Free Inexcusable by Chris Lynch

another cracker.
    Fran simply slapped the phone down on some hard surface, and Mary picked it up.
    â€œKeir,” Mary said immediately, in her gruff Mary tone. “Are you being an immature jerk about this? Just tell me, because if you are, then I win five dollars, because I bet Fran you would do this and she insisted you wouldn’t.”
    That would be about right. That would be how itwould go. Fran would bet on me, while Mary would bet against. Fran would be hopeful while Mary would be dubious.
    Fran would be wrong, while Mary would be right.
    â€œI am not,” I said, trying to repay Fran for her perverse misguided loyalty to me. “Put Fran back on, would you, Mary?”
    â€œCan’t. She’s gone. Listen, Keir. We want to be there for your graduation. You know that. You cannot deny that. You know we are dying to see you and Dad.”
    â€œSo, why Wales?”
    There was a pause. Unlike Fran, Mary had no problems with pausing.
    â€œYou’re unbelievable, do you know that? Really, Keir. Wales is Wales. Wales is a wonderful opportunity, socially, educationally, geographically, all that. It is not a reflection on you or Dad. You have to stop seeing things that way. We love you. Got that, goofus? We love you, to bits and pieces. Dad, too. But you’ll see, when you’re out, when you’re here. You’ll see.”
    â€œWhat am I going to see, Mary?”
    â€œAre you eating crackers? Are you eating Ritz sandwiches? God . . . Fran, did you know Dad had him on the tranquilizer crackers for this?” she called.
    Fran was back on the line. I was back to being silent.
    â€œCome on, Keir,” she said softly. “Don’t do this. I feel bad enough. Please?”
    â€œYou all set up there?” Dad called from downstairs. “Need any more . . .”
    Suddenly I got it. It had to be.
    â€œYou’re pulling my chain,” I said happily.
    â€œOh, Keir—”
    â€œYou’ll be here.”
    â€œKeir, we won’t. We can’t. You know you’re going to have a fantastic time anyway. Wouldn’t even notice—”
    â€œYou’ll be here,” I said again. “You wouldn’t dare. You’re just messing with me, I know it. You’ll be here.”
    â€œPlease—” she said once more.
    â€œRay,” I called, depositing the receiver on my empty plate on the telephone table. “Fran wants to talk to you.”

LISTEN
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    G igi Boudakian lies facedown on the rug on the bed. There’s a strange throw on there, a deep red swirly Turkish type of design, the kind like the carpets her dad would sell, that she will probably also sell eventually when the business is hers if she wants it. It’s even possible that throw came from her dad’s very shop, handled by her dad’s very hands. Gigi Boudakian has her face pressed so hard into that thin foam mattress I am afraid she is going to break her nose on the wood platform beneath.
    I can see, without even getting all that close, the bits of fiber and the swirly pattern of the throw’s woolly design lying like tiny crop circles on the perfect surface of Gigi Boudakian’s perfect face. I have to be able to see it without getting close because she won’t let me get close. Which isa shame. A crime and a shame. That is the only crime here, and I desperately need to get her to understand that.
    â€œListen, please, will you listen to me? You’re not listening to me.”
    That doesn’t help anybody, her refusing to listen to me and refusing to speak. I hate it when people I love refuse to speak to me.
    â€œSpeak,” I say to her. But she is not listening to me.
    She goes to the window, turning her back to me and staring away off to nowhere. I don’t like the way she is now, all brooding and silent, hugging herself. She worries me.
    She bears no resemblance to any version of herself I have ever seen, and that is the