“You probably have to go,” I say.

“Yeah, I should probably go.”

I hang up, and it’s almost a relief to get off the phone.

“How’s Jake?” Mom asks. She and Granma were doing dishes in the kitchen, but as soon as I hang up they come in.

“Yeah, he’s good.”

“It’s so nice you got to talk to him. I bet he missed you. Did you tell him you missed him?”

“Mom . . .”

“What?” she says.

“Of course I didn’t tell him that.”

“Why not? It’s true. I bet he misses you, too.”

“He didn’t sound like . . .”

“What?” Mom says. She’s standing with her hands on her hips. Her hair is a little frizzy from the heat of the kitchen—she looks mad, which isn’t how she means to look, but I don’t think she can help it when she’s in one of her I’m concerned about you moods.

“Nothing.”

“No, I want to know. He didn’t sound like what?”

“Nothing . . . he didn’t sound like anything.”

“That’s not what you were going to say.”

“Why do you make me say things I don’t want to say?”

Mom looks at me with wet eyes. “I don’t make you . . .”

“Yes, you do, all the time. Ben doesn’t talk. Pay Ben to talk. I’ll talk when I want to.”

“Okay, Ben. All right.”

“I’ll talk when I feel like it. I mean, what’s the point? What do you want me to say? Do you want me to say that Jake sounded totally fine? Like, he’s got a new dog, and he’s at home . . . I mean, he sounded fine. What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. I want you to say what you want to say.”

“Well, I don’t want to say anything.”

“Fine,” she says. “Let’s nobody say anything.”

And Granma gives her a look. Like, leave him alone. Let it blow over. As if I can’t see.

Fifteen

FOR THE REST OF THE VACATION, Mom makes me use the diary—it’s called “keeping a diary” apparently, like keeping a dog or something, like you have to take it for a walk every day. (Jake gets a dog for Christmas and I get an empty book with lined pages.) But it’s my fault. One morning I complain to her, “I’m bored,” and she says, “Why don’t you write something?” and I say, “What should I write?”

“Granma gave you that diary. She’ll be upset if you don’t use it.”

“But I don’t have anything to write about.”

Granma’s gone shopping and we’re sitting at the kitchen table, which is still full of breakfast stuff. It’s my job to clear it, which basically means putting everything in the sink, but it only takes about five minutes, and since I don’t really have anything else to do, I’m not in any hurry. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.

“Write what happens to you.”