Something in Between by Melissa de La Cruz

there last Monday, and was looking for me but didn’t see me. I didn’t want to tell him I’m not allowed there anymore—it’s too painful. So I lied and told him my project is over and I won’t be at the hospital again anytime soon. Which is sort of the truth.
    He sends me a Snapchat of himself falling off a kiddie scooter, to show that he’s bummed about that, but I don’t send him one back.
    It’s like Kayla said—I do sort of believe he lives on another planet. One with no problems.
    I did well on my midterms, except for an uncharacteristic B+ in AP Calculus. Don’t know if it was because I was stressed, or an honest mistake on the equation. Dad doesn’t make his usual joke about B’s being Asian F’s. No one thinks anything is funny in my house lately. In European History, Kissinger has just convinced Brezhnev to attend the SALT talks, and the Cold War is thawing.
    I wish it would at home too. Mom hasn’t worked for three weeks now. It’s eating at her. She’s spending a huge amount of time reading the news online, watching TV shows, calling all kinds of people about our situation. Lawyers too, even though it’s clear we can’t afford any of them.
    Dad’s home for dinner for the first time all week. He picked up some extra hours driving buses on the evening shift, since Mom isn’t working anymore. I used to complain that we had to eat at the table, but now I realize how much I miss having everyone gathered together, talking and laughing and stuffing our faces with Mom’s food.
    Mom and I made Dad’s favorite dinner—a whole fried chicken and pancit with minced green onions, shredded cabbage, carrots, pork tenderloin, peeled shrimp, and soy sauce, working silently beside each other to prepare it. Even though I’m watching my weight, I heap a second helping onto my plate.
    â€œIt’s nice to see my family for a change,” Dad says. He squints, peering at Danny and Isko. “It’s awfully quiet at this dinner table. You boys must be up to some mischief. I know you too well.”
    Isko giggles and Danny kicks him under the table. “We’re not up to anything,” Danny says. “Huh, Isko?”
    â€œNuh-uh. Not us,” Isko says. “We’re not up to no good.”
    Cutting off a piece of fried chicken, I correct him. “You mean you’re not up to any good.”
    â€œYeah!” Isko says. “That’s what I mean.”
    â€œDumb little brother. She’s tricking you,” Danny says. He stands up, takes his plate to the sink, and returns to the table. “Can I be excused?”
    Not looking up from his plate, Dad tells him to sit down. “Spend some time with your family. You act more like a teenager than your sister.”
    â€œLeave him alone,” Mom says. “You don’t have to compare them.”
    â€œI just want to spend some time with my children. Is that so terrible? I wanted to spend every minute with my father when I was Danny’s age. When he came home from harvesting sugarcane, I would pull his boots off his feet. It was an honor to take off his shoes. And now I can’t even get my boys to eat dinner with their family for more than fifteen minutes.”
    â€œOkay. So does that mean I have to stay?” Danny asks.
    â€œSit down,” Dad says.
    Danny sulks over to his seat and plops down on the chair. From under his butt comes the sound of a long, gassy explosion. Pfffffffft!
    Danny jumps up. “Aw! Man!”
    Isko doubles over, laughing so hard he’s gasping for air.
    Danny picks up the whoopee cushion from his seat. He throws it at Isko but misses. It lands on top of the pancit. Dad’s face turns red.
    At first we think Dad is going to yell but then both Mom and I try to stifle our giggling, and soon we can barely keep the laughter back. It’s the thing that cracks the Cold War, and Dad laughs too. It’s