Page 94 of Oh, Flutz!

“Dad, come on,” Alexandra says quietly, and that’s how I know he wasn’t actually joking. If someone else has picked up on it, then I’m not crazy. I’m not just overreacting and overanalyzing everything he says.

Or maybe he was. I don’t think it even matters anymore.

I was never really that good in school. I could never sit still, for one, and teachers were never a fan of that; or of how I'd just check out if something didn't make sense to me. It didn't matter how hard I tried. “Disruptive” was the word they liked to use. And yeah, I guess I was, but I went undiagnosed for way too long because they just assumed it was because I was a boy with too much pent-up energy and not because I had an actual condition.

My dad, obviously, alum of one of the best schools in the world, didn’t like it too much when I came home with straight C’s and 1s or 2s in effort. He blamed it on the skating. That, and the fact that I was lazy. Not stupid—no kid of Robert Young could ever be stupid. Just too lazy to do anything about it.

“What?” he says, irritated, and I watch my sister flush.

And then it hits me.

For the first time in my life, I don’t want my mom and dad to tell me they’re proud of me. All I want is for them to shut up.

“You know what?” I say. I’m one hundred percent calm, and I think I might actually be smiling. “Dad? I know you don’t have it easy. But you need to back off.”

Dad puts his fork down, slowly looking up at me, the clear blue eyes he gave me staring straight into mine.

“I’m sorry?”

So much for being one hundred percent calm. I inhale, keeping my hands flat against my thighs to prevent them from bouncing. Katya slides her fingers between mine, giving them a squeeze where no one can see. It gives me a shot of relief in the middle of all the panic.

You can do it, Bryan,it says. I can do this.

“Maybe you don’t see how it affects me, Dad, but sometimes—a lot of the time—” I correct— “you say stuff, and it really hurts my feelings. It upsets me, and I never tell you, but I really should. So I am.”

I wipe my free hand against my jeans.Breathe. I can do this.

Dad’s face isn’t helping me feel better. His icy stare is currently giving Katya’s a run for its money.

“Bryan, you know I’m not your coaches or your friends. I won’t ever mince words to make you feel better about yourself. If you feel upset, it’s because you’ve given yourself a reason to be. Just accept reality already. It’s a waste of energy.” He takes a bite of potatoes, chewing coolly. “You’re twenty-one years old. It’s time to get a grip.”

The air’s vacated my lungs.

It’s almost impressive, really. How he says it so…chill. Like it doesn’t even faze him that these words come out of his mouth. God, he can’t evenyellit at me—somehow that would be better. Maybe it would show that he actually cared.

My vision blurs, but I squeeze the hand Katya isn’t holding into a fist. I am not fucking crying at the dinner table. Katya’s here, for Christ’s sake, I’m not going to let her see just how much of a pussy I am that, not only am I letting him say all this, but that it still gets to me. It’s bad enough I let my asshole dad walk all over me because he can’t deal with his own shit, but she isnotgoing to see just how much of a baby I am that he makes me cry.

He’s not wrong on that part. I’m twenty-one. I’m an adult. I can vote, serve in the military—I am not going to let my dad make me cry.

I let go of Katya’s hand.

“Uh huh,” I say, because I have to say something. Everyone’s staring at me. I’m tearing at my cuticles, trying not to look at Alexandra, who’s alternating between sending medon’t listen to himsignals and staring down at her plate. I’m not upset that she isn’t sticking up for me. She already did her best. It really, really isn’t her job.

I’m not looking at Mom—there’s no point, she’s just acting like nothing’s happening, her specialty—and I’m definitely not looking at Katya. I can’t. I think I’ll combust if I see the familiar uncomfortable pitying look, the one that every one of my friends get whenever they’re stuck in a situation like this, coming from her. I can handle it from anyone but her.

“Excuse me,” I hear her say, even though I’m staring down at my lap, which has gone completely blurry.

Mom has a slightly frozen smile on her face. “Would you like some more mashed potatoes, honey?”

Katya clears her throat, not that it disguises the cold edge in her voice I know all too well. “No, thank you. I’d like to say something, though.”

“Don’t,” I say under my breath, still trying to get myself under control.Please don’t. My heart is beating at a million miles an hour.

There’s a reason I never let Alex fight my battles for me. It doesn’t work. It just doesn’t work. Not to mention the fact that, like I said, it’smybattle, not anyone else’s. I’m the one they aren’t proud of. I’m the one they'd rather see the back of.

I keep my eyes on the napkin in my lap, trying to relax as my lungs start working overtime, as my stomach starts twisting into knots.

Katya takes my hand back, lacing her fingers through mine.

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