None of these possibilities feel exactly accurate. It’s like I’m scratching all around an itch I can’t reach. Like when Moony would tell me not to scratch my mosquito bites in that tone that let me know she would check for red marks before bed and if she found them I could count on a swat for each one. I would scratch all around the welt but never touch it, trying desperately to satisfy both my maddening need for relief and my desperate need for her approval. The man in the church and café is the mosquito bite that won’t fade, the mystery welt left from some fantasy bug in my psyche. I can’t ignore him, and I can’t swat him away. I am circling the infection but never really landing on true relief. I know who he is, but I don’t know what he is.

The bedroom door bursts open and my mother is laughing now, her face cast back over a coy shoulder at something Gary has said. She’s in a black, sleeveless dress with a plunging neckline and a colorful wrap. Her hair is pinned up, her lips stained the color of wine. Gary is shuffling behind her with a wide grin, situating his straw hat on his head. Whatever he has said or done since going in there, it worked. All is clearly forgiven.

I follow them across the room with my eyes. I’m reclined on the sofa bed, the blankets gathered around my crossed legs, my fingers dirty with pencil. Just as she reaches the door, she glances at me and her smile vanishes. Her eyes go hard, and she steps out without a word.

Gary is out of the doghouse, but I am still firmly inside. The unfairness of it infuriates me.

Gary gives me a sympathetic nod at the door. “I’ll have her home before midnight,” he says, as if I am her mother. Then he adds, “It’ll all be over in the morning. You’ll see.”

I can tell he thinks this will console me.

I look away, betrayed by the sting of tears filling my eyes. I do not breathe until I hear the door click behind them. And then I throw my sketchbook, hard as I can, against it. The pages make a futile, weak sound as they hit the wood. I choke on a sob and get up, wiping angrily at my face. I lock the door before picking my sketchbook back up, the boy Fool still staring into nothing. The cardboard cover is dented at one corner, but that’s the extent of the damage.