Chapter 5-2
645 Words
Father’s car was in the drive when Darren got home.
The sight of it was so unusual that it took a moment to remember that it was Father’s car, and not one of Scott’s friends. If any of Scott’s friends could afford a Mercedes. Or knew how to put their car through a car wash.
Father being home meant that Darren’s usual route—raiding the fridge, failing to find anything worth eating, and retreating upstairs to hide in his room and scatter his homework everywhere to avoid even more music practice—was cut off. Father, unlike Mother, liked updates. Darren was the only kid he knew who was older than seven and was still being asked…
“Darren. What did you learn at school today?”
He hadn’t even managed to close the front door. Damn it.
Father was waiting in the living room doorway. Beyond it, Darren could hear the news channel on loop, which meant Misha was probably still at her ballet lesson. Judging by Scott’s car being missing, he’d probably escaped to pick her up. Lucky son of a…
“Tuesday is mostly science and maths, Father,” he replied, hoping to put him off. Father was a corporate lawyer and fully intended for Darren to study music at university. Darren fully intended to go any other way possible. “I have basic calculus, so…”
“You also have practice.”
“I had Mr. Weber’s orchestra this afternoon,” Darren returned.
“And if you are to keep your place in it, you must practice. You will not be accepted into any reputable music college without significant…”
“I’ve been first violin for over a year!”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Darren. I’m only looking out for your future.”
Darren ground his teeth, toeing off his shoes, and shrugging out of his blazer to hang it up. They’d had this conversation—and every possible variance of it—nearly every day for the last four years. Ever since he’d been accepted onto that stupid orchestra in the first place. There would be absolutely no point in having it again.
“Don’t ignore me, Darren. You have practice.”
“Well, I’m not going to bloody practice,” Darren snapped. “I’ve been practicing all afternoon, my wrist hurts, and I have calculus homework!”
Father drew himself up and folded his arms over his chest. Darren could remember being five and afraid of that stance, but it was ten years ago, and those ten years hadn’t been kind to Jeff Peace. His stomach was forcing its way over the top of his suit trousers, he was going bald, and the last summer (and Darren’s violently quick growth spurts) had reinforced the simple fact that Father was not as tall as he made out to be.
“You have a talent,” Father growled, but his voice wasn’t deep enough to do it properly, “and talents are the keys to success in this world. If you want to ever be a success, you have to nurture your gifts, and that means practice.”
“Yeah, well, I seriously doubt any engineering school gives a f**k about my ability to mangle the entirety of The Four Seasons!” Darren shouted, finally losing his temper, and stormed upstairs, dodging the grab Father made for his elbow and running the last ten steps until he could swing into his room and slam the door. The bang was satisfying.
He’d left his bags downstairs, though, which meant no homework. And Father would tell Mother about the ‘debate’ (row) and she’d come up later when she got home and shout at him for being disrespectful. She might even try and get him to apologise for swearing (which was not going to happen).
But he’d gotten out of practice, and Darren found a bitter smile from somewhere as he forced his chest of drawers across the carpet and behind the door to barricade it shut. By the time Mother came home and had a go, it would be Misha’s bedtime. Which meant he had a couple of hours to kill before she came home and he’d have to unblock the door and get his homework.
He opened up his laptop—a hand-me-down from Scott—and hooked up to the internet. Doubtless she’d take it away as punishment, so best, really, to get his downtime in now.
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- Writer
