Bubblegum
Chapter 1: Broccoli Casserole
Tifa knew she shouldn't comb her hair, check her phone, and take a sip from her cinnamon spice latte while she navigated the school parking lot, especially not after her mother died that summer in a car accident, but it wasn't her mother's fault the other driver was drunk. That's the way life is. You might as well just let it happen to you.
The Jeep tires bounced against the parking brick. Tifa jabbed at the seat belt release six times with one hand while she wrapped a fistful of hair in elastic with the other. It wouldn't give.
"Damnit," she snapped, bumping her latte with her hand as she wrenched it around to grab the seat belt. The latte almost dumped over before she intercepted it with her knee. The coffee burned through the cup, but at least it wasn't seeping through her socks.
After setting the cup right, she took a deep breath to collect herself. She picked up her phone from where it had started to buzz in the passenger seat and read the text from her father. "Drive safe."
Tifa shouldn't laugh, but laughing had been harder lately, so she would take any excuse. She snorted into her latte, spinning the cardboard holder around the cup and letting a swig scald her throat.
She felt better. Her hair wasn't perfect, but it didn't have to be. She grabbed her green messenger bag and swung it over her shoulder. The 1994 Jeep Cherokee shuddered when she slammed the door.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me."
Of course Cloud Strife would be the first kid she saw on the first day of school after his drunk father T-boned her mother's Ford Ranger. He sat on the bench on the parking lot divider, chewing what appeared to be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. From what Tifa could tell, he seemed to have stopped midchew when she left her car. She sighed. It was comforting in a way. His dad was dead, too.
That probably made her a horrible person.
Cloud swallowed and frowned. Cloud had never been one to interact with other students. He was a loner, a year above her, with no actual human contact in his entire three years attending Sector Seven High School. The fact that he acknowledged her at all was an accomplishment.
They had seen each other once over the summer. He and his mother had shown up at her mom's funeral. Her dad had made a scene, which she thought was stupid. Most of the things parents did seemed stupid. She remembered staring at Cloud while he stared at his black and white high tops and imagined that he regretted wearing them to a somber occasion.
But his mother worked sixty hours a week at the hospital, and his dad drank all their money. Cloud probably didn't own loafers.
"I don't care," she said. She had rehearsed the phrase over the summer, and it had seemed like it would be a much more meaningful gesture than it was.
"I don't either." Cloud crumpled up a ziplock bag and shoved it into his backpack. He slung the old bag over his shoulders and stood. "I'll see you around."
"I'd rather not," Tifa mumbled.
Cloud paused. Realizing she must have said that a little too loudly, Tifa massaged her temples.
He snorted. "I won't take it personally." He waved half-heartedly and headed for the school entrance.
One dreaded altercation down, Tifa cringed and leaned over to check her reflection in her driver's side mirror. Was that ketchup? She didn't want to think about how ketchup had gotten on her side mirror. She was frantically wiping it off with her sleeve and some good old fashioned spit when she heard the unmistakable screech of worn breaks.
Though she hadn't been anywhere near her mom's accident on Fourth and Village, she immediately jerked to attention when she heard it in the school parking lot.
Yuffie Kisaragi's minivan nearly toppled over as she veered into the spot at the front of the school. Generally, those spots were reserved for school employees, but last year Yuffie Kisaragi had somehow managed to use the properties of Eminent Domain against a hapless tow truck driver. No one had bothered since.
Tifa considered Yuffie's van a bit excessive. Few students drove minivans unless they had multiple siblings, but Yuffie took her duties as Debate Team Captain overzealously. Her Lincoln minivan was spacious enough to transport the top competitors every weekend. She had splashed it with the school colors, red and black, and even a visage of the mascot. Said mascot was supposed to be an AVALANCHE, but no one knew how to represent that, so they trotted out the Physics teacher's pet—something—Nanaki at games.
They'd tried painting it once.
"I said sugar cookies, you idiot." The unmistakable snip that was Yuffie Kisaragi's voice exploded from the sliding door. "How am I going to get Debate pledges with gingerbread? It's not fucking Christmas. And what are these? They're crumbs. Shake, if you're some perfect prep school transfer whose perfect servants make them perfect cookies whenever they want, why would you join Debate? Tell me."
"They taste good," Shake said, crossing her arms.
Shake, apparently, was very good at talking fast, which made her something of a Debate Team prodigy. One would never know, however, based upon her interactions with Yuffie.
"Shake," Yuffie said, "how will they know if they taste good, if they're too nauseated to try them?"
When Shake said nothing, Yuffie tossed the bag of gingerbread cookies she had been waving around to the curb and forced her fingers into her hair. "Oh my gawd, at this rate, Cid is totally going to get all the transfers. Who wants to play baseball anyway?"
"I don't," Shake insisted, bending over to pick up the cookies.
Yuffie kicked the bag from Shake's tiny fingers. They crunched against the chrome rims of her van tire. "Not everyone is as enlightened as you, Shake. Come on, we have to set up for the fair now."
The fair.
Tifa had completely forgotten about the activities fair. She dropped her bag and scrounged through it. She hadn't bought materials for her classes yet, but she had tucked her spiral notebook from sophomore English inside. She splayed the notebook on the ground and yanked several sheets free.
Never one for color, Tifa frowned when she only came across the remains of a lavender gel pen leaking at the bottom of her bag. She removed it and threw it under her car before she settled on her blue Bic. She scribbled the words "Track Team" on one of the pages and folded it in half, testing it on the pavement to see if it would stand. It wilted, but if she tilted her head just right, she could still read it. Good enough.
Tifa wobbled to her feet and planted another piece of paper against the window of her Jeep. She scrawled "Name", "Email", and "Available Tuesdays and Thursdays?" across the top before restashing her belongings in her bag and bustling for the door. She fell into step behind Yuffie Kisaragi, hoping she would part the metaphorical Red Sea as students shrunk away from her.
As soon as Tifa passed through the thick, magnetic doors that connected the parking lot to the school gym, however, eyes seemed to hone in on her. Tifa imagined she could have been Yuffie Kisaragi, and people she didn't know would still look at her like she might collapse at any moment in a fit of grief.
Not that Yuffie wasn't pathetic in her own way, just not a way that usually garnered sympathy.
Tifa did her best to ignore them, adjusting the strap on her messenger bag and clenching the fistful of notebook paper. She shouldered past Yuffie Kisaragi—"Rude"—who had stopped suddenly to pick out the perfect rickety card table for the Debate Team booth and strode toward the far back corner of the gym.
The downside to picking the back corner booth was that Tifa would have to cross the entire expanse of the gym to get there. Her sneakers squeaked as she crossed the first black basketball ring and nearly collided with Cid Highwind, captain of the baseball team.
"I'm so sorry, Tifa," Cid said.
Tifa stopped abruptly and twisted the strap of her bag. "Thanks," she said.
What Tifa was really thinking was that those were the first four words Cid had ever spoken to her in her life.
"I was talkin' to the rest of the athletics department"—meaning baseball, since that was the only sport at Sector Seven that had performed well in recent memory—"and we were thinking we could do a memorial to support you an' your dad, since you've been part of SSHS' athletics the past two years."
"Thanks, Cid," Tifa said. Her mom had already had a memorial. He hadn't even sent a card. Who doesn't send a card?
Cid chewed the inside of his cheek. He put a calloused hand on her shoulder. "Hang in there."
It was a little hard to 'hang in there' when no one gave her any slack. Tifa pushed by Cid, only to be confronted by Priscilla from Home Economics, who apparently had slaved away all night making her a cake that said "Sorry for your loss" in chocolate frosting. Because nothing conveyed sincerity like buttercream roses. After Priscilla came Ester from Ag Club and Butch from the Young Detectives, which Tifa didn't even realize was a thing until she read his laminated name tag. All of them had more or less the same words to say; they were sorry her mom died, and if there was anything they could do, she should let them know.
The only thing that kept Tifa from smashing Priscilla's cake over any of their heads was the promise that, when she finally got to her booth and the fair started, none of the freshmen or the transfers would even know her name. She wouldn't mind it if they still offered her cake, though.
Tifa's chosen card table sat just off to the side of the bright red gym bleachers, barely dipping out of the shadow they cast. She hid the cake under the bleacher rack, propped her wilted "Track Team" sign up in front and sagged into one of the two folding chairs behind the table. The second seat was supposed to be Zangan's, but the track team's captain generally spent practice fondling freshmen, and Tifa had not expected him to take recruitment any more seriously. Part of her had dreaded that he would have shown up to support her, but he was either a better friend than she gave him credit for or a shittier human being than she had expected.
From Tifa's vantage point, she had full view of the gymnasium. Debate Team and Baseball, the most successful activities at a school where most of the student body mistook competitiveness for a disease that should get you a free pass to the school nurse over Chemistry, had found the card tables just to the right of the entrance.
Debate's tray appeared to be loaded with decapitated gingerbread men, and baseball's laden with steaming Dixie cups. Tea, Tifa guessed, as Cid's girlfriend, Shera, had a reputation for brewing the best cup in the school. Since most High School students snuck their parents' credit cards to pay for expensive drinks at Starbucks—yeah, Tifa was guilty—the fact that someone could be known for brewing tea was enough of an endorsement.
If Tifa didn't fear wading into apology infested-waters, she would be tempted to try some. Instead, she propped open her spiral notebook to the first blank page. She began to sketch Cid's long silhouette and Yuffie's gangly shoulders while she watched the two of them argue about something. Over the general tumult of entering transfer students, she managed to make out that they were fighting over pledges and Yuffie's rigorous Debate Team practice schedule edging out any competing activities should a student decide to commit.
She also heard the name "Zack Fair," a name almost as big in High School baseball as "Barret Wallace," and since the latter lost his hand, Tifa guessed Cid had his sights set on a replacement.
Shinra Academy, the private school three miles away, had hiked tuition that year, and a few extra handfuls of students whose parents couldn't afford the increase would be making the switch to public school. Tifa hadn't known Zack Fair, Shinra Academy's baseball prodigy, would be among them.
Even more mystifying, she had no idea why Yuffie might be interested.
"You're very talented."
Tifa jerked up from her drawing so quickly she almost knocked over the table. This would have been more of a problem, she supposed, if her booth had any materials. The sign slid from the card table and drifted to the ground with a crinkle.
The boy who had addressed Tifa bent and picked up the sign. He ran his trimmed nails across the crease and propped it back on the table. It seemed sturdier. "Yet I can't help wondering, if you're drawing on the only available paper. Where are new Track pledges supposed to sign up?"
Tifa frowned. He wore a bright blue suit, and she imagined he had someone else press it for him before he got out of bed that morning. She could not imagine him getting dust on his person or sweating through his undergarments to put in a good long distance.
"You aren't," she said.
The boy frowned. "Well, I'm not, personally, but that's hardly the attitude I expected. Why even bother to have a booth if you don't want any pledges?"
"Pledges are fine," Tifa said, "pretty boys are out."
The boy chuckled. "I'll take it as a compliment." He extended his hand over the table. "I'm Reeve Tuesti, and I'd like to sign up a friend of mine, Vincent Valentine."
There was no way in Hell Tifa was letting Vincent Velocity Valentine on her track team. Track had always been hers. No one went to the meets to watch Sector Seven High School's team, and that was the point, but if Vincent joined, that could change.
"Then why isn't he here to sign himself up." Tifa crossed her arms. "If he thinks he's too good for us, he can run by himself."
Reeve placed both his palms on the table, as if to steady himself. He wrinkled his eyebrows. "He wanted to, certainly," he said, "but he has work study first period."
There were two kinds of work study kids at Sector Seven High School: afternoon and morning work study. Afternoon work study kids had completed most of the credits they needed to graduate, and they just wanted a free period. Morning work study kids generally worked because they had to help their families put food on the table.
Tifa licked her lips. "I'm sorry," she cringed as the words escaped her lips. "I'm a bitch today." She slid her notebook off the signup sheet and forced it across the table so Reeve could sign it. She offered him her blue Bic, but he waved it off and pulled a gold-plated black pen from his sleeve.
It had a Montblanc emblem. Well, at least Reeve wasn't a scholarship kid. She could go back to instantly hating him guilt-free. He scrawled Vincent's information on the sheet and clicked the pen before replacing it in his cuff.
"Practices are Tuesdays and Thursdays after school, then?" Reeve clarified.
Tifa nodded. Over Reeve's shoulder, Yuffie splashed a cup of hot tea in Cid's face. He released a strained yelp.
"Oh, and Tifa," Reeve said, leaning over the card table again, "I was sorry to hear about your mother in the paper. I commend you for returning to school so soon."
Tifa scowled, but Reeve didn't seem to notice as he strode seamlessly across the gym toward the Student Government table in the center. Tifa slumped in her chair. Even the transfers knew.
She should have fixed her hair.
Yawning, Tifa bent back over her sketch of Yuffie and Cid. The subjects across the gym now seemed to be territorially circling a tall, dark-haired boy she could only assume was Zack Fair. He appeared to be openly devouring Yuffie Kisaragi with his eyes. Personally, Tifa didn't understand the appeal of the awkward, all elbows look—though she sometimes envied it—but it took all kinds.
Tifa had started sneaking glances at Priscilla's cake tucked under the stacked bleachers and wondered if she could smudge the "I'm sorry for your loss" into "I'm sort of a boss" with minimal wear and tear, then serve it to prospective track pledges. For every slice of cake, one must run a mile to burn those calories, girls.
"—for you?"
The cake had consumed Tifa's attentions such that she had completely missed the arrival of the Senior Class President, Aeris Gainsborough. Aeris left both palms on the card table for leverage. Her hair knitted together in a tight braid reminiscent of mutual strangulation.
But Aeris also had pale skin, and a neck that sloped into swooping clavicles. Unopened collars should be considered sinful.
Noticing that she suddenly had Tifa's attention, Aeris' thin lips parted in a patient smile. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
Her glance snapped from Aeris' neck to her eyes—placid, distracted.
She didn't even give a shit.
Tifa stood, knocking Zangan's empty chair over. It snapped into a fold. "Could you say that with any less sincerity? How about some fucking originality over here. You didn't even go."
The habit of speaking too loudly must have been new. The entire right half of the gymnasium grew still. A freshman with a pair of overalls drowning her torso dropped a stack of activity fliers. The science club members adjusted their glasses in unison. The choir soloist missed her note. Even Yuffie and Cid had stopped fighting over Zack Fair.
She had a funny way of showing that she didn't want attention. But now that she had it…
"None of you went," Tifa exploded, banging her fist on the card table. It flailed half-heartedly. "Yeah, it was summer break, but everyone knew, didn't they? None of you showed up at the memorial, and you're sorry now, but I wanted—I needed you to be sorry then. I'm not going to grieve on your time."
Her attention returned to Aeris Gainsborough who had begun fidgeting uncomfortably with the end of her braid. Tifa would feel guilty later for making her the subject of her outburst.
"So what can you do for me? You can leave me the hell alone."
A handful of freshmen in running shorts had gathered behind Aeris, apparently assuming there was a line. They started to inch away from Tifa.
"Except pledges can—pledge," Tifa finished and resumed her seat, scratching the back of her neck.
Her face felt hot, but she wasn't going to cry. She cried enough at night in her room, beating the stuffing out of her pillows and hiding them under her bed so her dad wouldn't know, but he heard through the walls. He had to.
She cried for her mom, who used to be one of the only Sector Seven High School parents in the stands at her track meets. She wouldn't cry because of them.
But Aeris was still standing directly in front of Tifa, her hands on the card table.
Tifa dug her nails into her thighs to keep herself form screaming. "Didn't you hear what I said?"
Aeris cleared her throat. "This is awkward," she said, brushing bangs from her face.
"What?"
"Not that it doesn't suck that your mom died, because it does—really, wow, bummer—but I'm just going around to all the booths and making sure you got all the materials you requested at sign up. Some people asked for posters to be made beforehand or name tags, see." Aeris sighed and smoothed out her dress, looking anywhere but at Tifa.
"So if I can't get you anything, I just need you to go ahead and sign off that everything was copacetic. Then I promise I'll leave you alone."
Aeris Gainsborough placed the clipboard Tifa hadn't realized she had been carrying on the card table in front of her. She lay a pink gel pen on top of it and cleared her throat again.
Tifa's face still felt hot. She picked up the pen and popped the cap off. Then she quickly jotted her signature—she had accidentally started to sign her name in poetry club's place first, but when Aeris made a strange squawking sound, Tifa crossed it out—on the appropriate line.
Aeris put the pen behind her ear and smiled wide enough to fit the crescent moon. "Remember to vote for me," she said, then coughed politely, compulsively adjusted the stack of frayed notebook paper on Tifa's car table, and backed away. "Good luck with tna—oh, track team," Aeris said. "Oh, and the uhh—mom thing."
When Aeris turned her back to Tifa, Tifa noticed her shoulders picked up, she took a deep breath, and corrected her posture before advancing on the science club.
Cloud Strife had developed a taste for two things since his father's episode with vehicular manslaughter: marijuana and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
He ate his sandwich before school, which left him with nothing to do during the free period before he TAed Sophomore Physics except…
Well, he was in the Physics classroom now. And Doctor Bugenhagen lectured so exuberantly it was almost like he was bouncing in midair. Cloud chuckled to himself because that would be defying the laws of physics.
Cloud had the Sophomore Physics book out in front of him to make himself look engaged, though he was technically supposed to be partaking of independent study this period and not listening to the lecture. But it wasn't like he was going to pull that off this morning.
His vision focused in and out across the classroom. The heads of the sophomores wove with the blackboard into a mass of—sophomoreness. Like a continuum of sophomores. Sometimes one of them would speak to answer Doctor Bugenhagen's questions, and Cloud wondered if they were just speaking the Collective Sophomore Thought.
But that would be stupid. Cloud had been a sophomore, and he hadn't partaken of any hive mind behaviors—
Did Nanaki just lick his jowls at him? Every once in a while, in Physics, Cloud had sworn that Doctor Bugenhagen's pet was staring at him, but this morning he looked almost predatory. Cloud had no idea why the administration let that creature on the school premises. It was probably stir crazy, cooped up in a tiny classroom all day. It could snap and shred an unsuspecting student at any moment with its razor sharp canines.
Nanaki chose that moment to yawn and display his yellowed teeth.
Cloud thought about slapping himself, but he figured that would draw far too much attention. Instead, he glanced down at the sophomore text book. They were covering mass, probably. Mass was a good thing to cover. Mass was nice and harmless by itself; it was only when you factored in acceleration that you got force.
He had asked to look inside the casket out of curiosity—as a budding physicist.
The second hand of the clock seemed to be ticking backwards. Every once in a while, a perfectly good high was ruined by wanting it to be over, and then the second hand would tick backwards. Doctor Bugenhagen scribbled something on the blackboard with a fist of chalk. White lines crawled off the surface. The steel in the classroom made everything seem polished. Even Physics rooms smelled like the ammonia they stored in Chemistry labs, but Cloud could never figure out why.
High School Physics only ever covered things like magnets and switches at best, string and metal balls at its most bland. That didn't explain the ammonia smell.
He used to think formaldehyde would smell like ammonia.
That undertaker was an idiot.
Cloud stared back at Nanaki. He held his gaze for at least a minute. Maybe. His perception of time wasn't stellar, at the moment. Either way, the beast wasn't blinking. Cloud shivered and turned away quickly.
When he looked back, Nanaki wouldn't be looking at him. One, two—
Holy shit did it just wink at him?
Cloud averted his eyes again and proceeded to find the wrinkles in his textbook seam fascinating. Each tiny wrinkle caught its own light as he lifted and lowered the front cover. Like the sophomores. The sophomores must have used this textbook because of the Continuous Sophomore unconsciousness connecting them to its seam.
That was definitely stupid. Thank god Cloud wasn't one of those stoners who thought he was brilliant while he was high.
Vaguely, Cloud registered that someone was talking to him. His eyes flicked to the second hand, and though it was in the same spot, the hour hand had moved. The sophomores stood from their seats and shouldered their bags like windup soldiers and marched out of the classroom. One, two—
"Oh, hi, Doctor Bugenhagen," Cloud remembered he was supposed to acknowledge his teachers when they spoke to him directly.
"Ho ho, 'hi' indeed, Mr. Strife. Did you enjoy the lecture?"
Cloud swore he responded to Doctor Bugenhagen's question immediately, but his teacher somehow had time to rap the pommel of his cane across Cloud's textbook before he opened his mouth. "Yeah, it was—a good refresher."
"You may have noticed that one of the students didn't take the information so easily."
Don't sound high, don't sound high, don't sound high. Oh god Nanaki isn't at the front of the classroom anymore.
Cloud bunched his shoulders to clear his head. "She seemed to have trouble with the mass thing."
Doctor Bugenhagen forced his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "I was referring to Mister Wallace, but if you noticed someone else, I'd be happy to add her to your sessions after school."
"Sessions?" Cloud reasoned he would probably sound confused even if he weren't high.
"Part of our agreement before the end of the summer was that I would only give you credit for this independent study if you held office hours with my sophomores after school, remember?"
No, Cloud didn't. But last May seemed so far away, what with the second hand ticking backwards so often.
"Ho, but I dare say recent developments may have changed things. I wouldn't want to add to the stress of your situation, Mister Strife."
Cloud swallowed. His throat felt dry. He still couldn't find Nanaki. Doctor Bugenhagen had insinuated something about his dad, he felt sure. "No, it's fine. After school, Mister Wallace."
"He's agreed to meet with you tomorrow in the front parking lot," Doctor Bugenhagen said. "You may use my classroom afterward, of course, but I'd rather not go through the red tape of registering the room, so I'll just lock up and give you a key. That isn't a problem?"
Cloud had a feeling there should be something wrong with everything Doctor Bugenhagen had just said: something involving blackmail, lawsuits, liability… "No, that's okay."
At that moment, Cloud noticed Nanaki curled at his feet, his nose wedged next to the front right leg of his desk. It took every ounce of self-control he had remaining to stay seated.
"You may go now, Mister Strife," Doctor Bugenhagen said.
Cloud nodded, not taking his eyes off Nanaki, and got to his feet. He stuffed his textbook into his patched backpack and side-stepped Nanaki on his way to the door.
He had Mr. Holzoff in History next period. Luckily, he had managed to sleep through Holzoff's class all last year, and the history teacher hadn't said a word to him.
By the time History ended, Cloud had completely sobered. That made the rest of his day a drag—but that was the kind of pun he thought of when he was high.
Cloud waited in front of Sector Seven High School for his mom to pick him up and take him home. It usually took her an hour after school ended. She would fetch him in her station wagon and take him to their apartment where she made dinner, changed into her night uniform, and went back out again.
For the first time, Cloud didn't dread going home.
Cloud went to two memorial services that summer. One of them had a community presence. The bereaved—Tifa, her dad, and her grandfather—lined up outside the ceremony and took words from the guests. The art teacher went. Cloud didn't know her name because he had never taken art class, but he guessed Tifa had. Their neighbor Bill gave a speech about how Tifa's mother had stayed up with him in the barn when his best racing Chocobo got sick and had made a trip home only once to make hot cocoa and bring him some: a story so ridiculous it had to be true.
His mother had brought broccoli casserole, which Tifa's father had taken with a stiff lip and thrown in the trash. Cloud's mother had cried all the way home, swerving across the double yellow, and apologizing to Cloud because she just couldn't leave him.
The second memorial Cloud went to that summer had three guests: Cloud, his mother, and another nurse who shared the night shift with her. Only Cloud gave a speech because he thought someone should say something, but all he could manage was "He was my dad, I guess. He was probably pretty decent when he was younger." His mother had cried after that one, too.
Cloud had asked the undertaker to see inside the casket before the service. The undertaker told him that the body was probably sealed in a bag. From what he heard, there were pieces—but Cloud had to see it.
He had to make sure he was dead. So he wouldn't dread going home anymore.
The station wagon pulled up to the parking divider. The wood paneling was cracked on the passenger door, and the hinges on the side mirrors were rusted over. The driver's side window didn't work, so his mom had to lean over and crank the passenger side:
"How was your day?" she asked, smiling. Her bun had come loose.
Cloud could tell her that it was mostly a haze of inebriation, but he doubted that would make her feel better. Her smile had a crack in it.
He smiled back and got up to open the car door. It squealed. He should grease it for her. "Pretty good, I guess I'm tutoring some kid tomorrow for Physics."
"That's good—that's good, right?"
Cloud threw his backpack over his seat and crawled in through the passenger door. He used to ride the bus to school, but then he would be home longer, and he would never get to talk to his mother, just the two of them.
That wasn't the case anymore, but Cloud didn't want to ride the bus. He didn't want to sleep in until after his mother left for work in the morning. He didn't want to wait for her to get home at night.
"So—is it a girl?"
Cloud yawned. "Is who a girl?"
"The sophomore you're tutoring."
Cloud massaged his temples. "No, it isn't a girl."
"That's probably just as well." His mother moved one hand over the other on the steering wheel as she turned. "You need an older girl to take care of you."
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "I'll be okay," he said.
She didn't say anything. When she swallowed, it sounded like paper scraped together. He wished she would turn on the radio. She listened to country music, but it was better than waiting for her to cry or ask him stupid questions about girls.
"You don't have to take care of me," Cloud said. "I'll be okay."
His mother reached for the rearview mirror and adjusted it. Cloud followed her glance and met her eyes in the glass.
"I know you will." She turned back to the road and drummed her thumb against the leather steering wheel.
Cloud looked out the window and saw the rows of blue and yellow houses pass him by as they left the suburbs for the city. Buildings got taller, the roads wider and more cramped. Billboards shrunk behind them like quilt squares in the sky.
"So you'll make dinner tonight, right?" she said.
It was a bad joke, but Cloud chuckled anyway—because at least it was one.
Tifa got the key in the brass lock only after the fourth attempt, using her shoulder and foot to wedge the front door open. She stumbled in, cursing, before kicking it closed behind her.
"I'm home," she called, reflexively.
She had one boot off and was unlacing the other before the realization of how incredibly stupid she was slapped her in the face. Or, more appropriately, hit her like a car.
Her dad wouldn't be getting home for another two hours. The house was empty.
"Day 43," she said, lining her boots up next to the door. "Another one down."
