The Unchosen Ones

Chapter 4

4

Being with Amberly ruined Kire’s mood for the remainder of the day. He kept playing her words over and over again in his head and grew angrier with each passing moment. By the late evening, the anger had spread through his entire body like poison.

Everything from the humming of the air conditioner to the neighbor’s dog barking next door irritated him on an amplified level. To try and manage his anger, he buried himself in books, working on his physics homework and leaving the answers in such an open-ended way that Mr. Loch would have a hard time understanding. After finishing his physics homework, he went to math and drew out a theory of his own to solve an iteration problem.

Kire’s mother called him down for dinner while he was working on his homework. He noticed his father sitting at the table. He was wearing a starched white shirt with the two top buttons undone, with gold cufflinks glinting at his wrist. His hair and mustache were gelled neatly, as he had the same unruly hair Kire did. Nothing could tame it except a lot of gel.

“Look at this boy,” growled Kire’s father, Gerald. “I’ve never seen him bring home any friends to play video games or soccer with. All he ever does is read! What kind of man is that?”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with that,” Kire grumbled, calloused to the way his dad treated him.

“See how smart he thinks he is, Emma? Did I not teach him that being smart won’t get you everything?” said Gerald.

“Kire is old enough to choose his own path, Gerald. He’s so smart and has chosen the academic path—it’s his choice,” retorted Emma.

Listening to his parents fight in front of him about him was nothing new for Kire. He chewed on the chicken his mother made and pretended not to hear them.

“He’s a teenager! He can’t choose for himself! That’s what we’re here for; to tell him what he needs to do and make sure he does it!” spat Gerald.

“You mean, force it down his throat?” asked Emma.

Gerald clapped his hands together. “That’s the phrase I was looking for,” he said before adding an afterthought, “Or spoon it into his mouth since you probably think shoving something down your son’s throat is too violent.”

“Gerald!” Emma cried, horrified.

“Oh, spare me all that, Emma. My hard work pays the bills around here and pays for that schooling of his. I should have control over what he does at school.”

“And what is it you’d rather have him do at school?”

“Sports!” Gerald yelled, his small brown eyes gleaming with passion. “He needs to join the soccer or basketball team or something. So, what if he isn’t a good athlete? I have the connections to make things happen. He can at least make the bench of a good team—that would be better than what he does right now.”

“The bench?” Kire asked. “Wow, what little faith you have in me. Thanks, Dad.”

“Yeah. You gotta take what life brings to your doorstep,” Gerald said, talking with his mouth full of mashed potatoes.

“Or, in this case, what you’re bringing to my doorstep and breaking-and-entering into my space,” said Kire.

Gerald chortled. “You don’t have a door yet, kid, or space. And if you’re hell-bent on being a full-time academic, I can guarantee you’ll never have a door.”

“Why?” asked Kire blankly.

“Well, look at your mother: she has a master’s degree and struggles to hold a job. Meanwhile, I didn’t go to college and I’m able to provide for my family all on my own.”

“I don’t want to be a soccer player,” said Kire, poking his chicken violently with his fork. He had played soccer most of his life, actually; his father enrolled him as soon as he could run, and he played for years until he got into high school and had a big enough argument with his dad that he finally let him quit. He didn’t hate playing soccer so much as he hated that his dad wanted him to play soccer so badly.

“Then a baseball player,” said Gerald casually.

“Or a baseball player,” argued Kire.

“Fine, then basketball.”

“Dad,” Kire said through gritted teeth.

“There are so many opportunities with sports! You could go pro; you could be a coach or a ref or an agent or—”

“An agent? Like what you’re trying to be for me right now? A person who ignores another person’s wishes and forces them to take a certain path because it looks lucrative?”

“Enough with the self-righteousness,” Gerald said, looking at Kire and reaching for his wine glass at the same time. Because he wasn’t watching where his large, clumsy hands were going, he knocked the glass onto the floor, where it shattered.”

“Gerald, I don’t think you should drink with a glass cup anymore,” Emma said, greeting paper towels and the dustpan.

“You want me to drink from plastic cups?” He scoffed.

“Or stainless steel, if you prefer. And not just the cups, the plates as well.”

“What?!” boomed Gerald, slamming his fists into the table. “What do you expect? I’m a man, and men have to break things. It shows power.”

“You’re always breaking things,” Emma said. “Why don’t you try fixing stuff for a change?”

Kire sighed and got up from the table. “I’m full and tired. Goodnight.”