Chapter 72 Next door lock

Chapter 72 Next door lock
The key sticks in the lock of our apartment door before turning. The smell of fried onions and damp wool hits me when when I push the door open.

My mother is already at the kitchen counter. Her nursing scrubs are zipped up to her chin, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun that pulls the skin at her temples. Her silver night-shift badge swings from her pocket as she moves between the stove and the laminate table.

She doesn't turn around when the door shuts behind me. She reaches for a stack of plastic Tupperware containers.

"You're late," she says, her voice exhausted from a day she spent preparing for twelve hours on her feet.

"The bus had to wait for the ridge plow," I say, dropping my backpack onto the floor by the coat rack. My shoulders ache from carrying the dead weight of the day.

She turns, lifting a glass plate covered in aluminum foil. "Eat the rice in the pot. Then take this next door. Mason bought the groceries yesterday, and Raph needs a hot meal before his evening medication."

My stomach turns over. I stay by the door, my boots still wet from the slush outside. "Mom, I have two hours of reading for English. Can't you just leave it on his counter on your way out?"

My mother drops the foil plate onto the table with a sharp slap that makes the silverware rattle. She looks straight at me, her eyes bloodshot, the deep lines around her mouth twitching with spike of anger.

"We are not doing this again, Maya," she says, her voice low but vibrating with the same panic from five o'clock this morning. "We talked about this before the sun was even up. Mason is paying for the heat in this room right now. He didn't ask for rent this month because he thinks you're looking after his son while he's at the regional conference."

"Raph isn't helpless, Mom. He has his computer, he has—"

"Go next door," she cuts me off, her hand pointing directly toward the shared wall. She grabs her winter coat from the chair, shoving her arms into the sleeves with jerky movements. "I am going to the clinic for a fourteen-hour shift. I don't want to come home tomorrow morning and find out Mason called because his boy was left alone with cracked ribs. Do you understand me?"

I look down at the wet rings my boots are leaving on the linoleum. "Yes."

"Eat your food, take the plate, and stay there until he falls asleep," she commands. She snatches her keys off the counter, her face tensed with an anxiety she can't mask, and pulls the front door open. "Be useful, Maya. That's all I'm asking."

The door slams behind her. The apartment goes silent except for the low hum of our old refrigerator.

I don't touch the rice in the pot. I wait three minutes, listening to the rattle of the old elevator shafts until I know she’s down in the lobby. Then I pick up the foil-covered plate. The glass is hot against my bare palms.

I walk out into the dimly lit hallway, and press the buzzer for Apartment 4B.

There is a long pause, then the sound of slippers shuffling slowly across wood flooring. The deadbolt turns.

His gray sweatshirt that hangs off his left shoulder, exposing the white medical tape wrapped tight around his torso. His face is pale, his eyes rimmed with red, and his mouth is pulled down into a bitter, sour line.

He looks at the plate in my hands, then slides his eyes up to my face. He doesn't step aside immediately. He just stares at me.

"My mom made dinner," I say. "She told me to bring it over."

He lets out a short grunt through his nose and steps back into the dark living room, leaving the door open for me to follow.

Raph sinks onto the edge of the sofa, his movement stiff and guarded as he protects his left side. He winces as his weight hits the cushions, his hand flying to his ribs for a brief second before he forces his arm back down to his side.

I set the plate on the glass coffee table, pulling the aluminum foil back just enough to let the steam escape. "You need to eat before your meds."

Raph doesn't look at the food. His phone is gripped tightly in his right hand, the screen lit up, showing an open messaging app with a vertical line of gray bubbles.

"Caleb’s a deadbeat," Raph snaps suddenly, his thumb slamming against the glass screen before he tosses the phone face-up onto the cushion next to him. "The whole line is acting like freaks."

I stand near the edge of the kitchen counter, my hands tucked into the pockets of my cardigan. "What do you mean?"

"I've texted him six times since two o'clock," Raph says, his voice rising with frustration. "Miller too. I told them to give me the log from the afternoon passing period. I wanted to know who was hanging around the western lockers before the final bell."

He looks up at me, his eyes sharp, testing me to see if I flinch.

I keep my expression blank. "Maybe they're busy with the qualifiers."

"They're never too busy to answer my texts," Raph spits, his fingers twitching against his knee. "Caleb called me back once during third period, but he sounded like he had a gun to his head. He told me he couldn't talk because Higgins was watching the video review, and then he hung up on me. He hasn't read a single message since. None of them have."

He shifts his weight, forgetting his ribs, and lets out a sharp hiss of pain, his face contorting as he bends forward.

I watch him struggle for breath for five seconds before I speak. "Maybe you asked them to do something that made them feel weird."

Raph’s head whips up, his eyes narrowing into slits. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just what I said," I say, leaning slightly against the counter. "They're varsity starters, Raph. The state scouts are going to be in the boxes on Friday. Maybe they don't want to spend their afternoon tracking people around the hallways or doing chores for someone who isn't even on the ice right now. It probably feels uncomfortable for them."

Raph lets out a loud, mocking laugh that cuts off quickly into another wince. "Uncomfortable? They do whatever I tell them to do. Caleb owes his whole defensive placement to my dad’s sponsorship of the regional club. He wouldn't dare get uncomfortable with me."

He picks up the phone again, staring at the blank screen with agitation. The silence from his circle is obviously eating at him.

"They're probably just terrified of losing their spots if they get distracted," Raph mutters, his voice becoming bitter. "Caleb always loses his head before a big match anyway. He’s soft. If he misses his scout look on Friday because he was too busy crying about his schedule, that's his problem."

He drops the phone back onto the sofa and finally reaches for the fork on the plate. He stabs at the meat aggressively, shoves it in his mouth and chews aggressively.

"They'll come crawling back by Saturday morning," Raph says, his eyes fixed on the television screen as he talks through a mouthful of food. "Once the game is over and they need my dad to clear the registration fees for the summer league, they’ll remember who handles the checks. They’re nothing without the club money. Just bunch of ridge-trash wannabes."

I don't say anything. I walk over to the small kitchen island, take a glass from the cupboard, and fill it with tap water. I set it on the coffee table next to his plate, keeping my movements slow.

Raph doesn't look up at me. He keeps eating, his shoulder tight, his phone sitting silent on the cushion beside him.

I sit down in the single armchair across from the couch, pulling my knees up toward my chest. The digital clock on the microwave behind me shifts to 4:15 PM.

I stand up, remembering my date at the movies.