|
: : : FREYA WALKS DOWN THE HALLWAY, toweling her hair. She pauses by the door to the office—Tim's room. She cocks her ear at the door and listens for some indication of life.
—Has he been up yet? she says to Jakob, who's sitting in the living room.
—Hmm? says Jakob, looking up from the paper. —I haven't seen him.
—What time even is it? she asks.
—It's, uh— Jakob squints at the clock —it's like 8:45.
—He's supposed to be at the store at ten, Freya says. She frowns at the door, adds minutes up in her head. He's got time—Tympanum's only about fifteen minutes away, and in a pinch Tim could probably pull on pants and a T-shirt and be out the door in ten. But still—
Jakob blows across the top of his coffee. —That kid likes his sleep.
—Yeah, Freya says. She comes into the living room and sits down on the couch, makes and releases fists in her wet hair. —He was out pretty late last night.
—Did you hear him come in, even?
—I think so—I heard the door around 3.
—Man, Jakob says. —I slept right through that.
—Yeah, you were pretty zonked, Freya says. She tilts her head, gets behind her ears with the towel.
Jakob looks at the paper again: Darfur, Sudan. —What is there even to do in Chicago at three in the morning? he asks, after a minute. —I mean, he's not going to bars—at least I assume he's not—
—I don't know, Freya says. —He's been hanging out up at the skate shop with some of those kids. I think they've accepted him as one of their own. He probably goes, hangs out at their place—
—Do you think they're—good people? For him to be hanging out with, I mean?
—I don't know, Freya says. —I mean, they're harmless. I mean—you know what those kinds of kids are like—maybe they drink or smoke a joint or something but I don't think they're getting in any real trouble, per se. Not like the trouble he'll be in if he doesn't get his ass to work on time. She says this loud enough that Tim should be able to hear it if he's just waking up.
Jakob disappears behind the paper again.
—Is there more coffee? Freya asks.
—Yeah, I made a whole pot.
—OK, she says. She gets up and heads towards the kitchen. On her way past the office door she stops, knocks lightly. —Tim? she says. —You up?
No response. She regrets knocking on the door almost immediately—she remembers herself at age eighteen, and she remembers that at that age she felt competent to run her own life, and it annoyed her when other people—adults—behaved as though she weren't. He's got time, she reminds herself. But still. She finds herself wanting to see him up and out of bed, or at least making a gesture in that direction, some show of effort, a mutter or a moan of protest, anything.
Great, she thinks. I hate having to be the adult.
: : :
:: Year entries
Index | << | 71
:: Freya entries
Index | << | 13 | >>
:: Jakob entries
Index | << | 8 | >>
|
