“Was that about Trent?”
“Oh. Yeah.” I slung my messenger bag over one shoulder and my soccer bag over the other and stepped around the partition.
“Well. Sorry about that.”
“You don’t need to be,” I said.
And I meant it.
Really.
I didn’t expect Chip to apologize for the things Trent did.
I just wished I knew why the two of them were friends in the first place.
I didn’t know quite what to make of Cyprian Cusumano.
* * *
I tossed my bags into the trunk of Dad’s car and then opened the passenger-side door.
“Sorry for the wait.”
Dad shook his head. “No worries.”
But as soon as I closed the door, I felt trapped.
No one said anything, but I could feel it: an invisible particle field of frustration or anger, I wasn’t sure which. It pressed against my ears and thrummed in my chest.
I rolled down my window a bit. “Is this okay?”
“Laleh’s got an earache,” Mom said from the back, where she sat with Laleh to give me more leg room up front.
“Oh.” I rolled the window back up and turned the air on low instead. “This better?”
“Thanks, sweetie.”
As Dad pulled out of the parking lot, I saw Chip emerge from the locker room, headed toward his bike. I waved, but I don’t think he saw me, because he didn’t wave back or anything.
With no music playing, and no one talking, the vibration in my chest started getting worse.
I didn’t know what was going on with my family, but I didn’t like it.
So I said, “Thanks for coming. It means a lot.”
“Of course we came,” Mom said.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Dad glanced a smile my way and then looked back to the road. Behind me, Mom ran her fingers through Laleh’s hair while she slept against the window. Quiet crept back over the car. I pulled out my phone to text Landon about the game and tried to ignore the prickly feeling in my stomach.
What was going on?
* * *
When we got home, Mom got Laleh ready for an early bedtime, while I warmed up some of the leftovers from Landon’s soup. Once the adrenaline of the game had drained out of me, I was starving.
While I stirred my little pot of soup, Dad stood at the sink, doing the dishes.
“I can do those,” I said. “I’m making more anyway.”
“No, it’s okay. I should have done them during the day. Just didn’t get around to it.”
Dad huffed and reached into the sudsy water to pull out a mug.
Stephen Kellner always liked to fill one side of the sink with sudsy water and soak the dishes in it. I wasn’t a fan of that method, because I hated reaching into dirty, soapy water and not knowing what I was going to find.
But Grandma and Oma did dishes the same way, so it must have been genetic.
Grandma and Oma also used one of those wand things, the kind that you filled with soap that had a sponge on the end, but Mom was adamant that those didn’t get the corners clean, so she bought us regular washcloths instead.
Shirin Kellner had strong opinions about dish-washing, opinions I had apparently inherited from her, since I did the dishes a lot more like her than I did like Dad.
The Level Nine Awkward Silence had followed us from the car to the house, like a shrouded Jem’Hadar warrior lurking in the shadows, observing our weaknesses and waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
All the joy I’d felt from winning our first game had leeched out too, until I was left feeling as prickly and unsettled as the rest of my family.
I cleared my throat. “How was work?”
“Didn’t get much done today,” Dad said. “Had to take care of your sister.”
“Oh.”
“Richard thinks we might have a project lined up in California soon. A community center outside LA.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Richard Newton was my dad’s partner at Kellner & Newton, the architecture firm where he worked.
I guess he kind of owned it.
To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure how his business was structured. I just knew that he didn’t get to work from home as much anymore. That he was always tired, like Mom.
“I’ll be doing a site visit next week. Need anything from Tehrangeles?”
Dad had been traveling a lot more for work too.
“I’m good. Mom will probably have a list, though.”
Dad smirked. “She already gave it to me.”
“Oh. Good.”
I transferred my soup to a bowl. “Want to watch a DS9?”
“Sure. Give me a minute to finish up?”
“I’ll make some tea.”
I filled my electric kettle and set it to 165 degrees. “Want to try something new?”
“What is it?”
“Kabusecha. Mr. Edwards gave it to me.”
“Tell me about it.”
I did my best to explain what Mr. Edwards had said, about shade-growing and theanine and flavor compounds, but I had already forgotten some of it since I hadn’t taken any notes.
It was almost embarrassing, how little it turned out I knew before starting at Rose City. My first day I thought I would be able to jump right in, but I ended up needing a ton of training. There was so much more to learn when you’re at a place that actually makes the tea. I had to learn about seasons and the fickle politics of tea growers and the magic of terroir.
For some reason, people always said terroir like you could actually hear the italics.
I didn’t even know that was possible.
“The kiss of the earth itself,” Mr. Edwards said. “Words can only approximate it.”
I didn’t really know what he meant by that.
Not really.
But I wanted to.
* * *
Once Dad finished the dishes, and I had steeped the Kabusecha in a small pot for two, we curled up on the couch to watch Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
It took some doing, but I’d managed to convince Dad to watch the entire series in one go, instead of interspersing it with The Next Generation and Voyager in broadcast order, like we usually did.