Growing Pains

Chapter 63 - Thank you for your interest in joining life

J A C O B

I hadn't sat down for dinner with my family for years, not at home anyway. I was convinced the dining room was a movie set, only there to convince viewers that a real family lived in our house, even though it didn't. The kitchen was the same. Breakfast was always had on the go, and lunch wasn't even had at home. I imagined my parents sitting behind their desks, looking down at their schedules, and then up at me, shaking their heads to say, it will be difficult to fit you in.

I didn't mind. I couldn't remember the last time we sat to eat together without it being about business or politics or one of Derek's great comebacks, and I wished I couldn't remember those either. All together they felt like a multiple-parts interview for a very important job. It had taken me a while to understand what the job was exactly, but I had figured out eventually that it was life itself, and that, of course, I was failing.

I was sure the letter would come in the mail soon:

Dear Jacob,

After reflecting carefully, we are sorry to tell you we will not be taking your application further for this role.

Thank you for your interest in joining life.

It was all the same. All this meant was that I would rather eat in bed than have to sit at a table with my family. Except today I didn't have a choice. For the first time in years, my mother had asked for the table to be set in the dining room and for someone to call me down for dinner. Down I went.

A large tray of meatloaf served as the centerpiece. Derek and both my parents all looked at me when I showed up under the door. I was in my pajamas. They were in suit and ties. Derek was still wearing the black eye I had given him an hour ago.

I asked, "What's the occasion?"

My mother opened her mouth.

I heard, "After careful consideration, we are sorry to tell you we will not be considering you for this role any further."

She said, "Sit down."

I did. The table was only set for them. Derek had a smug look on his face. I couldn't picture him without it. He had tried it on as a kid, after telling mom on me over something I did – I was always doing something then – and had liked it so much, he hadn't taken it off ever since.

"Look at your brother," my father said. I looked at Derek. "You do realize how serious this is, right?"

No.

"Your brother has a very important meeting tomorrow, and it seems he'll have to show up with that nasty bruise on his face," my mother said. She was very calm. "Please guide us through your thinking."

I had tried before. It was a Saturday and my father had called me down to his office. Coach Sargent had called. I had been skipping practice. Neither of them was happy about it. I wasn't either. I tried telling him. It reminded me of when I was a kid and sprained my ankle at practice. I had shown him the swelling, and he had shrugged, and said, that's nothing. It was always nothing.

I did the same that Saturday. I told him I thought something was wrong with me, and my father looked up from the documents in his hands, which he held like a child, shook his head, and told me to close my door on the way out.

"Jacob, are you listening to your mother?" he asked now. He hadn't touched his food. I wondered if the meatloaf was really just a centerpiece. Wondered when someone would yell, cut, and all the lights would go on, and they would get up and walk back to their director's chair without even sparing a look at one another.

I said, "Yes."

My mother said, "And?"

I couldn't even guide myself through my thinking. I hadn't been at the wheel for months. Of course punching Derek had been simple enough. I had wanted to punch him, and so I had punched him.