Silk Song

Chapter Two

Dad and I spend most of the drive home grumbling at the radio for playing more commercials than songs. There's a grocery store advertising "Fresh Fish Friday" and an automotive repair chain with an absurdly catchy jingle.

Dad grimaces. "Do these people know what they're doing to me? I'm going to spend my next shift humming 'tune it up up up today' at every druggie we book."

"You're going to need mental health leave from work. You should definitely sue them." I say encouragingly.

"Dear jingle writers," Dad says. "I have seen men bleed to death in the streets, but thanks to you, I am no longer in possession of my own mind."

We laugh easily, everything way more natural than the so-called "bonding" we did at Fisherman's Wharf. We've made fun of radio commercials my whole life. Our words feel rehearsed, not that it's a bad thing. Lately I've found myself wishing that life ran on an actual script; that it didn't require so much improv. Maybe then I wouldn't spend so much time wondering what we're supposed to do without Mom.

Speaking of improv, when we arrive home, Peter is standing in front of the garage, very much in the way. Dad doesn't even bother taking the keys from the ignition. Instead, he chuckles under his breath. "Well, what's Petey dreamed up this time?"

Technically we both lied to Dad about having a meeting, but until now, I hadn't given what that meant a lot of thought. Not so with Peter. My little brother waits for us with a tremendous scowl on his face and a backpack the size of France. I got more than my fair share of Dad's "sporty" genes, but Peter practically went out of his way to avoid them. He's short and soft bodied, his hands tuned better to the rhythms of paint brushes and video game controllers than a softball. The backpack looks ready to eat him alive.

"Are we going on a Film Club camping trip?" I climb out of the car, almost expecting to see a collection of his little Film Club friends carrying sleeping bags, but he can't have organized that, can he? Or is this one of those doubt-not-the-force-of-the-Peter moments? What my little brother lacks in athleticism he eclipses with sheer tenacity.

"Don't be ridiculous." Peter straightens his neck in an attempt to come eye-to-eye with me. He's milking this act for all he's worth, the little stinker. "We're decorating the parade float, remember?"

"Ohhhhh..."

Dad laughs at my feeble attempt to hide my disappointment. Really, it's my own fault. I asked for Peter's help and my options are to either look like a rotten liar or go along with whatever scheme he's dreamed up this time.

"The keys are in the car. Where are you headed?" Dad asks.

"The Yoshidas," says Peter, lugging his bag into the backseat. "I think they're gonna feed us dinner."

"Sounds great. Keep your cell phones on, okay kids?"

"Yup," I say, not bothering to resist. The Yoshidas. Plural. Of course.

It's not a long drive, but even I don't want to carry Peter's trail pack the kilometer or so it takes to get to the Yoshida household. Both our families live in the same non-descript suburban neighborhood near Belmont High, all modest, single family homes that haven't been updated since the Eighties. I turn the radio off, my fingers tapping against the steering wheel to the rhythm of music that's no longer playing.

Peter tilts his seat back and stares at the car's felted interior, hands laced together over his tummy. "So," he says.

"So." I feel my lip curl in a smile.

"Can you park somewhere? Just for a few minutes?" he asks.

"Oh, are we not going to the Yoshida's after all?" I keep my tone teasing, because it really will hurt Peter if he picks up on how much that would please me.