I’ve only cheated once in my life. I was playing Uno with Frankie two years ago and I was just so tired of losing to a nine-year-old that when he got up to go to the bathroom, I rearranged the cards so that I would be dealt the most awesome Uno hand in the history of mankind.
Needless to say, it was a slaughter of mass proportions. Frankie lost in less than a minute. I waited for the glee to kick in. That satisfying sense of accomplishment. The pure, unadulterated glory. But all that came was the guilt. It was relentless, chasing me around like a cat chasing a mouse, batting at me, teasing me, playing with my emotions.
I admitted my crime to Frankie the very next day, in an attempt to ease my conscience. I expected him to reprimand me. His moral compass is even straighter than mine. But he didn’t. He just smiled and said, “No more Uno for you, Kennedy. Obviously the pressure is too much.”
I think about that day the entire way home from Lucinda’s house. I think about how I stacked the deck because I was tired of losing. Because I just wanted to win.
But that was a game. It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t some huge, significant moment. It wasn’t my life.
I would never cheat at school. I’m not that kind of person. Lucinda doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t know me.
But then that small voice in the back of my head gently reminds me that she does. She knows Other Me. She’s one of her best friends. She might even know her better than I do.
Would she really cheat?
Would she really purchase a stolen test?
Has she already?
When I get home, I’m anxious to go straight to my room and start researching some of these new details I collected for the story, but I’m stopped when I hear my mom in the dining room, yelling at someone on the phone again. At first I think she must be on with another poor legal assistant about her latest case, but then I hear her say, “You think I want this? You think this makes me happy? You being in New York for Thanksgiving?”
New York?
Thanksgiving?
Is she talking to Dad?
Curious, I take a step closer.
“I don’t give a crap about the money!” Mom bellows into the phone. “I want a husband who lives here. I want the man I married back.”
My head swims with questions.
What is going on? Why is Mom yelling at Dad? Are they fighting? But they never fight.
There’s silence as my mom listens. Then she lets out an indignant snort. She seems to be doing a lot of snorting lately. “Yeah, sure. Fine. I’ll tell the kids. I’ll tell them that you’d rather be in New York for Thanksgiving than be here with them.”
There’s another long pause before Mom snaps, “To be honest, Daniel, I don’t know what the truth is anymore.”
Then I hear a crash. I assume it’s her cell phone hitting something, because a moment later she comes storming out of the dining room empty-handed. When she sees me she freezes, her jaw tightening.
“Your father won’t be coming home for Thanksgiving tomorrow,” she says flatly. Then she grabs her laptop from the kitchen table and vanishes down the hallway. A moment later I hear footsteps plodding up the stairs.
I stand speechless in the middle of the kitchen.
What just happened?
And how could Dad not be home for Thanksgiving? It’s his favorite holiday. He would never miss it. Every year he cooks an epic over-the-top feast in an attempt to outdo his last year’s dinner. He takes it very seriously. He makes us all fill out score sheets rating the turkey, the side dishes, the decorations, the entertainment, even his choice of music. He started with a ten-point scale, but over the years, it’s evolved to a sixty-point scale because none of us can bear to give him a lower score than the previous year.
I drop my bag on the table and collapse into one of the chairs.
I can’t believe he’s going to miss it. It won’t be Thanksgiving without him. It’ll be just … Thursday.
I dig my phone out of my pocket and send him a quick text, asking him if it’s true. He replies almost immediately.
Dad: Unfortunately, yes. I’m so sorry. The client hates the campaign we’ve been working on and wants a complete redesign. We’re going to be working all weekend and next week.
Then, a moment later, he adds:
Dad: Take care of your brother. And tell your mom I really am sorry.
I drop my phone back into my bag and glance around the kitchen. There are dishes stacked in the overflowing sink, crusty food stuck to the counter, and used pans still sitting on the stove. Dad would hate this mess. He’d freak. Not that he’s going to be around to see it.
But still, I do the only thing I can think to do. The only thing that momentarily distracts me from the fact that tomorrow we’ll be celebrating Thanksgiving as a threesome.
I start cleaning.