Flipped

Chapter 16- The Art of Perseverance

Sam

Like grains of sand in an hourglass, the second half of October trickles away at a steady and unyielding pace. Time, it turns out, does not pause for even the most exhausted and agony-inflicted of its children. It keeps trucking along at its normal swift progression, and will leave you passed out and bleeding in the dust if you can't keep up. Time is merciless.

Rose has been left behind; stranded on a dark and freezing street corner called Homecoming 2016.

"How was everyone's day?" Mom asks at dinner, as per usual. It is November 4th, and the autumn winds and rains have finally stripped the rest of our trees of their leaves. I stare at them out the window across from me as we sit down for our family meal, and I think about how the bare branches look like claws reaching up to grab the moon. And I notice that the moon is full.

Dad mutters something of a grunt in response to Mom's question and digs vehemently into his mashed potatoes, his eyes never leaving the laptop next to his plate.

"Eli, can't you put that thing away for once?" Mom says in a tense voice. Tensions are always high around the holidays, because our father's security job becomes the most demanding during these months.

"Sorry honey, I have to respond to these emails," Dad responds in a monotone, almost like they've had this exchange a million times before. Because they have. For my parents, it's just another Friday.

For Rose and me, it has been three weeks exactly since That Night.

"What about you, kids?" Mom turns to us after huffing exasperatedly at our dad. "How was school?"

Commence our routine. Rose wrings her fingers underneath the table, bites her lip, and casts a side-glance at me.

I answer, "School was fine."

"Good to hear. George, how about--?"

"I gave a presentation today," I interrupt.

"Oh?" says Mom. "What about?"

"It was for history," I continue with my lie, keeping the attention on me. "It was about, uh....racism."

"Racism?" my dad chooses that moment to pipe up. "What are you doing talking politics in a history class?"

"Historical racism, Dad," I mutter irritably, while at the same time trying to keep my tone respectful. With four days to go until the presidential election, Dad can hardly talk about anything but politics when he isn't working. "You know, the civil rights movement and stuff. It's what we're learning."

"Just along as they remember to keep their damn opinions out of it," Dad grumbles. "I'm not paying tax dollars to have those teachers brainwashing my kids with their left wing politics. Damn Hillary supporters with their Black Lives Matter bullsh--"

"Now Eli," Mom cuts in warningly. "Let's not get started. Sam didn't say that's what her presentation was about."

"Well I wouldn't be surprised," Dad rambles on anyway. "What with the way this new social climate is going. I swear, this whole world is going to hell. All of these moronic social justice bloggers with their--"

I tune them out at this point, my goal accomplished. Dad is off on a tangent, and Mom will spend the remainder of dinner trying to calm him down.

Beneath the table, Rose squeezes my hand. I squeeze back firmly, attempting to bring warmth to her cold fingers. She is always so cold these days.

As Mom and Dad's bickering fades into background noise, I use my thumb to draw a question mark on the back of Rose's hand; our silent symbol for Are you okay?