“The old Buick needs gas,” I said, looking out the window at the driveway. “It will take thirty dollars to fill the tank.”
“I can handle that after school,” he said.
He picked up the grocery bag and tucked it under his arm. His car keys jingled in his pocket as he moved toward the back door.
“Aaron, did you take those shears?” I asked.
He stopped at the door, his hand on the brass knob. He did not turn around to face me, keeping his back to the kitchen.
“I haven’t seen them,” he said.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the kitchen completely quiet except for the steady drip of the kitchen faucet.
I looked behind the box of toothpicks in the drawer, then under the plastic tray where we kept the corn skewers. Nothing was there except a few dry breadcrumbs. It was unlike Aaron to lose track of tools, but lately, his mind seemed to be in three places at once.
He had a chemistry test at nine, and his varsity soccer jersey was still sitting in the dryer. I had washed it twice to get the mud from the grass out of the white numbers.
“Your coach called yesterday,” I said, leaning against the counter.
Aaron did not look up from folding his bag. “What did he want?”
“Just wanted to make sure you were still set for the game on Saturday,” I said. “He said you missed the team meeting on Monday.”
“I was at the library,” Aaron said, his voice flat.
“The library is closed on Monday evenings, Aaron.”
He did not answer. He just pulled his car keys out of his pocket.
I dried my hands on a towel and walked to the window to watch him walk down the gravel path. His gait was slower than usual, his head tilted down toward his boots as he carried the paper bag.
