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“They’re dead.” When her mom looked up in surprise, Becca nodded. “Michael’s like their legal guardian or something.”
That seemed to renew her mother’s mission to help him. Back in the kitchen, she started cleaning up Michael’s scrapes, ordering him to sit at the kitchen table, then ordering Becca to get him a plate of pancakes.
Michael glanced at the plate she slid in front of him. “I’m really not—”
“Eat,” her mother said. “You look like you’ve been up all night. Becca said your brothers never made it home after the dance?”
He glanced at Becca. She shrugged.
“Yeah,” he said. “The twins have stayed out all night before—but Chris isn’t—he’s not—”
His voice faltered. Becca reached out and put her hand over his.
He pulled it away and stared at the table. His jaw looked set.
Becca’s mom watched this whole interaction and rubbed Neosporin into the claw marks on his forearm. “Must be tough, looking after three teenage boys. How long have you been on your own?”
“Five years.”
“You work?”
Michael nodded. “My dad had a landscaping company.” “How nice. I love gardening.”
Becca recognized this voice. It was her mom’s let-me-distract-you tone. But maybe her mother sensed Michael’s mood, because she glanced up. “I’m sure your brothers will turn up. Boys do tend to get into a lot of scrapes. We had a couple teenagers from that dance in the ER last night, but no car accidents, no John Does, even.”
Becca perked up. “Who came in?” she asked, though she had a pretty good idea.
“You know I can’t tell you that. No one by the name of Merrick.” Her mom moved to the sink to wet a paper towel. “Looked like a drug overdose, anyway. They were in bad shape.” She came back to the table and started to blot at the cut over Michael’s eye. He winced.
“Eat,” she said. “You’ll hurt my feelings.”
He picked up his fork and cut a piece of pancake. “Smiley faces?” he said, spearing some with his fork.
“Mom gets into her cooking,” said Becca.
Michael must have liked the pancakes. He cut another piece. “I forgot what that was like.”
“Cooking?” she said.
He didn’t look up. “Having a mother.”
His words hung in the silence for a moment. He was such a jerk that Becca had never considered what it must be like to be Michael, to graduate from high school and instead of heading off to college, have to stay home, take over his father’s business, and finish raising his three brothers.
“Did you go back to the school?” her mother said. “See if their car is still there?”
“It is.” He glanced at Becca. “When did you last see Chris?”
“Late,” she said. “But he was on the soccer field.” She gave a meaningful glance at her mother.
If Michael saw it, he didn’t acknowledge it. “I’ll go back. Look around.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Becca.
Michael jerked his head up in surprise—then his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why?”
“Because I care,” she snapped.
“It’s not a bad idea,” her mom said. “Bex could show you where she saw them last. You’ll probably find them sleeping off a hangover under the bleachers.”
