Page 3 of Intermission
November 5th
Nearly 3 Years Ago
Kanton, Iowa
The blue-black sky squeezes the edge of a nearly full moon as I exit Kanton High School, trading musical rehearsal for the rare luxury of having the house all to myself this weekend. Rehearsal began right after school, but it was tech night—with a freshman at the sound board, no less—and lasted much later than normal for a post-football-season Friday night. A few friends from the cast invited me to go with them to catch the late movie in Sommerton, but for the first time in a long time, I can hardly wait to get home.
I click the remote that lets me into Parre Hills, the gated golf course community I call home. The iron gates open... and an invisible vise loosens its hold on my chest.
I draw in a fuller breath than I’ve taken in a long time, envisioning the peaceful night stretching before me. The last few hills and curves often tense up my shoulders, but not tonight. I usually dread going home to my mother’s “How was your day?” greeting. More often than not, that seemingly innocuous question becomes a lecture, complete with verbal bullet points outlining how I could better use my time at Kanton High and how I should channel my energy toward leadership opportunities instead of singing, acting, dancing—the sorts of things intelligent people do not pursue as careers.
“You could be Class President next year,” she might say. Or, “Remember, every grade counts toward your cumulative G.P.A. Don’t get distracted with your hobbies.”
Hobbies. That’s how she interprets the passion that drives me toward the stage. As a hobby. Thanks for the vote of confidence,Mom.
I am the unexplainably artistic Prescott, the strange child who shies away from nets and bats and balls but hungers for the stage. Academically speaking, I do almost as well in school as my brother did and slightly better than my sister. But it’s never good enough. I never quite live up to my potential—at least not in my mother’s eyes. Call me a slacker, I guess, for beingVicePresident of the sophomore class with a 3.8 G.P.A. Since I don’t play sports, like my brother and sister did when they were in high school, and my parents did before them, there’s no excuse for anything less than a 4.0.
This weekend, however, Mom went with Dad to one of his medical conferences. I have the house all to myself. No one will be breathing down my neck about homework or complaining about the “unnecessary volume” of the music seeping out from under my bedroom door.
Freedom.
Since I don’t want the camera-monitored security company to send my parents another warning listing my license plate, I’m careful to follow the artfully posted speed limit. After curving through several paved hills, I reach the private drive that leads to my family’s sprawling Craftsman-style bungalow.
Light breaks through the evergreens lining our long driveway.
What?I slam on the brakes. The house should be dark, but as I inch the car forward, more light breaks through. Too much light.
Mom would never leave more than the porch and foyer lights on, a fact that offers two possibilities. Either Mom and Dad didn’t go to the conference after all... or they called in one of my two older sibs to watch the house—and me—while they’re away.
“Let it be Ryan.” I grip the wheel. “Please, let it be Ryan.”
Eleven years my senior and in the second year of a surgical residency at the University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics, Ryan already answers to Dad’s title of “Dr. Prescott.” Regardless of the age gap between us, we’ve always been close. But Ryan is busy being a doctor. He just got engaged to his longtime girlfriend, Danielle. What are the odds he would be able to answer Mom’s beck and call?
Slim to none.
When my headlights illumine the U-shaped driveway in front ofthe house, there are at least six cars crammed around the curve, leaving no doubt as to the identity of my Zen-breaker.
“Gretchen,” I growl my sister’s name like a curse word. “Great.”
So much for solitude.
All I want is an empty house where I can relax. Maybe even practice my songs and lines somewhere other than behind my closed bedroom door. Instead, I have the pleasure of dealing with my party-crazed sister and her obnoxious friends. Again. Yay, me.
My headlights catch on a six-pack of silver and blue-labeled bottles awaiting retrieval on the roof of one of the cars, which means there must be enough alcohol flowing inside already that its owner hasn’t missed his beer yet.
At least I know what I’m walking into.
Gretchen will be twenty in January, but her pre-law major is a tad ironic considering the level of respect she gives certain laws. Such as the legal drinking age.
And I’m the one who needs supervision?
As I pull around to my assigned parking spot, a single-bay carport by the garden shed, I’m glad it’s a safe distance from the other vehicles. Mine is a hand-me-down car, but it’s mine. Besides, I don’t want to have to try and convince my parents it’s not my fault if a dent shows up overnight. Again.
I clench my teeth and shove the gearshift into park. Even if Mom and Dad are aware of their middle child’s abuse of their trust, they’ll never let on.
When I open the car door, my ears are assaulted by a thumping bass beat. If the neighbors complain about the noise, my parents will assume it was me, the music lover. I won’t bother correcting them. Neither will Gretchen.
Gretchen is the golden child. Literally. Whereas Ryan and I take after Dad’s side of the family, Gretchen inherited Mom’s blue eyes and the entirely unfair combination of blonde bombshell femininity and athletic prowess. Her gilding is figurative as well, at least according to my blind, deaf, and really dumb—as in ignorant, not mute—parents, because Golden Gretchen can do no wrong.
