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“How bad?” Dad asks.
“240.” That’s high. Too high. I briefly check out Dad’s reaction and it’s a mixture of red-faced concern and flat-out panic.
He returns to quiet and so do I. Mom hums in the kitchen.
Stress can make my blood glucose levels high.
I have the insulin pen out, cleaned off, and I’m screwing the top on.
My routine’s messed up as well. I should have already tested a few times, given myself insulin, eaten breakfast, worked out, and should be moving on to lunch.
I stand, pinch my abdomen, and inject the needle.
“Are you two coming?” Mom calls.
“He’s at 240,” Dad answers.
And Mom joins us in the silence. We’ve crossed her limitations of what she can handle. Fluctuating glucose levels and shots aren’t abnormal. I give myself three to four shots a day easily and I’ve been dealing with needles since I was six, but Mom gets squeamish with the needles and the ever-changing levels, and in the end, she gets scared.
“I’ll test again after I eat,” I offer as a reassurance to Dad. “Then go for a run.”
“I’m making you eggs,” Dad says. “Eat what your mom makes, but you need the protein.”
Dad leaves and I focus on getting dressed.
* * *
My breakfast plate is half filled with eggs and toast, the other half filled with fruit and a small helping of something Mom made. She said what it was, but I wasn’t paying attention. Whatever it is Mom likes it and Dad doesn’t. I haven’t tried it yet. Reminds me of vomit.
I fork more eggs into my mouth and Mom drinks some orange juice. She’s digesting the bare-bones version of what I told Dad earlier. This time I made it through without my voice breaking and my insides only feel like it’s suffering from third-degree burns instead of a being incinerated by a full-on inferno.
Like my room and the rest of the house, the kitchen wall is bare and has the original eggshell white as when we moved in. Dad bought this three-bedroom house outright a few months after he and Mom divorced. Has some land, but not enough to farm, but we’re secluded, which means no neighbors. It’s quiet and uncomplicated. A lot like Dad.
“Are you still planning on helping Ryan and Chris bale hay this summer?” Dad switches up the subject and I nod. It’s good money and a good time. Only loose end at the moment with this plan is Abby.
“Is Abby your girlfriend?” Mom asks, and Dad glances at me, curious for the answer. I’ve never had a serious girl. That would imply I do serious.
I focus on my plate and shake my head. I don’t know what Abby and I are. Fucked up is the best answer. My eyes fall to my cell. West is on duty. He knows I’m awake and told me there were no new updates other than the ones Isaiah and Noah sent earlier.
“I tried out for a band last night,” I say. “It’s why I was there.”
Mom’s head pops up and Dad’s eyes bore into me. Probably not the right time to bring this up, but it’s not like this conversation will go well regardless.
“That’s cool,” Mom says. “I like bands.”
Dad scoots back from the table, his chair squeaking against the linoleum. The dark half-moons under his eyes a testament to his lack of sleep. “Sounds like a lot of time.”
“No more than baseball.”
“Late nights,” Dad pushes. “I understand those. It means you’re dead during the day.”
He and I stare at each other, and he says what I already know is on his mind. “What about the summer institutes through school?”
Dad’s referring to the hours of prison. My teachers assume because some shit comes easy to me, I should find learning fun. Screw that. My fingers twitch and the need for crazy grows in my veins. To bust out the door, turn off my mind, and find something to throw myself into until all the planning falls away.
“What’s the deal, Logan?” Dad asks.
“The band is thinking of getting rid of their guitarist and, if they want me, I’ll fill in.”
