Free Monument 14 by Emmy Laybourne Page B

my way.
    “Dean?” Alex asked. “Do you know what type Mom and Dad are, by chance?”
    I shook my head.
    “I’m sorry that I have B and you got O,” he said.
    “That’s stupid,” I said. “I’m glad you are type B. It’s the least scary of them all.”
    “Sterility is definitely the best one,” he replied. “Because it’s highly unlikely that I would be a father, anyway. It’s highly unlikely I would ever want to, even if I could, after all of this.”
    I looked at him. Sometimes the way his brain worked just amazed me. He could deal with anything, as long as he could look at it scientifically.
    “Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry you got the worst type.”
    And satisfied with our discussion, he walked away.
    *   *   *
    Alex, I will tell you, was just like our dad. Looked like him, thought like him, hiked up his pants the same way.
    Our dad was an engineer and a land surveyor, employed almost exclusively by Richardson Hearth Homes. He loved his work but hated the developments he helped build. All the houses with their customizable elements—countertops, appliances, façade colors—he said they were for people who were mall-minded. It was a phrase of his. Similar to small-minded, but mall -minded.
    Mall-minded people were people who’d grown up working at one national chain store to earn a paycheck they’d spend on crappy products and bad food from other national chain stores.
    It was kind of revealing about my dad. He looked down on his neighbors, but built the very homes they lived in. A weird paradox. And we lived, always, in one of his developments. Apparently we couldn’t afford not to—they gave my parents such a steep discount.
    What my dad did love was the technical aspect of his work. Surveying, measuring, working with machines and computers—all that stuff he was great at.
    Alex was like that, too. He thought in terms of numbers and figures and trends.
    When he was a little kid he was scared of everything. Dogs, trucks, the dark, Halloween; you name it, he was scared of it.
    Our dad had taught him to analyze the things he feared.
    So going trick-or-treating with him, when he was little, was like listening to a technical debriefing:
    “That’s not a real witch, it’s a plastic figurine with LED lights for eyes and a prerecorded screech track. Those are not real gravestones; they are PVC molded into the shape of tombstones, with creepy sayings on them that were written by a gag writer. Those are not real demons coming down the street, those are the high school kids dressed in costumes they got at Walgreens or possibly ordered online…”
    And all the while Alex’d be squeezing my hand like it offered his last link to sanity.
    I had liked being his protector—the one who made him feel safe. Which was why I felt even worse about having attacked him.
    Before, we had always made a good team—he was super-smart. I was super-stable. Kind of like our parents, actually.
    Where our dad was brilliant and angsty, our mom was grounded and optimistic.
    She loved books. That was one thing she and I really shared. Our house was full of old books. She’d buy them by the boxful, especially as people started using their tabs more and more for reading books.
    Our mom had started buying books with a mania, as if she was afraid people would stop printing them at all.
    She had multiple copies of her favorite books. I think she had eight copies of A Room of One’s Own (sort of indecipherable to me) and five Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (a great read).
    Mom was always telling me about her ideas for novels but never started writing any of them.
    Once I asked her why she never wrote the books she told me about.
    “Oh, sweetie,” she had said. “I try. But, somehow, after I tell you about the idea, it’s like the air is out of the balloon and I don’t need to write it anymore.”
    So instead of being a writer, she took care of us.
    And worked retail during the