Equally tense, Sol surveyed her parents, her dad in his APD uniform, her mom in her church garb. Jerry used to call them “The Law and the Word.” Sol had always wondered what that made her.
The standoff continued, rain pouring, steaks cooling, air conditioning humming. Her father’s face matched his institutional tone: drab, straightforward, opaque. He’d initially opposed Sol moving in with Nana, his mother, when she started high school, but that opposition had quickly become thick, impenetrable silence.
Thunder shook the house, rattling Sol’s mother. Maybe that’s why they haven’t kicked me out yet, Sol realized. Her mom was from the Florida Gulf Coast, the land of storms with names and body counts. Sol used to love when it stormed because that meant her mom would pick her up from school.
