He flips the radio on, then tries to thump his hand against the dashboard to the beat, then turns it off and faces me again. He sets his elbow on the top of the rolled-down window glass.

Junior’s angry, he says.

I ignore him.

Look, if you’re going to be a deaf-mute then maybe you shouldn’t sit up in front. Front-seat passengers don’t get to be boring.

I’m not deaf.

That’s what it sounds like to me.

Just because someone is being mute doesn’t necessarily mean they’re deaf.

Whatever.

Well don’t go saying things like that if you’re going to be wrong and inaccurate.

We pass San Vincente on Seventh and head down the hill into Rustic Canyon. Here fog has crept into the valley floor and you can see the red taillights glowing before us. A rig coming up from the PCH nears, its bone white headlights glowing and misted before and above us, like twin suns obscured by fog, then it shudders past.

You know you embarrass Mom.

He pauses a moment. I doubt that, Junior, he says. You’re the one who’s ugly.

I keep quiet. I can feel what I said bothering him, though he does not want me to know this.

I don’t embarrass Mom, he finally says.

Okay, whatever you want to believe.

He looks at me.

So?

So what.

Am I gonna have to beat the fuck out of you or are you going to tell me what you mean.

It’s the way you dress, and behave at parties.

He laughs. That’s all you mean.

It’s enough.

He ignores me as we pull behind the line of cars at the PCH traffic light, and even across the wide highway I can faintly make out the misted ocean and empty beach. The sand appears hard and damp, still bearing the furrows from the tractors that rake litter and glass from it each morning. A newly seeded farm field covered by a windstorm’s drifting sand.

We head up into the Palisades. On the far canyon wall you can see the four-story villa with its pink sides, sunny above the creeping mist.

You know, you’re the one to talk, Junior.

What do you mean?

He waits a moment, gripping his steering wheel casually.

I don’t know. Just a thought.

No. What?

He takes a breath and you can hear the in-suck of air entering his throat.

I know you think you’re the nice son and everything.

I never said I think that.

He gives me a look. The way I remember it, you were always crying in restaurants. You’d throw tantrums before the first day of school and she had to bring you in herself. It was embarrassing. You were always getting beat up. Man, was she worried about you.

He faces forward, waiting for me to say something. I don’t.