Her Hopes Up in Smoke

We don’t have keyholes. We have warped sheets of plywood as doors. We’ve painted them to make them less utilitarian. A hook and eye fastens the door shut. But my parents’ door has suffered the loss of a few eyes over the years of slammed plywood on the heels of their fights.

Subsequently, there’s a hole where the hook used to be screwed it. It was then moved a few inches up. But it’s a keyhole of sorts. It’s a keyhole for waterlogged houses on stilts in flood zone.

I crouch down, not quite in a kneel, because I know I might need to move fast to hide my eavesdropping.

Knowledge is a weapon and it’s the only one I can arm myself with. If I listen to what’s stressing them out, I’ll be more prepared to say the right encouraging words at dinner. I’ll also know what topics to avoid so that I don’t push any buttons.

I peek inside the opening, but it’s no use. He’s arranged the blanket too carefully. Plywood doors should be easy to hear through. But there’s one problem—we hang blankets over the door from the combined living and dining room to keep the heat in the main living areas. My father hangs several blankets on the interior of his plywood door, making it hard to open, under the illusion that this is enough to keep the weed odor inside.

I don’t think saving up for real doors was ever a consideration.

“The kid can’t figure it out on her own?” he groans, in that voice of utter disgust he only makes when he thinks I can’t hear.

Shit. They’re talking about my math course. I didn’t imagine homeschooling would turn my stupidity with numbers into such a huge stressor on them.

“I don’t know what to tell her,” my mother says, then pauses, likely to take a drag. “It’s totally different from what I learned in school!”

They’re probably both still smoking cigarettes. The odor leaked through the blankets and the plywood. I make my breathing more shallow so it doesn’t make me cough and give away my position.

“And we can’t ask Susie to help her,” he says. “She’s smart, she’d figure out we’re homeschooling.”

My mother says something so quiet it’s inaudible.

I hear the metallic tink of metal on glass before I smell the weed. Oh.

I was so disappointing I’d pushed him to a different drug.

“I can’t believe we raised a stupid kid.”

I wince. It’s usually past noon when he smokes weed, but it’s only eleven. I suppose the concept of 9-5 doesn’t matter to a man who only works in the summer. I straighten my knees slowly so that the floor doesn’t creak beneath my feat. I tiptoe back to my seat at the kitchen table. I slide into the chair and purposefully shift around to make any creaking sound like shifting creeks rather than sitting creak. The sitting creak is shorter, sharper. But paired with the extra sliding noises, I think it’s enough to dupe them, if they’re even paying attention.

I stare at the math textbook on the table in front of me. I’ve read the instructions through twice, but it’s just a gobbdigook of numbers and letters. I’d initially had the foolish hope that since I’m okay with words, adding letters to numbers might make them easier.

I can’t let them down. I can’t be stupid. What good am I if I’m not even smart? I’m useless enough as it is. I cost them so much money and don’t make enough to offset it as it is.

I take a shaky breath and read through the instructions for a third time. My head throbs. But I keep trying.

Eventually, my mother leaves his room/their room with those fast steps that mean he’s pushed her to the brink. She’ll hole up in the bathroom for an hour or more now. And it’ll just be me and the books again, like always.

I keep my expression neutral in case he comes out next. But if tears were allowed, I’d cry in frustration. They’re already pricking the corners of my eyes. But weakness like that will only make him angrier. I clutch the mechanical pencil tighter. I’ve already worn its eraser down since I get so much more wrong than I get right.

But I have to do this. I have to, I have to, I have to.