Chapter 15 - I'll Be a Home for You

the audacity of him leaving me on read

JJ

I knock on the door to Remy’s house, balancing the massive gift basket from my mom in my other arm. I adjust my black miniskirt and pink sweater as I wait for someone to open the door. I check my phone, but no matter how many times I stare at it, my message is the last one in the thread.

I cannot believe he left me on read.

Freshman year, on my ancient phone, I typed too fast for the keyboard to register stuff and made silly mistakes. He used to find it so funny. So, I made it more ridiculous on purpose, and he used to reply with something like, It took me ten minutes to decode this message. Is this a ploy to keep me on my phone for longer, so you’ll get better grades than me?

I thought he would respond to trouitine purely on instinct.

Well, I thought wrong. And either way, I didn’t accept Remy’s invitation for Aang, so I don’t know why I care. I’m here because my parents are at work, and the Smiths’ Thanksgiving “leftovers” for the Alabama game viewing are delicious.

The knob rattles, and the door opens. Aang’s face falls. “Absolutely not.”

I narrow my eyes. “That’s not very civil of you.”

“You being here is not very civil of you!”

“Why? I won’t fight you over the turkey.”

“That … that isn’t what I meant.” He huffs, pulling on his collar.

I take in his white shirt and brown trousers. No tie this time, but the top three buttons are unbuttoned. Huh. He used to button it all the way up.

“JJ!” Remy, dressed in a crimson American football jersey, appears behind Aang. “Come in, come in!” He opens the door fully, and I walk past Aang into the corridor.

It smells exactly like it did freshman year. A mixture of roast turkey, bread rolls, and pumpkin pie. The holiday makes no sense to me, but Mr. Smith is a good cook. I’m ready to eat.

Behind me, Aang and Remy are hissing at each other with the door still open. If they were talking in Polish, I’d be able to understand them. But the joy of English as a second language is that the words blur into indistinguishable sounds at about three steps away from the speaker. One step if you’re at a party. Half a step, if they have an accent. I slowly backtrack, creeping closer to hear them better.

“Why would you invite her? I barely want to celebrate this holiday as it is.”

I strangle the gift basket. He’s such a dick. He couldn’t even respond with a thank you to the video.

“Then tell her to leave.” Remy crosses his arms.

“What?”

“Tell her to leave.”

“Oh … but …”

“That’s what I thought.” Remy shuts the door and points to my basket. “Is that for us?”

“Sorry, Mom insisted.” I explained to her that Americans don’t bring gift baskets for Thanksgiving, and she said that it’s a good thing we’re not Americans.

Not yet.

“What are you saying sorry for? Mama’s still raving about kiełbasa you gave us two years ago.” He takes the basket from me. “Let’s go!”

She should be raving about kiełbasa. The way it tastes straight off the stick after you hold it over a campfire, smoky fat juice scalding your tongue. It reminds me of damp pine needles, the mountains in the distance, and my grandma and me laughing. My parents hate camping, so they never went with us.

My nails dig into my palms. Stop it. It’s just a stupid sausage.

I follow Remy into the dining room. Southern sayings and Bible quotes line every available surface. I come from a country where Catholicism is heavily suggested as a lifestyle. But I never realized how much money can be made from selling Religion™ until I got here.

The moms are gushing over the orange-red-yellow flower arrangements, and Aang’s dad is doing a sudoku. He waves at me as Mrs. Lau envelops me in a hug, her tweed jacket scratchy against my cheek. “JJ, finally!”

Mrs. Smith hugs me too. She’s wearing the same jersey as her son. Remy’s dad walks in, holding a massive “leftover” turkey, his jersey matching the rest of his family’s and his nail polish matching the jersey. Definitely Remy’s work. “Welcome back, JJ! The turkey this year will be to die for.”

“Is it bought or hunted?” I grin.

Mr. Smith drops the turkey on the table and waggles his finger at me. “If you don’t watch your mouth, you won’t get any of my hunted turkey.”

“JJ, sit with me.” Mrs. Lau moves to sit and pats the chair next to her.

Aang grimaces. Making faces shouldn’t be allowed under the civil arrangement. Maybe I can text him that so he can ghost me again.

After the turkey is cut, the table goes silent, save for the clatter of cutlery and frequent appreciations of the food.

“So … JJ …” Mrs. Lau turns to me, a sweet potato on her fork. “What did you do over the summer?”

“I went to a cheerleading camp in Texas.”

Babcia was sad there wasn’t one in Poland, but she got to do a history fellowship in Czechia, and she wouldn’t have gone if I’d come home. No. Not home. Just Poland. Ugh. My dad makes it seem so easy not to travel to the country of his birth. After thirty years outside of Nigeria, does he still refer to it as home in his mind? And if he doesn’t, when did he stop?

“Speaking of cheerleading, congratulations on winning Regionals!” Mr. Smith turns to Aang. “Remy showed us the video. You looked like a pro!”

“What?” Aang’s mom points a butter knife at her son. “There’s a video of the competition?”

“There is. I’ll send it to you,” I say quickly. “I’m sure it just slipped Aang’s mind.”

“Aren’t you just the loveliest! I’m so happy Aang joined the team with you. I saw he hung his medal on—”

“Mom.” Aang’s fork clatters against his plate. “Could you pass me the garlic rolls?”

“Sure, but …” She passes him the basket. “Your plate looks full. Did you eat anything?”

“Yes, the turkey is very well-seasoned.” He grabs one roll and drops it onto his plate, glaring at me.

I hold his gaze. At least Mrs. Lau will reply to me after I send her the video.

“Kids, could you put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, please?” Mrs. Smith asks while her husband puts on the game.

I grab as many plates as I can and speedwalk to the kitchen. During dinner, the parents demanded a day-by-day report of my life over the past year. On top of that, the mental gymnastics I had to do to fill in the words I didn’t understand from Remy’s parents’ accent fried my brain. Time away from them will be good. I put the dishes down, rest my forearms on the cold marble counter, and exhale into the silence.

Aang follows me into the kitchen with more dishes. He puts them down with too much force. Remy’s embroidery, propped up against the cookbooks, rattles. He finally finished it. I smile at the addition of American footballs next to the flying birds.

I scrape food off the plates into a bin and hand them to Aang. Remy delivers more dirty dishes while we work. The silence between us grows heavier with every clean plate.

At some point, Remy runs into the kitchen empty-handed. “The game started. Can you guys do the rest by yourselves?” He doesn’t wait for a response before disappearing into the living room.

With only one plate left, we go for it at the same time. It’s Aang’s plate. Still full.

“I can do it.” I pull the plate toward me.

“No, I’ll do it.” He tightens his grip on the rim.

“I’ve got it.”

“It’s my plate.” He pulls harder, and my fingers slip in the gravy.

The plate tips upside down.

We stare at the scattered food, the brown sauce spreading over the white kitchen floor.

“Look what you’ve done.” Aang grits his teeth.

“What I’ve done?”

“You were insisting you had it. Well, clearly you didn’t.”

Heat floods my face. “You never take responsibility for anything!” I open a cupboard, searching for cleaning supplies. I find glassware and shut the cupboard with too much force. Something rattles.

Aang scoffs, opens a drawer, and takes out a dish towel.

Something in me snaps.

If it weren’t for Aang not being able to own up to his shitty behavior, I would have stayed friends with Remy. I would have known where his family keeps the fucking dish towels. But only Aang gets to have that.

Aang gets to be the captain of his Mathletes team and win a cheerleading competition without getting demoted from his position.

He doesn’t lie awake at night, wondering whether not hurting his grandmother by going back is worth the hurt of going back.

And he left me on read.

I come up to him and jab his chest. Hard. “Why do you always act like only I have done something wrong?”

He turns away from me. “The civil agreement included no fighting.” Something rattles again as he yanks the faucet on and wets the towel.

“Screw the agreement!” I squeeze between him and the sink, and he goes rigid. “You broke it first. You didn’t answer my text!”

“What?” He blinks. “Out of everything you could start a fight over, you’re starting it over an unanswered text?”

“Yes!” I stomp my foot.

“That’s ridiculous.” He starts moving away.

“Well, then, screw you.”

He pauses, his muscles shifting under his shirt like he’s about to pounce. “I’ll give you a chance to take that back.”

“Screw. You.”

His throat jumps. He puts his hands on the counter, either side of me, trapping me in the narrow space. His hips press into mine. “You want a fight? Fine.” His voice is steady, but his fingers tighten on the counter so hard his bones must be at the breaking point. “You chose cheerleading over me. You chose popularity over me. So, forgive me for choosing not to answer a text.”

“Excuse me?” I shove at his chest, but he doesn’t move a centimeter, and my blood boils because freshman-him would have stumbled back. “There was no choice until you created one. I could have done both!”

“No! You were already lying about where you were and coming late to Mathletes. You would have eventually dropped out and left me behind. I just made you rip off the Band-Aid instead of prolonging the torture.”

“Rip off the … You didn’t even have the guts to tell me you did it! Do you know how confusing it was, showing up to Mathletes with no one there? And you weren’t answering my texts or calls! I was convinced the only reason you wouldn’t be there was if something happened to you, and that was scarier than the time I walked into a sporting goods store and realized they were selling guns, not cheer shoes! They had thousands of guns! Who’s buying them? How do they stay profitable?”

I’m getting off track. I shake my head and jab him in the chest again. His expression has melted into something else. Hesitation? Guilt?

“Thankfully, Drew answered my call and told me about the schedule change. Turned out you weren’t dying, you were just a coward. And then I had to go to your house to confront you about it. You know how bad public transport is here. It took me an hour and three different buses to get to your neighborhood, for you to tell me I was a waste of your time!” Dangerous heat is stirring behind my eyes.

He pushes away from me, and cold air rushes in where his chest used to be. My vision blurs with tears, and I look away from him.

And suck in a breath.

The embroidery is teetering on the edge of the counter, food scattered below it.

“Aang …” I freeze.

He follows my line of sight as the embroidery loses its balance. I watch Remy’s art fall toward its death in the pile of food.

“No!” Aang throws himself forward to catch it before it hits the pile.

He gets there in time. But his clothes pay the price. He lies frozen on the floor, his white shirt fully in the gravy. A garlic roll is squashed under his elbow, and turkey slices peek out from under his stomach. And his expression is one of complete and utter mortification.

A giggle bubbles out of me. “Good catch. Are you maybe a backspot?”

His eyes narrow. “Stop.”

The door swings open, and the laughter dies in my throat.

“What are you doing—” Remy halts in the doorway, taking in Aang’s ruined shirt, the food, and the embroidery. He walks up to Aang and rips the embroidery out of his hands. “You two, with me. Now.”

In silence, we follow Remy upstairs to his room. He opens his closet and takes out another red jersey. “Change of clothes.” He throws it at Aang.

“Do you not have anything else?”

Remy cocks an eyebrow.

“Sorry.” Aang’s gaze falls to the floor. “Thank you for your generosity.”

“You won’t leave this room until you’re friends again.”

“Your door doesn’t lock from the outside,” Aang points out. “You can’t keep us in here.”

“Try me.” Remy points between us. “You better pray I didn’t miss a touchdown.”

He leaves us alone in his room.