Invisible Son: Chapters 6–13

“You’ve only been back one day. Your every move is going to be scrutinized.”

He’s the one who got the ankle monitor added by telling the judge I was a chiseler. Which I had to look up to learn it was old Western slang for a swindler not to be trusted.

Thoughts of revenge have turned in my head a thousand times. A beatdown. Takeover of a school assembly to call him out. Anything that’d let me watch his Ivy League dreams vanish into the ether.

I scan through more comments, checking my exponential growth, sparked like a match by my arrest.

Before I started my channel, I used to be rigid about what I was into—heavy about Christian rap because Grandma J didn’t like me listening to secular music.

I got tired of people assuming what I liked and didn’t like.

Like right now you’re in that emo zone, where you don’t need much soul and vibrato, just all the angst.

Dredging up the past is too heavy.

Another one of my quirks is watching old movies.

Her wall is building up before my eyes. Maybe she’s realizing this is a mistake, remembering that she’s with Paul and feeling like what we had can’t be rekindled.

Before I get a chance to see if Sierra’s changed her mind and is looking at me from her bedroom window, Grandma J barges into my room.

After one of my shifts at the Parks & Rec there was this mousy-looking kid at the park who’d sometimes get picked on.

From the air on my skin to the boundless thrills with each bump beneath my tires, swerve on the road, and hill I climb, freedom spins inside me.

There’s something relaxing about mindless work, checking off equipment, deciding what’s salvageable and what should be tossed.

My heart is thrumming in my ears, waiting for Gavin to admit he set me up on purpose.

Boogie’s heard all about the formal Whitaker dinners I try to avoid. It’s always too much: remembering what fork to use, watching Kate smile at her parents to make them feel like she agrees, holding back when Eric inserts himself if Sierra does something to break dinner etiquette, noticing how Luis stays under the radar, and cringing at Brian constantly putting his foot in his mouth.

Brian’s face contorts as he inspects Boogie up and down.

Kate follows and I’m annoyed they’re just gonna let this pass and not make Brian grovel.

I pace in the kitchen, reeling in this truth coming out. All this time I thought they believed I was innocent, but they just felt bad for me.

“She wants to plant an entire rose garden. They’re growing all over our front yard now and she started one down the street at the community garden.”
“Roses? The revitalization?”

Dad calls Marcus my counselor. Grandpa says overseer. Grandma says friend. Mom says Marcus. They each have their own way of explaining his presence in my life now.

It’s nothing my special tea tinctures can’t fix.

I sniff, realizing his moms boiled up her own natural concoction of garlic, pepper, lemon, and honey, which is humming out the kitchen.

When I was at MacLaren, I spent my nights looking up at the ceiling, squinting through the sliver of a window to the sky, waiting for the truth to come out.

The smell of a hot breakfast wakes me up. At first, I’m disoriented as I stretch in bed.

I used to think all the rotating bedrooms I’ve had were small, but after staying in one big claustrophobic room with rows of cots, this feels like a palace.

Down the hall the sound of a chronic cough grows. Normally I’d assume it’s allergies. But Grandpa’s cough hits different.

Before I can pay for my items, Mr. Whitaker throws down his platinum card and covers my bill, including prescriptions that Grandma was already worried about because insurance wasn’t covering Grandpa’s regular meds. Things we’d have to scrounge to pay for—he took care of them with the swipe of his card.

“He had…a breakdown. He was acting erratic. Impulsive. Seeing things that weren’t there. We had to admit him to Legacy Emanuel hospital for a psychiatric evaluation. We thought he was going to harm himself. Or worse, harm Sierra.”

He stayed for seventy-two hours, until they released him for outpatient psychiatry. We knew he wasn’t ready to see anyone, and with your arrest…we worried Eric might do something erratic.

For one glorious second, I imagine a do-over from the last time she was here. Having the restraint to not replay “Take My Breath Away” is a herculean effort.

Having the restraint to not replay “Take My Breath Away” is a herculean effort.

I lean down to listen to his chest. Raspy and shallow, each breath is labored.

I place him on the floor carefully, then press on his chest in rapid pumps, breathing life into his lungs to resuscitate him.

Mom turns to the reception desk to talk with a nurse. She takes charge and it’s nice to see her in her element because if anyone will make sure Grandpa gets the best care, it’s her.