Free Split by Swati Avasthi

have no idea how to tell Christian she’s coming. One family member descending was almost too much to handle. I remember how my clothes look in his drawers and decide the news can wait.
    I look into the dining room/living room/office/my bedroom. Where will she sleep? He looks up at me as I stand in the doorway, my eyes roving for more space.
    “Soup?” he asks.
    He tells me where the bowls are, and I put them on the table. Christian stands up and gets a yellow highlighter from inside his desk.
    “Christian?”
    “Just one second,” he says as he marks a passage in the book, the highlighter squeaking against the page.
    “Mom wrote back,” I say.
    The highlighter goes quiet.
    “She sends her love,” I say.
    “Right.”
    “Right?” No “Tell her I love her, too”? Not even a “How is she”? They used to be so tight that my dad would half-joke, calling Christian “Oedipus” just to watch them both squirm. Of course I didn’t get it at the time, but reading that play subsequently freaked me out.
    “She seems all right,” I say.
    “Oh.”
    “How well do you guys get along these days?”
    “Rule violation,” he says.
    “Exception.”
    We used to recite legal tidbits to each other all the time. I was shocked when I found out that most nine-year-olds don’t know that res ipsa loquitur is Latin for “the thing speaks for itself” and is a legal term that shifts the burden of proof to the defense. Now I slide into our familiar legalese.
    “Need-to-know exception. I need to know so I can figure out what to say.”
    “We get along fine. She doesn’t write me back.”
    I am too thrown to respond. Whenever my dad was out, she started with the, “Remember the time Christian won that marathon?”
    “I wonder what he’s doing today?” Do you think he still runs, still eats, still breathes? Until I was ready to ask her if she had noticed that I was still playing soccer, eating, and breathing.
    I place the spoons out slowly.
    “I asked her not to,” Christian continues.
    “How come?”
    “Tell her I’m fine, all right?”
    He goes back to the couch, closes the book, and puts it on the corner of his desk. He is putting the highlighter away when we hear a knock. I have a crazy panic moment, thinking that Mom is on the other side of that door. But it’s just Mirriam, bringing over dinner.
    After they kiss hello, I take the bowl from Christian and put it down. Real food. Chicken, snow peas, and bamboo shoots, too. I might drool.
    In a few minutes, we have places set and food served. Christian chooses the soup; Mirriam and I don’t. I heap rice on my plate and ladle her concoction on top of that. I wish for chopsticks. Eating Chinese food with a fork feels like I don’t know better.
    When I take a bite, flavors explode on my tongue.
    “This,” I say with my mouth half full, “is great.”
    Mirriam smiles, takes a bite, and then says, “So, Jace, tell me about Christian. I haven’t met anyone else from his—excuse me, I mean from your —family. I want the dirt.” She smiles big. Suspiciously big.
    Christian’s elbows press tight against his waist. He stares at me, wide-eyed. I put down my fork, wipe my face with my napkin, and begin.
    “Let’s see, there was the time when he … Wait, no, that was me. Um … How about when you … ? Hmmm … Me, me, and me.” I shake my head. “The most remarkable thing about Christian is that he has no embarrassing stories. Isn’t that embarrassing enough?”
    Christian’s elbows release. This guy is so closed off, I’ll need a crowbar.
    He gives Mirriam a quick victory-look and then glances at me and does one of those small “thanks” nods. I return a “you’re welcome” nod. Mirriam scowls, slumps back in her seat, and jabs at her food.
    “Wait, wait,” I say. “There was the time when you forgot the blender top.”
    He smiles, so I tell her about how we tried covering up blueberry splatters on the ceiling with leftover white paint. But it was the