“Intercom”

My mother came back. Which was good, since my father was about done with me. He had a new house and a new wife. She wanted to install a hot tub. He suggested that my mother might like it if I stayed with her part of the week. She wasn’t happy about it but she let me spend the night and sleep in her office sometimes. My father’s new house was a sprawling split-level with four bedrooms, a game room, a library, and changing rooms by the pool. There were only three of us. The bedrooms had intercoms on the walls by the light switches. They didn’t work. I wanted them to work. No one can interrupt you when you’re on an intercom. Then again, anyone can yell at you remotely without relenting. The new wife had cut large squares of blue and green carpet and covered the floor of the game room in a checkerboard pattern. She got a pool table for cheap. It was warped just enough so that learning on it ruined any chance I had at being any good. There was still room for an indoor bar, even though there was already an outdoor bar. My new high school was also bigger. The classes were larger, the work less rigorous, the students more worldly. I was both distracted and bored. At dinner, while the new wife served beef Stroganoff or lemon Jell-O with mandarin oranges, my father would scold me about my new friends and my falling grades. It wasn’t a discussion, it was noise on an intercom. I didn’t know why my attitude had changed but also I did. In the fourth grade I was supposed to make a Valentine’s Day card for a girl that sat two chairs over. I didn’t understand why. It was explained to me, vaguely, and I realized I didn’t feel that way about her. I felt that way about the boy that sat in front of me. Now I was in the tenth grade and considering what the follow-through might look like. I deflected. I said I would try harder. The new wife wasn’t a fan of honesty. She was on her second marriage and still couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother that she smoked. My father didn’t want to know the truth either but still wasn’t satisfied with my answers. One night, dropping me off at my mother’s, they asked me what my problem was. I told them. They sat, still and silent, in the front seat. They didn’t turn around. When you are waiting, a minute is a long time. I waited another minute. They said nothing, wouldn’t look at me. I unlatched my seat belt and got out of the car. I went inside. I don’t know how long they sat there before they drove away. They never came back. I asked my mother if I could stay with her for a while. She wasn’t happy. She said We’ll see.

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“Intercom” from I Do Know Some Things, copyright 2025 by Richard Siken, used by permission of Copper Canyon Press.