Upstander by James Preller (free ereaders .TXT) 📕

“I know,” Chantel agreed. “Her skin is perfect.”

“Boys can be such idiots,” Mary said.

“Are they all like that?” Chantel asked.

Mary shrugged. She didn’t know. “It seems like a lot of them are, maybe. Like it’s normal for them.”

Chantel shook her head. “He says the pictures fade away after seven seconds…”

“Yeah, but they can take screen captures,” Mary warned.

“Hakeem keeps saying he’s not a screenshotter,” Chantel said. “And you know what? That makes me think he is. If I sent him something, he’d have it forever.”

“Yeah,” Mary said. “And who knows what he’d do with it after that.”

8[family]

It was only August 9, but Mary had started thinking about “back-to-school” clothes. Maybe it was the brainwashing from all those commercials that played incessantly, but still: Mary’s wardrobe could use an update. Some jeans that fit right and a couple of soft sweaters would go a long way. A new pair of boots would be awesome, she knew the exact ones she wanted, but Mary wasn’t going to push it. Her mother had promised to take Mary shopping soon, but soon never came. It was natural for Mary to compare her home life with Chantel’s. Three little hilarious monsters compared to one brother who had become pretty monstrous—and not in a cute way. Mrs. Williams was so good at being a mom. Kind and happy and fully present. Meanwhile, Mary’s mother was always anxious and preoccupied. Mary knew for a fact that her mother constantly stalked Jonny on social media. It was like her full-time mission. Sherlock Mom. Every time Jonny tweeted or posted anything, Mrs. O’Malley was there, clutching her phone, scrolling, stabbing her fingers at the screen. She did everything possible to keep tabs on where he was, who he was with, and what he was doing. As far as Mary could tell, it didn’t make one bit of difference. Jonny was either out getting zonked or home, zonked out in bed. A college dropout, he worked part time at McDonald’s and hated it.

That night, Mrs. O’Malley made a special meal of chicken and penne with vodka cream sauce. At precisely seven o’clock on Friday night, dinner was served. Everyone was in attendance, even Jonny and Ernesto, who was dressed in a bright orange polo shirt, black hair combed back, white walking shorts, high white socks and brown loafers. It was a look.

Mary could tell that her mother was more tense than usual. Mrs. O’Malley was halfway into a bottle of red wine, and she displayed a jittery cheerfulness that felt forced. Like a hamster running in a wheel, screaming, THIS IS SO AMAZING! I’M RUNNING AROUND IN A GIANT WHEEL! Yeah, right.

“It’s so nice to all be together like this, isn’t it?” Mrs. O’Malley announced.

“It smells delicious!” Mary said, ever cheerful. The good child. Murmurs of agreement all around. Even Jonny mouthed something positive.

During dinner, Mrs. O’Malley worked valiantly to inspire some form of conversation. She prodded and asked questions and talked about new shows on Netflix that she had heard about from coworkers at the bank. Ernesto told a confusing story about work—he managed a car dealership out on Sunrise Highway—and Mary answered questions about how her summer was going. “Fine, good, a little boring,” etc.

Jonny didn’t say a word. Just sort of grumblingly sat there, moving food around with his fork.

“You’re not eating, Jonny,” Mrs. O’Malley noted, perhaps with a little too much edge. “Don’t you like it? I made it especially for you.”

Jonny stabbed a piece of chicken. “I’m eating,” he said.

“Well…” Mrs. O’Malley faked a laugh. “I’m looking right at your plate.”

“It’s very tender,” Ernesto chimed in.

Jonny lifted his head. Staring straight at his mother, he brought the chicken to his mouth and made an exaggerated show of chewing it. After swallowing, Jonny ran a napkin across his mouth, took a sip of water, and echoed Ernesto in a louder voice—“It’s very tender!”—set down his fork, pushed his chair back, and started to get up.

“You’ve barely touched your meal,” Mrs. O’Malley said.

“I’m full,” Jonny said. “Besides, I’m going out tonight. I’m going to need the car.”

“Sit,” Mrs. O’Malley said. She summoned a smile to her face. “I mean, please, stay with us for a few minutes. Don’t rush off this instant.”

Jonny squeezed his eyes shut and scratched ferociously at the back of his neck. He nodded twice, as if making a decision. Plopped down in the chair. Mary noticed that his right leg started to bounce. It was a nervous habit that had gotten worse lately—sewing machine leg. Up and down, up and down, up and down. Too much nervous energy. Jonny sat there, fidgeting, a live wire. “Isn’t this nice,” he said, looking around from face to face. “The happy family.”

Ernesto rose to get a beer from the fridge. “Need anything, hon?” he asked.

Mrs. O’Malley shook her head.

“I cleaned my room today,” Mary volunteered, hoping to shift the room’s energy. “And the upstairs bathroom, too. Those scrubbing bubbles really work!”

“Oh, gee. Aren’t you Miss Perfect?” Jonny mocked.

Mrs. O’Malley cleared her throat. “What happened to your guitar?”

“What?”

“You heard me, Jonny. I bought you a beautiful Martin acoustic guitar for your fourteenth birthday. It cost nine hundred dollars. You used to play it all the time.”

She paused, looking tired and worn, and pressed on. “Where is it?”

9[things]

Jonny coughed violently, pounded his fist into his chest. He walked to the counter, spit grossly into the sink, filled a glass with water and gulped it down. Mary suspected he was stalling for time. “You’ve been going through my stuff?” he accused.

“I was in your room changing the sheets to your bed,” Mrs. O’Malley said, not quite believably. She took a sip of wine. Placed both hands on the table to steady herself. “I couldn’t help but notice that your guitar was gone.”

“You couldn’t help but notice,” Jonny parroted.

“Where’s your guitar?” Mrs. O’Malley growled.

Ernesto shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It looked like he wanted to disappear.

“My guitar,” Jonny said, and again