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Take it one minute at a time.
That was what Mom had told him, when he got to 8:30 PM Sunday night after his first week of seventh grade and, for the first time in his life, had more homework than he could reasonably cram in the car on the way to school the next morning … and promptly freaked completely out.
She hadn’t scolded him for procrastinating—though she probably should’ve. She’d just sat him down at the kitchen table and rubbed his shoulders and made him a cup of hot cocoa; and then she’d kept him company until he finally finished, exhausted but triumphant, at a quarter-to-midnight.
They’d never told Dad. Mom had been great, that way. She didn’t hold screw-ups over his head, over any of his brothers’ heads, more than she absolutely had to in order to make the lesson stick—and then she counted it as learned and moved on. He’d even broken her beloved guitar (that she’d hand-painted herself) and gotten nothing but a sigh and a firm but quiet reminder that the repair would come out of his allowance.
It hadn’t, as it happened—mostly because, a mere handful of days later, they'd gone on a family ski trip. And on the last day, when they were supposed to be done, he'd been a brat and begged for just one go on the real grown-up slope—
And then she’d bled out under a blanket of snow, holding him in her arms.
He hadn’t understood that at the time, of course. He’d been way too concussed to comprehend anything beyond the fact that she’d stopped talking—to understand what the stillness meant.
He’d taken a blow to the head and cracked a few ribs. She had multiple broken ribs of her own, one of which had ruptured her liver; a dislocated shoulder; and a compound fracture in her right femur. But she’d still been the one comforting him, soothing him through the consequences of his own actions just like she had in the kitchen that night, telling him that they were all right, it was going to be okay, Dad was coming—
Dad had come; but too late for Mom. And for the past nine months, ever since waking up in the hospital and understanding the full magnitude of what his selfishness had done to his family, all Scott Tracy could think was—
Take it one minute at a time.
Guilt, cold and cutting and so, so heavy, to the point he could barely breathe under its weight some nights. And grief, wrenching and twisting and aching, hollowing out his chest and burning his eyes and freezing his lungs …
If he let himself think about how he was going to feel like this forever, he’d crack. So he didn’t. He focused on one minute, one thing, one step at a time, just like Mom had taught him.
And so far, it’d worked pretty well. It had gotten him through the move to Grandma’s house in California—
(You didn't just lose Mom, you lost her home, you lost everything connected to her—)
—and through starting as a sophomore in a new high school. All he needed to do was make sure there was always something to keep him occupied—if he stayed in the moment, kept too busy to think, he was fine.
And the great thing about having four little brothers was that there was always a reason to be busy.
“Ducky!” pleaded Alan.
Scott tugged the pajama shirt gently over his baby brother’s head. “Ducky lives in the bathtub, buddy.”
“Ducky!”
“I mean,” Virgil said from the bedroom doorway, “there’s nothing stopping Ducky from leaving the bathtub?”
“It’s the precedent I’m not crazy about,” Scott grunted as he pulled small fists through armholes. “Ducky leaves the bathroom, then the wooden spoons leave the kitchen, and then there’s dish soap all over the stairs and I can’t find my favourite guitar pick because he flushed it down the toilet.”
“Those are kinda specific examples?”
“Apparently I remember Gordon as a toddler better than you do.” Scott ruffled blond hair, just barely suppressing a chuckle at the eighteen-month-old’s jutted-out lower lip. “Don’t worry, bud, you’ve got a whole room full of cute animals to cuddle.” He reached through the bars into the crib, grabbed, at random, a plushie squirrel, and bopped Alan lightly on the nose with it. “See?”
Alan did that adorable thing with his mouth when he clearly longed to smile but was pouting on principle; but, as Scott scooped him up, he relented enough to wrap chubby arms around his big brother’s neck.
“Want me to get him settled?” Virgil asked.
“Is your homework done?”
“Everything but piano practice.”
Scott was, briefly, tempted. He had a giant set of trig problems that had to be done for second period, and a history essay due after lunch. But Virgil had his piano recital after school tomorrow, and that took precedence. Besides, Allie liked it best when Scott was the one to tuck him in. “Go finish it, then. I’ve got it.”
“You sure?”
“‘Course.”
Virgil retreated, shutting the door behind him. Scott moved to lower Alan into his crib—but the baby’s grip tightened with a tiny whine. Oh man, it was going to be one of those nights, apparently. “All right. Let’s snuggle for a bit.” He sat down on the edge of Gordon’s bed, stroking Alan’s back, rocking slightly, the way Mom had taught him to do it. “It’s sleeeeepy time, little buddy. Just relax.”
It took a few minutes, but the death grip around his neck loosened—not so much that he was convinced Alan was actually asleep, but enough that he could be sure he was calm, nearly ready to—
A herd of elephants clattered up the stairs and hurled itself through the door. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t do anything this time!”
Scott sighed as Alan stirred back to full wakefulness. “What’s up?”
“All I did was measure him—I didn’t even say anything, but now he won’t stop— ”
Scott realised, belatedly, that the look of panic on Gordon’s was not, for once, fear of punishment. “John?”
Gordon nodded, brown eyes blown wide.
“Ooooookay.” Scott stood and deposited the toddler into his crib unceremoniously, ignoring the aggrieved whimper. “Stay here and keep Alan happy, okay?”
Gordon was, alarmingly, spooked enough to comply without complaint; and Scott hurried downstairs and through the arch to the kitchen.
He was greeted by the sight of his grandmother on her hands and knees next to the table; and Virgil, hovering beside her. “Easy, honey,” Grandma was saying. “You’re okay. Nothing’s wrong. You’re safe.”
Judging by the frantic gasps coming from beneath the furniture, it was not helping.
Which wasn’t particularly surprising. Grandma was great—kind and sweet and funny—but she’d never had that near-magic nurturing touch Mom had. No one did. Lucille Tracy could steady a panicking horse with a look.
(But she’s not here—)
Scott pulled out a chair at the opposite side and crawled under the table. John was curled into himself, eyes vacant, hands squeezing opposite biceps, shaking with each too-quick inhale.
“Hey, Johnny,” he murmured, voice pitched low. It was a blatant violation of the diminutive ban Grandma had decided to enforce last week after Virgil came home from school crying—but ‘John’ was technically a nickname anyway —and if she decided to fight him on it, right now, with his baby brother mid-panic-attack, he wouldn't be responsible for his reply.
He reached out and, cautiously, rubbed the twelve-year-old’s knee. He didn’t react, either positively or negatively, so Scott inched closer—and closer—then slid an arm carefully around his shoulders and pulled him to his chest; and John crumpled against him, the heaving breaths softening into sobs. “There you go. I’m here. I’ve got you. Shhhh. What’s the matter?”
No response, but he hadn’t really expected one. He peered past the chair legs to his grandmother. “What happened?”
“We were helping Gordon with his math homework,” she said, rubbing her eyes under her glasses. “He’s supposed to measure all his family members and calculate the average height. So he measured John first, and then—honestly, I have no idea what set him off.”
She sounded exhausted, Scott thought with an internal wince. She’d had an early shift at the hospital that morning, and an emergency surgery had run three hours over the day before that. She shouldn't have to be both saving lives and running around after her grandchildren.
(If it wasn't for you, she wouldn't need to—)
He rubbed John’s back gently. “Has he not grown much or something?”
“No, the opposite—he’s grown a centimeter and a half in the past two months—” She paused as John cried even harder. “Why is that a problem? It’s a healthy growth rate, sweetheart.”
Scott frowned, running through possibilities in his mind. He knew there had been some bullying issues at him and Virgil’s junior high—but Virg had it under control, and, as far as he was aware, none of the digs at John had been about height. And he wasn’t involved in any extracurriculars with height categories, or a maximum height limit—
And then it came to him; and, once again, he had to resist the impulse to laugh.
Or possibly start crying himself. The urges kinda felt the same, these days.
“John—” He ducked his head, moved closer to his brother’s ear. “Are you worried about the space licence criteria?”
John’s answer was a nod and a whimper.
“Oh, for crying out—” Grandma exhaled slowly, visibly restraining herself. “Baby, you have to be over six foot five to be disqualified. You’re not growing that fast.”
John did not seem reassured. Scott cleared his throat, pushing the inappropriate mirth down. “Bud, Dad’s six-one. No one else in the family is taller than that. You’ll be fine.”
John hiccupped, his fingers tightening around Scott’s arm. “You d-don’t know that.”
“Well … okay, no, I don’t know. But the odds of you, with your genes, suddenly being way way taller than Dad are … extremely low.”
“How low?”
Scott sighed and made eye contact with Grandma, then pressed a kiss to the top of his baby brother’s head. “Let’s look it up, shall we?”
Twenty minutes later, seated together on John’s bed, they finally came to a statistical answer that satisfied the younger boy; and John leaned against him again with a quiet murmur of “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I was getting better. I was doing so well at not losing it over stupid …”
He had been, Scott thought. Before Colorado. But an anxiety regression was understandable, under the circumstances. “I know. It’s all right. You’ll get back to that point. And you’ll get even better at handling stuff.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.” He brushed his hair back, flipping a ginger curl off his forehead. “And it is totally okay for you to come and get a hug whenever you want, and I’ll help you through whatever’s scaring you. No matter what it is. Okay?”
“Thank you,” John whispered. “How do you do it? How are you not freaking out, all the time?”
(Who says I’m not?)
“I just … think about what I have to do. What I can do. And then I do it.”
“And if there’s nothing?”
“There’s always something.”
John huffed out a tiny laugh. “I guess it does get pretty crazy around here, huh?”
“Yeah. But I like it that way.”
John smiled weakly and flopped back, blinking up at the sky; and Scott joined him, their shoulders pressed together. There weren’t enough bedrooms at Grandma’s for John to have his own, and he was too light a sleeper to share, so, a few weeks after coming here, they’d improvised: there was a section of the (thankfully insulated) attic, near the access hatch over the landing, where he and Virgil had dragged a mattress and set up a makeshift bed for their little brother. The best part, from John’s perspective, and, frankly, from Scott’s as well: there was also a skylight. Usually there was too much light pollution for proper stargazing, but it was still nice. And tonight there was a full moon, glowing silver between wispy clouds.
Dad had lived up there for the better part of a decade. Somehow, back then, he'd felt less far away.
John's thoughts must've echoed his, because a moment later he spoke, voice trembling again: “I just want him to be proud of me.”
“Johnny—” Scott squeezed his hand; and bit back his first instinct to respond with reassurance. Because, really, what did he know, to a Jonathan-approved level of certainty, about what was going on in their father's head? It wasn't exactly something they could research.
“I'm proud of you,” he replied, finally. “Even if you never leave atmo, I'll still be so proud of my brilliant little brother. I promise.”
John sighed, slowly; but he pressed Scott's hand in return. “Thank you, Scooter.”
“‘Course.” Scott exhaled. Now that he was horizontal, he was suddenly very tired. But he had stuff to do. So he shoved himself back up into a sitting position and ran a hand through John's hair again. “Do you want me to stay here until you fall asleep?”
“No,” John mumbled, heavy-lidded eyes still fixed on the moon. “I’m okay now. But thanks.”
“All right. Goodnight. Love you.”
John smiled again, very faintly. “You’re such a sap.”
“That’s a funny way to pronounce ‘I love you too, my wonderful amazing fantabulous big brother’.”
The younger boy rolled his eyes, grin broadening. “I love you too, Scott.”
When he climbed back down the ladder onto the mez, Grandma was just coming out of Alan and Gordon's room, closing the door behind her. She nodded up at the attic hatch. “How's he doing?”
“He's calm. Not asleep yet, but he said he was okay.”
“Good. Thank you, Scott.” She rubbed her forehead, sighing. “I … should be better at this. More patient. Especially with him.”
“Hey.” Scott put his arm around her shoulders. “It would be unfair for you to be awesome at everything. Gotta leave some stuff for the rest of us.”
“How do you manage to make a compliment sassy?” She kissed his cheek—she had to stand on tiptoes to do that, now. “Alan and Gordon are all tucked in. I've got another early surgery first thing. Think you can handle getting Alan to daycare and the rest of you off to school?”
“Yeah, ‘course I can.” He was still too young to legally be behind the wheel on public roads, but self-driving cabs existed for a reason. “You finish in plenty of time for the recital, right?”
“I've got a three hour buffer, so that should be fine. I'll pick up Alan, it's on my way. Can you go get Gordon? Or Jeff could, I suppose,” she added, mostly as an afterthought.
“I'll check with him.” If he comes home in time. Or at all.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” She yawned. “Bed for me, I think. Make sure Virgil doesn't stay up practicing all night?”
He laughed. “I'll do my best.”
Virgil was sitting at the electric keyboard tucked in the corner of the living room, giant headphones over his ears. Scott waited beside him until his fingers stilled, then snapped his own in front of his little brother's face. “Hey. How's it going?”
Virgil jumped, then yanked off his headphones and glared up at him half-heartedly. “It's … going.”
Scott grabbed the nearest chair and tugged it closer, next to the piano stool, then sat down. “Want a second pair of ears?”
“Do you have time?”
Well … no. Not really. But his little brother had started playing in school recitals when he was seven; and, every night before a performance, Mom had been right there on the piano stool next to him in quiet support. This was his first at his new school, the first since—
There was no way he was leaving him to practice alone.
He leaned over and rubbed Virgil's shoulder. “I'll make time.”
Virgil grinned gratefully and handed him the spare pair of headphones hooked behind the music stand. “Thanks.”
Scott put them on. “You're doing ‘Für Elise’, right?”
“Well.” Virgil hesitated. “That was the plan. But … I think I kinda …” He bit his lip. “I've been practicing ‘Nuvole Bianche’. At school.”
Scott could not quite suppress the flinch.
“Never mind,” Virgil said hastily. “Stupid idea. I need to just go with what I planned—”
“No, no—” Scott cleared his throat. “I'd … I'd like to hear it.”
Virgil watched him carefully. “You sure?”
“I'm sure.”
“... Okay.” Virgil put his headphones back on, swiped back up to the top of the sheet music on his tablet, placed his fingers on the keys—and began to play.
Lucille Tracy had been more of a guitarist than a pianist. But she'd still known her way around a keyboard—she’d been Virgil's first teacher, before he'd even started school—and she'd loved the works of Ludovico Einaudi. One of Scott's earliest memories—so early Virgil hadn't even been born yet, her belly big and round—was of her at the piano in the Gran Roca lounge, soothing him to sleep with the soft, rhythmic music.
“Nuvole Bianche” had been her favourite piece. At one point, when he was about eight, she'd gone through a phase of playing it so much he'd actually been sick of it.
Unthinkable, now.
He wrapped his fingers around the edges of his seat and closed his eyes against the tears.
(I miss you, Mom, I miss you so much—)
It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard, and he couldn't breathe .
(I'm sorry—I’m so sorry, Mom—I never meant to hurt you—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorryI’msorryI'm—)
He ripped off the headphones halfway through the final set of chords.
Virgil froze, then turned to him, eyes wide.
(Oh, great job, Scott, that was super supportive—)
“Sorry,” he croaked, brushing hastily at his cheeks. “Sorry. That was—that was perfect, Vee. You have to play that.”
“... really?”
“Really.” He scooted the chair forward and pulled his little brother into a hug. “That was amazing.”
Virgil squeezed him tightly, whispering: “I don't want to upset you.”
“It didn't,” he lied. “It won't.”
“What about Dad?”
Oh. Actually, yeah, that might be a … problem.
Dad did not talk about Mom. At all. And when someone slipped and mentioned her in his presence—increasingly rare, now, given that he was barely ever home before they all went to bed—he got this look that made Scott feel like he might as well’ve stabbed his father in the heart and twisted the jagged knife.
He did not want to see Jeff Tracy's face when he heard this.
Virgil interpreted his lack of response correctly, and, as he withdrew from the embrace, he shook his head. “No, it's a bad idea, I—I won't. I won't do that to him.”
Scott nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, okay. That's probably … for the best. How about you show me ‘Für Elise’ instead?”
They sat at the piano for another half-hour before Scott looked at his watch—9:38 PM—and ordered his thirteen-year-old brother up to bed.
And then he sat down with his school tablet, and looked at the history essay prompt—and oh crud , it was 1500 words, not 500, how had he not seen that when it was assigned three weeks ago—
He took a deep breath; then another, long, slow, controlled—then tossed the tablet aside and grabbed his guitar off the stand by the piano.
He’d barely played in months. He hadn't gotten a new teacher—
(Probably just as well, given what you did to the last one—)
—so there was no practice requirement—and just hearing a guitar hurt—and he had no time to be screwing around—he probably had a good five hours of homework to do at minimum—
But while Virgil had been playing, if he shut his eyes, he could just about imagine that it was someone else at the piano.
And he'd been stupid and he was exhausted and overwhelmed and he wanted his mother so so bad and maybe if he played he could recapture that moment of connection just for a tiny second—
The guitar was out of tune, of course, so that took a minute. Even in tune, it didn't sound quite as good as Mom's—
(But you destroyed that too—)
—but it was an instrument Lucille Tracy had chosen, so it was still exceptional quality. He dropped onto the couch and arranged his left hand over the fretboard—and oh, great, he'd lost his fingertip calluses, wonderful—and carefully picked out the first verse of ‘Blackbird’. He fumbled a few times, but it was recognisable. Mom probably would've given it a C+.
Another ten minutes, another few dozen tries, and he was down to D–. It was no use. His hands were trembling, clumsy, slow; and he wasn't Virgil, he couldn't just sit down and bring worlds into being with his fingers. Bring Mom into being.
He leaned the guitar against his leg and scrubbed his hands over his face. Keep it together. One minute at a time. He had responsibilities. Things to do. Math first, he decided—that was due three periods earlier, and was at least theoretically less work, so he'd knock that out and then worry about the history essay.
So he put the guitar back where it belonged and retrieved his tablet from under the coffee table where it had slid when he chucked it and got his textbook out of his bag and made himself a cup of cocoa and settled in to do his trigonometry homework.
About two-thirds of the way through a nightmarish cosine problem set later, the front door opened, and Scott looked around with a start.
Dad was home.
It had been over a week since Jeff Tracy had arrived home early enough—or Scott had been up late enough—for them to cross paths in the evening. He had seen him in the interim, though—on Sunday morning, he'd lingered long enough at the breakfast table for Scott to catch him sculling the last drops of his coffee.
As it had then, Scott's heart lurched in a sickening combination of guilt and longing .
“Hi, Dad.”
He managed to sound pretty normal, which was impressive, under the circumstances.
“Hey.”
He expected Jeff to disappear off upstairs; but, instead, he dropped his stuff and collapsed into the armchair across from him. He looked … ‘haggard’ was probably the most complimentary way to put it: thinner and more lined than he had been Before, eyes dark-circled and cheeks covered in a shadow of stubble.
(You did that to him, Scott—)
“What are you still doing up?” Jeff asked, smothering a yawn.
Scott checked the clock in the top corner of his tablet. 11:39 PM. He'd been at it for two hours, and he wasn't done—and he still had his essay—
He cleared his throat, swallowed down the panic, aimed for casual— “Math homework is kicking my a—” And overshot, corrected quickly— “—butt?”
Jeff smirked. “Language.”
“I didn't say it!” Scott protested; but secretly, he treasured the brief half-smile, folded the mental picture carefully away.
Jeff made a sceptical noise and massaged his neck, then stretched and winced. “Start your homework earlier in the evening from now on, all right? You need your sleep.”
It was an innocuous enough parental rebuke. But for some reason it struck Scott right in the sternum, hard and sharp. Perhaps because it was so unlike Mom—because, in the same position, she'd supported instead of scolded—or perhaps because—
Then anger hit him, sudden, achy, hot. He wasn't worthy of parental comfort. But his baby brothers were, cried out for it, craved it—and he’d been the one giving it, at his own expense, all evening, all week, all month, all year—
What he'd done was unforgivable, he knew that. He'd accepted that he was the architect of his own misery. But it wasn't Virgil or John or Gordon or Alan’s fault, and they needed their father; but Jeff had withdrawn from them, too—punished the younger for the sin of the elder—and it wasn't fair, he wasn't capable of filling the gap —
“Yes, sir,” he mumbled, fingers curling tense around his tablet, staring down at a particularly offensive isosceles triangle.
“Anything I can help with?” Jeff asked, after a moment; and he almost looked up.
Dad hadn't offered to help him with his homework in years, even back at Gran Roca. And the offer was so, so tempting. Because maybe if he said yes, Dad would come and join him on the couch and put an arm around him and not just help him make sense of the geometric madness on the screen but also the unbearable chaos in his brain—maybe he'd hold him and rock him and stroke his back and Scott could let go, safe, comforted, loved—
He yanked himself back to reality with an effort. No. He didn't deserve that; and Jeff wouldn't give it. If he opened the door, he'd only be disappointed.
“I’ve got it.”
“It’s nearly midnight, kiddo.”
“I said I’ve got it.”
It came out harsher than he intended, a snap to cover the emotion; and Jeff, justifiably, was unimpressed. “Watch your tone, son.”
“Sorry,” he muttered. And still somehow managed to sound churlish. Maybe he was. He wasn't even sure, any more. All he knew was that he was terribly tired, and there was so much to do, and there would be more in the morning, and the burden was of his own making but also of Dad’s and oh he wanted a hug so so so much and he had no right, he never would—
He heard movement, and looked up. Jeff had stood, picked his jacket up off the coffee table. “Come on. Up to bed. Better to get up early and finish it then than to try and fight it out now when you're exhausted.”
Scott pressed his lips together, shoved back the desperate yes at the thought of the relief unconsciousness would bring, forced himself to think it through logically. The trigonometry was taking longer than expected, so there was probably another hour needed for that. He averaged five hundred words an hour if he wasn't being too particular, so he could probably do the whole essay in four if he slacked on the research. Total of five more hours between now and history class. Lunch and recess combined made one. His third period study hall made another. So he'd just have to find three. Plus he had to get the kids fed and ready in the morning, which was an extra hour at least … but if he took a nap now, set his alarm for 3:30 AM … yeah, it could be done. It'd suck, but it could be done. And Dad was probably right that it would be easier once he'd slept.
“Okay.” He turned his tablet screen off and put it down, and remembered his promise to Grandma. “Do you want me to collect Gordon before Virgil’s recital tomorrow, or do you want to?”
Jeff grimaced briefly, guilty surprise flickering over his face. “Ah …”
And the anger was back. But not heat, this time—frozen fury, so abrupt and intense he almost shivered.
He'd expected his father to ask him to do the pickup—that was pretty much a given, the question a mere courtesy. But he'd naïvely assumed that Jeff would’ve actually remembered the recital in the first place.
That was probably pretty stupid of him, in hindsight.
“You forgot. Didn't you?”
“I’ve got a conflict—meeting with a prospect at Caltech.” Jeff sighed. “I’ll make it up to him.”
“The hell you will.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Scott hadn't actually intended to speak, the profanity slipping out without his conscious assent. But he'd said it, now—and it couldn't be taken back—and he was so utterly livid he wouldn’t’ve if he could.
He jumped to his feet, hugging himself in instinctive self-defence. “Just saying you’ve been doing an awful lot of forgetting lately. And not an awful lot of making up for it.”
Jeff rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Scott, if this is about your flying lessons, I promise we’ll sort it in the summer—”
And now Scott almost laughed. He hadn't ever actually expected his father to follow through on that, not since they'd moved here—they both knew it was a polite fiction, a lie to paper over the gulf that would always have to be between them, now—didn’t mean it didn't sting, but he’d never let himself believe— “It's not that. If it were just me you'd been blowing off, I could live with it—”
(I’ve earned it—)
“But Virgil’s been preparing for this for weeks! It's the first thing I've seen him actually excited about since—” He caught himself, nearly choked. “Gordon was begging to go to the beach with you for months after we got here. He's stopped asking now, of course. And you promised John you'd chaperone his school observatory trip—then pulled out at the last minute—and trust me, when you're in junior high and you've promised your class the first man on Mars, showing up with your grandmother is a one-way ticket to social ostracism!”
He was full-blown ranting, now, but he didn't care—and Jeff had opened his mouth to interrupt, eyes wide with hurt, but he didn't care about that either—he wanted to wound him, to make him understand the pain he was causing—
“You can’t buy your way out of that with a new telescope—not that you’ve fulfilled that promise, either! When’s the last time you put Alan to bed? Do you know why Grandma banned us from using nicknames? What did we eat for dinner tonight? Why didn’t I start my homework until nearly ten?”
(Why won't you love me?)
(You know why, Scott.)
His voice stumbled, cracked, ragged and torn. “Oh, right, you’ve got no idea, because—you—weren’t— here.”
Jeff’s response, when it came, was stern—but shaky. “You need to understand that I have certain responsibilities—”
Scott almost laughed. Yes. That was the point. Whatever he'd done, however much Scott had hurt him, Gordon and John and Alan and Virgil were still just kids —
( I’m still just a kid—)
“—and I don't appreciate having my parenting criticised by my fifteen-year-old. You do not tell me how to raise my children!”
“See, that’s the problem—you’re not raising them! I am!”
Jeff didn't respond—just stared at him, blank, pale, still.
And Scott's rage drained away, and left nothing but remorse in its place. Because he could practically hear her, gentle but firm: calm down, Scooter—don’t let your mouth work faster than your mind—
Lucille Tracy, by her own admission, had a fiery-hot temper. But she'd gotten so good at reining it in that he'd only ever seen a handful of flashes of it; and she'd tried to teach her impetuous eldest son to do the same. Unsuccessfully, apparently.
(She'd be so disappointed in you—)
Yes, Dad was failing his younger siblings. But he would never have done so if Scott hadn't killed his wife and broken his heart.
It was his fault. The fallout was his responsibility to manage, no matter how hard it got. He had absolutely no right to complain.
And he couldn't look at the agony in his father's face for a second longer.
He rushed for the stairs, dodging past Jeff as he said his name, near-blind as his eyes filled—caught the handrail like a lifeline—and bolted up them two at a time, tripping once near the top, heart thumping and lungs spasming and thoughts shrieking—
There was movement on the mezzanine, a flash of brown pajamas and a swing of a door, the door to the bedroom he and Virgil shared—and oh crap, how much had he heard —
He yanked the door open again, slammed it behind him; and waited, just for a second, holding his breath, hand on the doorknob: to see if Dad would follow, if he could hear him on the stairs.
He could not.
So he stumbled forward and sank onto his bed, and shoved his pillow in his mouth to muffle the howl; and for a moment, he was so terribly tempted to just … lose it. To give in to the looming hysteria, scream and wail, lend full voice to his anguish, stop trying to keep it together and just let himself shatter—
(If I do, will Dad come hold me?)
Virgil. Virgil was right here in the room, and the others were just down the hall. He couldn't do that to them, it would frighten them so much—
(Get a freaking grip.)
(How?)
(I can't breathe, I can't—Mommy—)
(One minute at a time.)
All he needed to do in the moment, priority one, was stop crying. So he forced himself to loosen his grip on the pillow—inhaled slowly—exhaled slower—imagined a tender hand running up and down his spine—until at last his pulse settled and his gasps slowed.
Priority two. He rolled over and looked across the room. Virgil was curled in a ball, covers pulled over his head, the bundle of blankets trembling like a leaf.
(Look what you did—)
“Virgil?” he whispered.
No response.
“I know you're awake. I saw you in the hall.”
The lump shifted; then Virgil emerged with a little hiccuping breath, pushed himself up and looked over at Scott. His face was smeared with tears. “Are you okay?”
That was Virgil Tracy in a nutshell: that kid never worried about himself first. Scott almost chuckled, affection and guilt warring beneath his ribcage. “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice you until it was too late—I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“‘M all right,” Virgil said, brushing at his cheeks.
Scott tried to think, to force his brain to come up with more convincing words of comfort; but he was so very weary. So he held out his arm instead, and Virgil rushed over and jumped up next to him, nuzzling into his chest the way he had when they were small.
It's okay, he wanted to say. It's going to be all right.
But he hated lying to Virgil.
So instead he kissed his hair and clung to his baby brother, and let his eyes sink shut.
Then the door clicked, and he opened them again with a quick inhale, hoping against hope that Dad—
It was John, silhouetted by the hall light, peering cautiously around the frame.
Scott squashed down the achy disappointment and forced a smile; and John slipped through, closed the door, and tiptoed over to them; then climbed over their legs and lay down between Scott and the wall. Scott, officially too drained to speak, pulled him close with his free arm and ran his palm back and forth over his shoulderblade.
Priority three: sleep. If real couldn't be achieved, fake would do, for John and Virgil's sake. So he closed his eyes again, relaxed his muscles, counted his breaths; and imagined they were lying on the carpet in the Gran Roca lounge, sprawled in a warm sunbeam, with Mom curled on the couch with her guitar, playing gentle lullabies …
… and, finally, pretense became reality.
Scott’s alarm went off at the usual 6:30 AM; because, in his stupid fit of self-pity, he'd forgotten to change it.
But the panic only lasted for a split-second, because John and Virgil were still right there—so he gave John a quick hug and nudged a groggy Virgil fully awake and got up to go fetch Alan.
He could see from the open bedroom doors that Grandma was already gone; and so was Dad.
The one upside of the whole mess was that, sandwiched cosily between his brothers, he'd actually slept really well—no nightmares, not even benign dreams—so at least his head was clearer, less scrambled. Maybe too clear, actually: he felt sort of … numb. But at least that was better than the pain.
It was way too late for him to get his homework done on time, of course, but he'd figure it out. Once he'd dealt with the morning routine. One thing at a time.
Alan, thankfully, was in a good mood, so he got him dressed without any drama—handed him over to Virgil and went to shower and dress himself—fried eggs and made toast and forced John to actually eat and made sure Gordon had all his homework and cleaned up the mess Allie made pulling the lid off his sippy cup and got him into a new t-shirt—and then bundled them all into a cab.
Daycare was the first stop; then the primary school; and then it was just him and John and Virgil.
Unsurprisingly, it was Virgil who spoke first, staring out the window at the passing traffic. “So are we going to ignore last night, or … ?”
Preferably, yes— but he doubted that'd be accepted as an answer.
“I’m fine.”
“Gonna pretend I believe that for a moment—” Virgil sighed and turned to him. “Is Dad?”
Scott chewed his lower lip, bit down hard.
John and Virgil looked at each other for a silent moment, then back at him; and John said, “What can we do?”
(I have no freaking idea.)
He swallowed, twice. “I—I don't—I—”
He massaged his forehead as his voice failed him, squeezing his eyes shut. Nope. Not again. He had stuff to do, way too much, homework coming out of his ears—that should be enough to focus him, why couldn't he—
“Do you want a hug?” Virgil whispered.
(Oh, yes—so much—)
But, if he let himself relax for even a second, he'd fall apart again; and they only had another couple of minutes in the cab. It was too risky. “I … don't think that's a good idea.”
“That’s okay,” said John after a moment—and Scott recognised the soothing tone as his own. “Whatever you need. It’s okay. How about—movie night tonight? We can all curl up and chill, make a blanket fort or something. You can pick. As long as it's not Top Gun for the trillionth time.”
Scott laughed weakly. “What about Maverick?”
“Thin ice, big brother. Thin ice.”
“We can put it to a vote.” Virgil leaned forward and gripped Scott's hand. “Just remember: we've got your back, and we love your stupid face. Okay?”
Scott's eyes smarted. There was no way he deserved the adoration of his little brothers—their sympathy, their support, should be for Dad, not him—
He rubbed the leaked tear away with his free hand, smiling despite himself. “Love your stupid guts.”
And then the cab pulled up; and he had to watch them go.
He should've pulled out his tablet, then, and tried to finish at least some of the math. But he just sat, staring out the window, until the cab pulled up outside his high school.
First period was chemistry, so he at least had lab work, had to use his hands. And then math, where he had to turn in his half-finished problem set—but, small mercies, almost no one else in the class had completed it either, so Mr Carter’s frustration was at least evenly distributed—and then recess and study hall, which meant he could at least bang out some stream-of-consciousness typing for the essay—or should've. But, again, all he could do was sit, watching the gathering clouds out the library window, brain blank.
He just managed to force himself to Civics; and, since that was in the same classroom as fifth-period history, he couldn't be bothered moving for lunch afterwards: just crossed his arms and lay his head down on the desk.
“Scott?”
He looked up blearily. His history teacher, arriving early. “Sorry, Ms Pickford. I can go, if you need the room empty—”
She held up a hand to halt him, sat down at the desk in front of him, leaning her arm on the back of the chair. “You don't look like you’re having a particularly good day.”
He closed his eyes for a second; and gave in to weakness, to the chance of a moment’s unearned sympathy. “I'm … really not.”
“This a nurse thing or a counsellor thing?”
“Neither,” he said hastily. “I’ll be fine. I just … had a fight with my dad last night, is all.” He grimaced. “And I didn't write my paper. Any of it. I'm sorry.”
She waved that away as an irrelevancy. “You can have an extension until Monday. Do you mind if I ask what the fight was about?”
An alarm bell dinged at the back of his mind, about mandated reporters and child protection. Sally Tracy was around more than her son, but she still worked long hours; and when she was home, she still wasn't technically their legal guardian. A particularly ruthless social worker might consider the frequent absence of adult (and total absence of parental) supervision to be outright neglect. “Yeah, I do kinda mind.”
“Sorry.” She adjusted her glasses, watching him closely. She reminded him of Grandma, in an odd way, even though there wasn’t much of a physical resemblance: she was somewhere in late middle age, hair scraped back into a bun, with light green eyes and an appraising stare. “Feel like a distraction?”
“Yes, please,” he said, possibly a little too eagerly.
“I've got twelve absurdly enormous boxes of vintage textbooks to move here from the library, and the biology department is hogging the dolly. If you're up for physical labour—”
He pushed himself to his feet. “On it.”
And it helped. A lot. The movement, the use of his muscles, snapped him out of the daze within a few minutes; and, by the start of class, he could actually think again without wanting to weep. He deposited the last box at the back of the room two minutes before the bell was due to ring, and turned to see Ms Pickford at his elbow. “All done, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Scott. I appreciate it.” She was giving him that look again. “Feeling better?”
“Much.”
“Good. I figured you for the livewire type. Nickel’s worth of free advice? I know this place does its level best to funnel everyone into Ivy Leagues—but resist the pressure. University would suffocate you. You'll be much better off doing something physical.”
He looked at her in surprise. It was the first time he'd ever heard anyone not treat tertiary education as his default path (except Mom—she'd never pressured him, either way). “Aren't you supposed to be all ‘this’ll look good on your college applications’ and ‘study hard or you'll be flipping burgers’?”
“Well, for starters, there's nothing actually wrong with flipping burgers. Some of the nicest people I know work in food service. Second, I don't know the size of your trust fund, but I'm assuming it's more than I'll make in my lifetime, so you're unlikely to ever have to work—which gives you the phenomenal opportunity to do what you enjoy, without any financial pressure. And in your case?” She nodded to the neatly-stacked boxes with a wry grin. “I’m not saying you're stupid—you’re a bright kid, a hard worker, and you'd be successful in any field you choose. But happy? No: you'd be miserable in a desk job. From everything I've seen of you—the moments when you light up are when you’re getting stuck in, helping people, being useful in a practical way. Lean into that.”
Scott thought about the past week—skimmed over the pain and focused on the pleasure—and she wasn't wrong. He was calmest, most relaxed, most himself, when he was feeding Alan, or moving the furniture as Grandma vacuumed, or baking pies with John, or wrestling Gordon in the backyard, or helping Virgil scrub the accidental paint stains out of the carpet—
Last night, confronting Dad, he'd come perilously close to thinking of his brothers as an obligation, even a burden. But no, never. They were his lifeline.
To his surprise, he felt himself grin. “I'll keep that in mind. Thanks.”
“You're welcome—” The bell rang, and she checked her watch. “What’s your sixth period class?”
“PE.”
“Perfect. Go straight to the field. I'll call Coach and ask him to let you do a double.”
“—why?”
“Well, partly because I’m assuming you'll enjoy it, and you look like you need that today. But mostly—” She glanced over her shoulder at the trickle of students entering and lowered her voice. “The guest speaker from NTBS has to travel next week, so I've needed to shuffle everything around and move him up to today at the last minute. The lecture’s on wartime media analysis, and Mr Cook is likely to focus a lot on 2040.”
Scott winced reflexively. Mom had never let them watch newsstreams at home, during the Conflict. But he'd managed to sneak enough peeks out in public, and heard enough at school, to know that his father had figured heavily in the coverage; and it wasn't always complimentary. Watching that—discussing that—with his classmates would absolutely suck.
He took a deep breath—and, oddly, he was smiling again. “Ms Pickford, you kinda rock.”
“You bet I do. Off you trot, Tracy.”
“Thank you—”
He took a step past her, towards his desk—then stopped, and looked at the boxes of books again, suspicion stirring. “Ma’am—did you actually need those moved?”
Her eyes crinkled. “Of course I didn't. Now go on, get out of here.”
Scott laughed; then he snatched up his backpack and made a dash for it as everyone else took their seats.
By the time he made it to the field, Coach had already received Ms Pickford's call, and he was chill about the double period plan; so Scott got to play baseball with the seniors—and actually managed to hold his own—before heading over for track practice with his regular class. And it felt so good to move, to sprint, that, when the final bell rang, he didn't get changed out of his gym gear again: he stuffed his uniform into his bag and, instead of taking a cab, jogged the half-dozen blocks to the elementary school to collect Gordon. Rain clouds were looming ominously, as they had been all day, but fortunately they refrained from dousing him.
“Did you run here?” was the curious greeting he received from his little brother, waiting just inside the gate.
“Yep.” He ruffled damp hair—did he want to know why it was sticky?—and pulled out his phone to check on the cab he'd summoned. Just a minute away. “How was school, Squid?”
“You're not allowed to call me that.”
“What Grandma doesn't know won't hurt her.”
Gordon stuck out his tongue at him; so, of course, he grabbed it; and he was still cackling at the kid’s frantic disgusted spitting when the taxi pulled up.
They made it to the junior high’s auditorium with ten minutes to spare before the start of the recital, and Scott transferred Gordon into Grandma's custody and hurried off to the restrooms to change.
When he emerged, back in his school uniform (minus the tie), the soon-to-be performer was waiting, leaning against the wall of the vestibule, arms crossed tightly across his chest.
“Dad's not coming,” said Virgil. “Is he?”
Scott shook his head.
Virgil's expression tensed further; but then he nodded, in quiet determination. “Then I'm gonna play it. ‘Nuvole Bianche’. If that's okay?”
“Of course it is.” Scott smiled tightly. “She'd be so proud.”
Virgil's lower lip wobbled, pressed tighter against the top—then he darted forward and threw his arms around Scott's waist. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome.” Scott hugged him, leaning gratefully into the embrace for a long moment; then pulled back and steered him out into the foyer, arm around his shoulders. “You're going to do awesome.”
“What if I blow it?”
“It could be total garbage and I would still think it was the best thing since Mozart,” Scott said, with complete sincerity. “But if it's anything like last night, it'll knock everyone's socks off.” He kissed the top of his head, not caring if everyone in the lobby could see. “Go get ‘em, baby brother.”
“You’re so embarrassing.”
“You love it.”
Virgil giggled as he ducked out from under his arm. “Okay, yeah, I kinda do.”
Junior high recitals were a very mixed bag, quality-wise.
There was the odd kid who was genuinely prodigy-level fantastic—one classical guitarist in particular, who couldn’t’ve been more than eleven, sent Scott into a brief inferiority-spiral—but there were quite a few who had him outright cringing with secondhand embarrassment. He wondered if their friends and relatives in the audience were as deafened by affection as he would be. Fortunately, despite their close proximity to the stage, it was easy enough for him to hide his reactions: he had Alan in his lap, which made for a pretty effective shield from the performers when his face betrayed him.
Finally, it was Virgil’s turn. He made a beeline for the piano, apparently completely forgetting that he was supposed to bow first, slotted his sheet music into the stand—paused for a second—and Scott could see him closing his eyes, inhaling slowly—
And then he played that chord again, and Scott’s eyes instantly welled.
He bent forward and pressed his face against Allie’s curls, once again hiding his face, but for completely different reasons—tuned out the startled inhale from Grandma as she realised this wasn’t ‘Für Elise’—blindly extended an arm and pulled Gordon against his side, and felt John pressed against his shoulder at the other—and forced himself to keep breathing—
Maybe it was the real piano, or the hall acoustics, that made the difference—or maybe it was just Virgil—but the music flowing from his little brother’s fingertips was somehow even more hauntingly, agonisingly gorgeous than the night before.
(I love you, Mom.)
He hadn’t said that enough. It was too late, now. But he could say it to his brothers, take care of them like she would have, prove his love for her through his actions. It would never come close to being a full atonement; but it was the most he could do.
He knew, objectively, that, without the repeat, the piece was just over three minutes long. But it felt like time had frozen, stilled—or that he’d stepped outside it, hovering in blissful, horrible limbo.
And then it was over.
And everybody started clapping; and he forced himself to look up, and made eye contact with his little brother, and gave him the grin he’d thoroughly earned.
Virgil returned the smile as he stepped away from the piano; but he could see tears on the kid’s cheeks to match his own.
Then, suddenly, as he moved back towards the wings, looking over the crowd, Virgil’s face lit up—and he waved wildly, with a level of frantic enthusiasm that could only be justified by—
Scott sat motionless for a split-second—then twisted around, eyes searching with desperate hope even as his brain told him not to—
Dad.
Up at the back by the door, little more than a silhouette in the minimal house lighting—but unmistakably Dad.
He didn’t realise he’d gasped until Grandma’s hand landed on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. He turned to her reflexively, his grip on Alan tightening. “He—Dad—”
She nodded, her own smile wavering. “I think we’re justified in bailing early, hon.”
Scott didn’t need to be told twice. He let Gordon go and jumped up, clutching Alan to his chest, and all but ran down the aisle, stumbling over someone’s foot, then bolted up the steps towards the back.
He shouldered his way through the double doors just in time to see Virgil, crossing the lobby at a flat sprint, crash directly into his father—and Dad caught him, kneeling, pulling him close, murmuring in his ear.
He meant to step forward and join them. He wanted to. But something tight in his chest kept him pinned in place, wiping his eyes with one hand and clinging to Alan with the other.
Grandma caught up with him a few moments later, Gordon in tow and John right behind—and he automatically caught the door with his free hand and held it open as they stepped past him—his brain still looping in terrified delight—because Dad was here, Dad came, he didn’t let Vee down after all—
“Guys!” Virgil called. “Dad’s coming with us for ice cream!”
And then Dad turned around and looked at them, and the taut pain in Scott’s chest twisted: because, while his father’s hair and clothes were soaked—the rainclouds must’ve finally decided to get on with things—the streaks on his cheeks, the shine of his eyes, had nothing to do with the weather.
(My fault my fault my fault—)
“Awesome!” cheered Gordon, letting Grandma go with a bounce. “How come you’re all wet?”
Dad chuckled, shaking his head at the smaller boy. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Gordon, it’s been raining cats and dogs out there.”
“Looks like it’s stopped,” Grandma said. “Do you need to go home and change first?”
“I’ll be fine.” Dad got up with a grunt. “Although I did abandon my car a few blocks back, so I’ll have to go back for it—”
His eyes met Scott’s; and Scott broke the contact near-instantly—had to—because if he thought about the fact that he’d made his father weep—
“—Scott, come with me?”
His heart lurched.
Really? Did Dad actually want to—
(Don’t get your hopes up.)
“Yes, sir,” he muttered. Alan was squirming to get down; so he lowered him to the ground; and waited for Grandma to give Dad the address for the ice cream store; and followed Dad to the exit.
He glanced over his shoulder, just for a second, as Dad pulled the door open—and Virgil was still grinning as he scooped Alan off the floor and tickled their baby brother—and John was rolling his eyes fondly at Gordon’s attempt to mimic the violinists—and Grandma looked back at Scott, that wobbly smile still on her lips.
Outside, the clouds were breaking up, moving on, patches of blue growing between them; and, as they crossed the courtyard and stepped onto the sidewalk, he could still smell the rain, fresh and clean.
“Scott,” Dad said, quietly.
(Heeeere we go.)
He swallowed, kept walking.
“Thank you.”
( ... what?)
“You were right, last night.” Dad cleared his throat, voice rough. “I’m sorry.”
His head whipped around; and he stared up at his father; and, for a moment, he was pretty sure several of his organs had done a literal backflip.
Dad was apologising. To him.
But it was all Scott’s fault. Scott had gotten Mom killed, had ripped their lives apart, left them all torn and bleeding—
—and yet Jeff Tracy was looking at his eldest son with so much love in his eyes, as if the colossal chasm between them, the canyon Scott’s actions had dug, wasn’t even there—
Ignoring the offence wasn’t the same as absolution. But it was so much more than Scott had ever dared hope for.
Okay. If this was what Dad wanted—if they were just going to pretend—he could do that. He could squash down the guilt, act like they were fine, throw himself into whatever shadow, whatever splinter, of redemption he could achieve—
So he swallowed again, buried the emotion under a thick layer of sass, and grinned at his father. “Is that a pig I see in the sky over there?”
Dad rolled his eyes—but his expression relaxed. “You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?”
(Perfect—make him laugh—)
He fished in his jacket pocket for his phone. “Just gimmie a sec—gotta check the weather forecast in hell—”
“Hah.” Dad reached over and mussed up his hair, and Scott ducked away with a startled laugh—but then he caught him and pulled him close as they continued to walk, arm steady and protective—and oh, now Scott was going to tear up again— “Less of that sass. I mean it—you were right. I’ve been neglecting you, all of you. It’s …” He sighed, slowly. “It’s been hard.”
(I’m sorry, Dad—)
“I know,” he whispered. “It’s hard for us, too.”
“Yeah. I know there’s no excuse. I just—” Dad’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “I miss your Mom so much—” His voice wavered. “I’m sorry, son. I’ll do better. I promise.”
In that moment, Scott could not possibly imagine loving his father more.
He turned and grabbed him, face buried against his shoulder, fingertips gripping into the damp suit. And Dad hugged him back—one hand firm against his shoulders, the other combing lightly through his hair—
This was Scott's fault—he’d ruined Dad's life—and yet Dad still wanted him, wanted them all, was going to try to be a parent again in spite of how much it had to hurt—
“Make that a promise you keep?” he begged softly.
(Please don't change your mind, please don’t give up on us, please keep loving me—)
“I promise . And if I look like I'm backsliding, you have my permission to call me out on it. I won't get mad. And if I do—” The faintest of chuckles. “—call me out on that.”
It wasn't just his little brothers that needed him, Scott realised dimly.
His father did too.
(We'll be all right, Mom. I'll take care of him.)
He wanted so badly to start crying again, to vent the overwhelming joy—but they were quite literally on the side of the road, cars zooming past; and the others would be waiting for them; and he didn’t want to upset Dad.
So he clung on for just a moment longer, then, reluctantly, let go—but Dad didn’t, kept his arm in place around his shoulders as they continued down the path.
But—just how far was Jeff willing to take this olive branch? Was he faking affection for Scott for family harmony, for the sake of the littler kids, or did he really, truly, want to spend time with him, to be Dad again?
(Only one way to find out.)
“So,” he said, tone cheeky to mask the desperation. “About those flying lessons?”
Dad laughed, properly—and it was the best thing he'd ever heard—and squeezed his shoulder briefly. “All right, all right. How about I take you up this weekend?”
“Yes please—”
(Thank you thank you thank you—)
Dad chuckled, again, and held him tighter; and Scott could easily have flown then and there, no plane needed; and, yes, everything was still broken, but, for a second, he could pretend that it wasn’t—
(I won’t let you down again, Mom. I promise.)
(No matter what.)