Chapter 25

W hy do mosquito bites itch? And why do mosquitoes only come out in the summer? Mommy says insect bites and scraped knees are a part of childhood, but I don’t like that . I don’t like the itching. Winter is better because I don’t get bitten, and Santa Claus comes to gift me presents. Daddy doesn’t like Santa. “Stop putting silly ideas into his head,” he always says to Mommy, but she smiles that pretty smile, and he shakes his head and grumbles something under his breath, then softens when she kisses his cheek.

“Are you listening?” he says now, frowning as I scratch the latest bite on my arm. We’re in the backyard, enjoying the late summer sun. Mom is inside, preparing food, the mouthwatering scent of bacon drifting through the open patio door. “Stop that. It’ll get infected.” He tips his stubbly chin toward the soda can he put on the tree stump at the edge of our yard. “That’s your target, Son. Think you can knock it off? If you do, I’ll give you the latest video game you were asking for.”

My eyes go as wide as saucers. Daddy wouldn’t let me buy it before because Mommy said it was too grown up. “Really?”

This is better than the gifts Santa brings me.

“Really!” he says, then ruffles my hair with an affectionate smile before glancing toward the house. Mommy is still inside. Turning back, he slides his gun out from the back of his pants and hands it to me. “Remember what I taught you the other week? How to load it?”

“Yes,” I reply, making ‘pew, pew’ noises as I aim the gun at the soda can, pretending I’m a cowboy in a Western.

Mommy likes that movie with the old man who chews on a cigar and says—according to Mommy—smart things like, “When a man’s got money in his pocket, he begins to appreciate peace . ”

Mommy, seated cross-legged on the couch, once mouthed the words, and Daddy snorted, saying, “What a load of bollocks. If anything, the more money a man has in his pocket, the more he appreciates war,” before rising from the couch and leaving the room.

I don’t know what “bollocks” means. Mommy said it’s a British word, because that’s where Daddy grew up before his family moved here.

“Cyrus Delacroix,” Mommy’s stern voice says from the patio door, and Daddy groans tiredly under his breath, then winks at me as he straightens up. Mommy strides across the grass, still dressed in her pinafore, her hair messy atop her head. She’s always pretty , my mommy. “I’ve repeatedly asked you not to teach him this stuff yet. He’s too young.”

Daddy puts his hands on his hips, his head slightly tilted down as he peers at Mommy through his dark lashes. “He needs to learn how to defend himself in case something happens. The Reckoning is coming up and ? —”

“No.” Mom’s firm voice stiffens my spine. “It’s out of the question. He’s only a child, Cyrus.”

Daddy stares off into the distance, sweat beading on his brow, and then he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Go back inside, Son. Mommy and Daddy need to have a grown-up conversation.”

I don’t like their grown-up conversations. They rarely fight, but Daddy sometimes upsets Mommy when he says he has to be the man of the house and put his foot down. Sometimes, Mommy doesn’t like those decisions and gives Daddy the silent treatment for days while stirring the pan or washing the dishes aggressively like they upset her too.

I glance at Mommy, but she’s not looking at me. She is standing with her arms crossed and eyes narrowed on Daddy. After handing Daddy the gun, I walk back to the house. My arm itches, so I dig my dirty nails into the skin as I enter through the patio door.

“We live in a dangerous world,” Daddy says to Mommy as I hide just inside the entrance to avoid detection.

Mommy’s voice drifts on the summer breeze, a tired plea for my Daddy to listen for once. “I’m aware, Cyrus, but don’t you want him to have a childhood?”

“What I want is for him to be safe. Unlike you, I don’t pretend everything is fine.”

“Unlike me?”

“Forget it.” Daddy turns to walk away, but Mommy grabs him by the arm.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me! We’re talking.”

Daddy’s chest inflates with a heavy sigh, and he reluctantly turns around, crossing his arms over his muscular chest, the T-shirt straining at the seams.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I refuse to baby him like you.”

“Baby him? Uh-huh. That so? I baby him?” Mom sucks on her teeth, almost trembling with anger.

“Yes,” Daddy replies exasperatedly, unfolding his arms. “He’ll grow up weak and unable to survive in this world. Unless you’ve noticed, he’s the son of an Elder. One day, he’ll be expected to follow in my footsteps. The others already make fun of us because Darian is too soft.”

Daddy’s words hurt more than when I fell off my bike the other day and scratched my knee up real bad. Mommy said I shouldn’t ride downhill so fast.

I shrink away from the door, my chin trembling.

“Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry,” a voice in my head scolds. Daddy says tears are for the weak. We are men, and men like us don’t cry. If anyone sees us cry, it’ll be bad for us and Mommy.

“Has it ever occurred to you that not all wars are fought with weapons and hatred? Some are fought with the heart, Cyrus. Some are fought with love.”

“Listen to yourself,” Daddy scoffs, placing his hands on his head and barking a cruel laugh, a harsh sound I haven’t heard my daddy make before. “Some are fought with love? Don’t be ridiculous.” Lowering his hands by his sides, he stares at Mommy for a long moment before leaning in. “There’s no room for love in the Exodus. I’m teaching the kid to use a gun.”

As he strides toward the house, I spin on my feet and run to my room. If Daddy finds me eavesdropping, I’ll get my butt whooped.

Mommy doesn’t speak to Daddy for a week. When I finally knock the soda can off the tree stump, I see her watching me in the doorway with a soft yet sad smile. Daddy swoops me up and runs me around the backyard while I pretend to be an airplane. I think I like summer and insect bites and scraped knees, after all.