â Â Â Â Â Â First, there was that day. Up in my room. There was everything he told me, everything that poured out of him like I’d opened up a