Kickflips

1.

When the chair flew across the dining room I knew it was time to go outside for a while. They had been fighting for the last several minutes, but I hadn't been paying attention to what they were fighting about. I never did anymore. It was usually dad yelling about how no one appreciated him, no one gave a shit about him, and that all he ever did was work, work, work. Dad's shouting was percussive, like always, and you'd absorb the shockwaves even if you were on the other side of the house. Mom was rarely content with anything and fueled the fire in her own way. A door slammed and you would have thought our brand new brick home was going to crumble. Mom struggled to hold back tears. I tried my best to remain invisible.

It was a beautiful day to be outside. I mostly remember that it was warm, windy, and lonely, and that I was trying to land kickflips in the driveway with little success. I had considered fishing. Our new neighborhood had a pond down the road, and that road would put more distance between me and all the racket in the house. I loved fishing, and had been going often as of late, especially as the fighting became increasingly familiar, but today I really wanted to kickflip. I danced with the skateboard a bit longer, and I had the bruises on my shins to show for it. Dad had a small burn pile on the other side of the house where he had been clearing fallen limbs and leaves. The wind would occasionally blow smoke from what remained of the unattended smoldering ash in my direction, the scent attempting to usher in the beginnings of autumn, my favorite season. But it was still summer, and I still couldn't land a single damn kickflip.

Mom suddenly stumbled out of the house, anguished, dragging my younger brother by the wrist.

"John, get in the car. We're going to the store."

"What? Why? Do I have to go?" I grumbled. I wanted to keep practicing my trick, but as the words came out of my mouth I remembered that I didn't really want to be at the house alone with dad either.

"Just get in the car," she said without making eye contact with me. "Now!"

I rolled my eyes harder than I rolled the skateboard into the garage and climbed into the front seat of our brand new, silver Honda Accord. I buckled my seatbelt as mom helped Joey into his car seat. She got in the driver's seat, started the car, and we sat there in the garage for a few moments as the car idled. Mom searched for composure, and checked herself in the mirror on the back of the sun visor. She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath as Steven Curtis Chapman's comforting voice filled the empty space around us. She put the car in reverse, backed down the driveway, and started down the road. We were leaving.

2.

The streets in our new subdivision were covered in mud. We had only lived there for a few months, and our house was among the first to be completed. All of my friends had stayed behind in the old neighborhood, and there were no new ones to be found here. Everywhere you looked you'd see empty dirt lots with a tractor, a white van, piles of two by fours and plywood, or some combination of those things. In some of the dirt lots, the two by fours and plywood had already been arranged into the shape of an inordinate American dream—excessive, designed for people who wanted to pretend they had something that they didn't. They were designed for us. Our new house was much larger than the one we had just moved from, and as a kid I assumed that this was nothing more than the natural progression of things.

We arrived at the grocery store on the other side of town. It was the same grocery store we shopped at before we moved into the new house. We had no grocery list. Mom grabbed a buggy and set Joey down inside. The store was warm, which is unpleasant for a grocery store, and the lights were a little dim. There was a stench. There were angled mirrors all the way across the top of the back of the store, which made it so that you could see down every aisle from almost anywhere inside. Mom told me to stay close as we walked to the refrigerated section in the back of the store so that she could grab a gallon of skim milk. I preferred whole milk over skim milk, but I was told skim milk was healthier.

Joey, eyeing the gallon of milk that mom placed in the buggy next to him, asked, "mom, can we please get some cereal?"

"Yes, I was planning to get you some," she said. "We don't have anything for breakfast. Is there a kind that you'd like?"

"Froot Loops!" he shouted with excitement.

I rolled my eyes as he said it. We had rules when it came to cereal, and Joey still did not seem to understand them.

"Joey, those have way too much sugar," Mom said. "You're going to have to pick something else. How about some Cheerios? They're the same shape!"

Mom's rule was that we couldn't get cereal that had more than ten grams of sugar per serving. This excluded all the good stuff, and was one of the more frustrating rules in our household. I settled for a box of Corn Pops, which honestly sucked. I always settled for Corn Pops. I reluctantly placed them and their mom-approved eight grams of sugar into the buggy. Mom grabbed a box of store brand Cheerios for Joey. He was thrilled.

"What kind of Pop-Tarts do y'all want?" Mom asked. "I think we're out of those, too."

"S'mores!" Joey and I said at the same time. She knew the answer to this already, but asked anyway. She grabbed a box so that we would have options for breakfast. She handed the box to Joey and his eyes lit up. Mom finally smiled. I never thought about how much sugar might be in a Pop-Tart.

As we continued shopping, I turned and looked again at the mirrors that hung high above our heads. I could see the entire store, and I could see the three of us, together, and I could see that mom wasn't quite ready to go back home. Joey looked up at himself, smiled, and waved. There was no line at the only checkout lane that was open, and I watched as mom placed each item onto the conveyor belt. It wasn't until I saw the groceries, sitting there, parading across the counter, that I realized how absurd all of this was. It was absurd that we couldn't have Froot Loops, but we could have S'mores Pop-Tarts. It was absurd that we couldn't have whole milk, but we could have Honey Buns and caffeine-free Diet Coke. It was absurd that we moved away from all of my friends, and it was absurd that mom and dad were fighting so much now. It was absurd to repeatedly bruise my shins trying to land kickflips, and it was absurd to catch a fish, to put it through so much unnecessary pain, only to immediately put it back.

3.

As we made our way home, we could hear the plastic grocery bags crinkling in the floorboard as the car hummed along. We turned back into the neighborhood, passing by the dirt lots with their stacks of lumber. I looked out the window as we passed the pond and I thought about the fish that lived in it. I thought about what their lives were like, and I thought about whether or not their parents ever fought. I wondered if I should try to catch some of them, only to put them right back. I wondered if they could feel pain. I wondered if things would be better once we returned home.

We came to the stop sign in front of our house, and I noticed we were sitting there longer than normal. I turned my head away from the pond and towards our house, and was shocked to see that our grass, the entire front yard, was completely black. I turned again to look at mom and she was simply staring at the yard, speechless and defeated. She lowered her head onto the steering wheel.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," she whispered to herself. I could hear her, even though Steven Curtis Chapman was still filling space, though now unable to provide the comfort that the moment required.

Joey and I stayed silent. The wind had expanded dad's burn pile. I swear to God you could have laid a black cat in the yard and no one would have ever found it. By this point the fire was out, and the only other damage we could see was that some of the vinyl trim on the house had melted. We saw dad walking across the yard with the garden hose in his hand. He needed to look like he was doing something, like he was taking care of the situation, just like he worked so hard to take care of us, but it was unnecessary. It was all unnecessary.

I was nervous. I knew dad was already upset, and I figured the intensity of his emotions from earlier would only be worsened by his incinerating of our entire yard. We finally pulled into the driveway and exited the car, unsure of what exactly to say. Cautiously, mom broke the silence.

"What… what in the world happened? What did you do?" she asked in a tone that blended genuine concern with an understandable frustration.

"Well, I've just been trying to take care of all this mess. While y'all were gone I threw a few more sticks on the fire, turned my back for a few seconds," he paused as he stared down into the deadness, "and the yard was gone. It all happened so fast. I didn't know what to do. I grabbed the hose, but… it was useless. I guess a neighbor called the fire department, but by the time the truck arrived the fire was out." His eyes dampened. "It just stopped once it ran out of grass to burn. It all just… it all happened so fast."

Dad remained composed as he said all of this, though his words reflected a state of defeat.

"Well, are you ok?"

"Yes, I am," Dad said, trying to remain strong. "It's ok. Everything's going to be fine."

I expected more fighting, but there wasn't any. In that moment, it felt as if their love, all twenty-three years of it, had been reduced to appreciation. The large house we now lived in felt smaller than you could ever imagine. We wouldn't be there much longer anyway. There was resignation. They now understood that once the grass had burned up, the vinyl trim had melted, the fire had burned out, and all that remained were the smoldering ashes of what once carried the scent of autumn into the warm summer air, there was no point in fighting anymore.

We stood there together in the driveway looking out over the scorched remains. Joey suddenly began to cry. Mom picked him up, held him closely, and she whispered in his ear, "Everything's going to be ok, baby."

She whispered this to him over and over again.

"Everything's going to be ok."

Joey continued crying.

I went into the garage, looked at my fishing pole for a few seconds, but instead grabbed my skateboard, returned to the driveway with everyone else, and continued to practice my kickflips.