Their Freefall At Last by Julie Olivia

4

Ruby

Eighteen Years Before

Ruby & Bennett are Twelve Years Old

My hands are too slobbery to hold my fork, but that’s the price I pay for feeding Moose under the table. And it’s not like I was going to eat anyway.

It’s quiet at our dinner table, just the sound of clinking utensils on plates as my parents do not talk for the third night in a row. I even showed them my perfect report card, which I was positive would cheer them up, but nobody even cracked a smile.

Moose’s massive head nudges my leg. I take a chunk of my chicken and tuck it under the tablecloth again.

“Amelia, stop feeding the dog.”

My head snaps up. Mom’s lips are pursed.

Busted.

Mom doesn’t normally have such a harsh look. But lately, something has changed.

My dad halts his fork halfway to his mouth. “Do you not like chicken anymore?” he asks.

“She doesn’t like anything, Dick.”

Mom started with this new nickname. She says it’s a short version of Richard, and when Bennett and I looked it up on the internet, we found she was right. But I also know what else that word means.

I know because, years ago, Bennett and I looked that word up after some kid in class called another kid a dick. Unfortunately, our search also pulled up pictures of misshapen hot dogs, which I also now know are penises.

However, at the time, Bennett snapped out of the browser window before I could get a better look. He acted super weird for the rest of the afternoon. It took one hour of watching wrestling for him to finally chill out and explain to me what I had seen.

His mom overheard us and said, “All men don’t just have dicks; they are dicks too. Except you, kiddo.”

Bennett held a fist in the air, as if in solidarity.

There were too many mysterious dicks that day.

“Can I be excused?” I ask.

Mom observes my plate, scouring it from edge to edge, like she’s trying to clean it with her eyes. I don’t know why; her plate has more food than mine.

“You haven’t eaten anything.”

“Yes, I have.”

“If she doesn’t wanna eat, she doesn’t wanna eat,” Dad says.

Mom’s head swivels to him, and in a very low, almost-hushed whisper—even though I can totally hear her—she hisses, “Why? So she can look skinny, like Miranda?”

The whole dinner vibe shifts. Dad buries his face in his palms. Mom twists her jaw, like she’s prepping for a hot dog–eating competition. Or like maybe she’s ready to bite off Dick’s dick.

Mom has been bringing up Miranda a lot lately, as if she were some ghost in our home that wouldn’t carry on to the afterlife. Sure, Miranda spends a lot of time with Dad, but she’s also his assistant.

“I’ll take the plates,” I say because I really don’t want to be in here if they’re starting to fight.

Moose follows me into the kitchen with his nose in the air, tongue lolling out. After I pass through the swinging doors, I drop him a spare piece of chicken. I’m only human.

I pick up the phone beside the toaster, dialing my only lifeline.

It rings a few times before I hear Bennett’s low tone say, “Hey, you.”

You.

Bennett’s voice has gotten lower over the summer, so when he says it like that, it almost sounds like a cat’s purr or something. I love it every single time.

“Red alert,” I whisper. “We’ve got dick talk going on over here.”

“What?” His voice cracks.

“My mom and dad are fighting.”

“Oh. Ha. Right. Still?”

“It’s bad tonight.”

“Is your mom still not eating?”

“Yeah. Well, sort of. Barely.” I walk across the kitchen. The tip-taps of Moose’s nails follow me.

“And did you eat?” Bennett asks.

“This isn’t about me.”

“It’s always about you.”

I roll my eyes even though I know he can’t see it. Maybe he’ll be able to feel it.

Bennett snorts. “You’re rolling your eyes, aren’t you?”

“So hard, it hurts.”

“Rubes.”

“I’ll have you know that Moose ate very well.”

“Ah, come on.”

“I wasn’t hungry!”

“No, your parents just can’t cook,” he says. “Come over here.”

I look at the clock on the wall, but I don’t know why I bother.

“Not a chance,” I say. “It’s late. And I gotta study.”

“It’s the middle of summer.”

“Like that matters.”

It doesn’t. I have a summer reading list a mile long and practice problems my dad assigned me so I can test into advanced math classes in the fall. Plus, even if I had completed everything, I’m not allowed to go to Bennett’s after a certain time. Period. Dad said it was because of our “growing bodies,” which is so dumb. Just because our legs are longer doesn’t mean we can’t watch a movie together.

“Sneak out.”

“Bennett, oh my God, no.”

I immediately look at the dining room’s double doors. My mom has the hearing of a bat, so I take a few steps to the opposite side of the kitchen.

“But Mom made hot wings,” he singsongs.

I deflate onto the floor with my head tilted back against the cabinets.

“I love your mom’s hot wings.”

“I know,” he says, and I can practically hear the smile in his voice. “So, sneak out.”

“I guess I could ask …”

“No asking. They’ll just say no.”

I groan.

From the other room, their voices get louder. Mom says something about underwear and Brittney knew.

“I can hear them,” Bennett says. “Wait, did they mention my mom?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Come over.” His voice is even. I don’t hear his smile anymore. “Don’t take no for an answer.”

I laugh. “It’s fine.”

“If it’s getting bad, Mom can take care of you,” he says. And then I think I hear him swallow before he adds, “I can take care of you.”

The familiar glitter—the kind that only appears when Bennett says things like that—slides over my chest and into my stomach. I never know what to say when he gets all boy-like and serious, so I sit on the line in silence.

He sighs. “Be a pirate for once, Rubes. Yarr?”

“I can’t.”

“Yeah, you can. Say it with me.”

“Ha, no.”

“Ruby.”

“No.”

“Rubes. Rubert. Rubothy.”

“Fine. Yarr.”

“There we go.” I can finally hear his smile again. “I’ll meet you in Miss Lisa’s yard in thirty minutes.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

I hang up, lean my head back against the wall, and blink up at the ceiling. I pull in a breath. I hold it for a few seconds, then let it out.

It’s just a simple question. Maybe they’ll be too distracted by their argument to care.

You can ask. You can do this.

Moose blinks up at me.

“I know; I know,” I whine. “Have courage. I know.”

I push open the double doors to the dining room. Mom and Dad are in different spots. She’s standing in the corner with her arms crossed. Dad is still in his seat. His hair is disheveled, as if he’s been running his hands through it.

“Hey,” I say slowly. “Can I ask a question?”

Mom meets my gaze, and something in it looks different. Maybe it’s the fact that her eyes are red or that I can see her hand shaking in the crook of her arm. Maybe it’s because her bottom lip is doing that thing where it trembles in place when she’s thinking about what to say, like a drumroll to disappointing words—words like you can’t go to Bennett’s house tonight,which would totally suck but I can feel them in my bones.

Dad is the one who finally speaks. “Amelia, we need to talk.”