Free Nocturnal by Chelsea M. Cameron Page A

a moron.
    “I will.” I'm not the only one who hears the whiny teenage edge to my voice. I could have controlled it, but I chose not to. Now I'm going to pay. He opens the fridge to get some cream for his coffee. Like he needs to take a second before exploding on me.
    “No, don't say that you will. Just do it. This is a hard time for all of us, and we need to make it easier on her,” he says, shutting the fridge with so much force the ketchup and salad dressing bottles rattle against each other.
    “I know.” Does he think I don't know? That I'm trying to be difficult? That I want to make my mother's life harder? Yeah, I'm just that cruel and self-centered. 
    “Ava, you're not listening.” He's the one who's not. “I don't want her upset. So I want to do everything I can to make sure that nothing like that happens.” He's about as subtle as a hurricane. 
    “I know,” I say again as he comes around the counter. I try not to flinch as he touches my shoulder, like he's going to hug me. Instead he pulls his hand away, as if I've bitten him. I pretend not to notice and take a bite of my apple, hoping he's done, but knowing he's not.
    “I want to make this a peaceful time for her. Which means if she asks you to do something, you do it.” Why does he keep telling me this? 
    Whenever she needs something, I get it. I'm always bringing her coffee and baking her favorite cookies and offering to do the dishes and making sure she's not cold or hot or uncomfortable. She hates asking for things, but I know her so well she doesn't have to. His way is to pester her constantly, until she makes something up she doesn't really need just to make him happy. Like giving an overactive child a useless chore to keep them busy. 
    We're too busy glaring at each other to hear her coming in. I'm surprised when she doesn't slam into the wall of tension Dad and I just put up. Either of us would need a sledgehammer to break it down. She walks right through it.
    “Everything okay in here?” She brings with her the whiff of fresh dirt. It's all over her clothes and there are leaves in her hair. She has a smudge on her nose and a glowing smile on her face. She looks better than she has in days. 
    “Just talking about the camping trip,” I say, putting on a smile. The lies seem to come easier and easier. Dad puts on his own smile and hers widens. She gathers us both in her dirt-covered arms. 
    “I love you both.” I don't look at Dad as we hug. Anyone looking into our house would see a lovely family moment. How wrong they would be.
    Avoiding Dad was my goal for the rest of the day. I spend it wrapped in a blanket on the couch, my face stuck as far into a book as I can get it without crossing my eyes. Most of the time I end up reading the same sentence over and over and not remembering which chapter I'm on or what the love interest of the main character's name is. My mother senses the tension and suggests in a soft voice that she has a hankering to take a walk. He jumps right to concern mode, making sure she wouldn't be overdoing it. She kisses his cheek and tells him not to worry so much. Good luck with that. Of course he acquiesces and she says they'll be back later. I go back to my book, trying not to feel nervous about being alone. 
    They come back hours later with pizza and we spend the rest of the evening planing our camping trip, sans tension. Dad seems a little more calmed down and I can talk to him without wanting to roll my eyes or scream.
    I am not a big fan of sleeping on the ground, being eaten alive by mosquitoes and going to the bathroom in the woods, but my mother loved it, the whole shebang, so we were doing it. If she'd wanted to picnic on the moon, we would have found a way. Bought space suits and learned how to moonwalk.
    “It's been so long since we went. I hope I can find all of our gear.” She picks an olive off her pizza and pops it in her mouth. She always gets extra olives. I can't stand them, but I've eaten