#and andrea starts to come across as sort of meek and timid

[jmflowers]

I just accomplished a bunch of things I needed to do before bed, so I vote we celebrate with an instalment of "I wrote this stuff and then discarded it from Risk"!

In trying to figure out how to have the dad thing factor into the story, I wrote like 5 or 6 different iterations of it coming to light. This is one version that I liked but decided against using because I wanted Risk to be told entirely from Carina's third-person point of view and this negated that. It was super fun to explore the relationship between the kids as teenagers, though, and this push-and-shove dialogue has become the backbone of writing them in their older years.

We'll call this: "prompt #17" (I guess). You can read it below the cut...

Despite their best efforts, Andrea and Beatrice haven’t quite managed to cover the entire kitchen table with their combined homework. A small patch of wood peeks out from the space between them, untouched by the wide array of tech they’ve spread out. Andrea groans, slamming a finger against the backspace button on his keyboard as he rubs at his forehead.

It’s become a routine now that high school requirements are plaguing them both. Quiet Friday evenings before the moms get home are perfect for sluffing through as much schoolwork as possible. Andrea misses the days of cartoons and popcorn, though; when they’d sneak all the sugar they could before grown-up eyes came through the door with dinner and disapproval.

“You getting anything done?” he sighs, leaning back on the kitchen chair to get a better view of his little sister.

Beatrice is hunched over her tablet, the stylus in her hand swirling around in mindless circles. She exhales loudly. “I think if I doodle any more, I’ll have to go pro.”

That settles it. Andrea closes his laptop, finally admitting defeat. “How was practice?” he asks as he rises from the table, crossing the kitchen in search of something to clear his head.

“It was good,” Beatrice answers, the stylus still swirling. “Coach says my arms are getting better.”

Andrea pulls open the fridge, scanning the contents for something that isn’t better suited for a life inside a protein shake. Unsurprisingly, he comes up short. “You’re supposed to run with your legs,” he jokes, switching his attention to the freezer.

“Ha, ha,” Beatrice says, tossing the stylus onto the tabletop and turning around in her chair to watch as Andrea digs through the freezer. “There’s some gelato under the peas if Mama didn’t finish it already,” she suggests.

“Yes!” Andrea rejoices as he uncovers their prize. He pushes the freezer closed with his foot at the same time as he stretches to grab two spoons from the cutlery drawer, his long limbs already rehearsed in years of this kitchen tango.

Beatrice accepts a spoon as he drops into the chair next to her, depositing the gelato container on the empty corner of the table. They’re quiet for a moment, both shoveling oversized scoops into their mouths. It’s not quite as good as the gelato they’d had last summer in Italy but it’s sweet and cold and not homework.

“There was a scout at practice today,” Beatrice murmurs after a while, once the brain freeze has slowed her shoveling.

“Oh yeah?” Andrea answers, still focused on his spoon.

“Yeah,” Beatrice nods, “Kate says they’re probably looking at the juniors already.” She draws her bottom lip into her mouth, chewing on it slowly as she thinks.

Her brother notices that, though, smirking as he shoves the gelato tub in her direction again. “That make you nervous?”

She scoffs, shoving it back. “I’m a freshman.”

Andrea shrugs, pulling the tub into his lap as he scoops up the final few bites. “Crazier things have happened, B.”

“He talked to me,” she whispers, fingers dancing across her spoon with the jitters of nerves and excitement and confusion. “He knew my name… Me.”

For the first time since he’d started eating, Andrea stills, spoonful of gelato halfway to his mouth. He gathers himself again quickly, shoving it between his lips and standing up. “Just the one scout?” he asks, “Isn’t there usually a few scheduled to visit a meet or something?”

“Andrea,” Beatrice groans, throwing her head back against the chair, “I didn’t ask for three parents.” She flips her spoon up into the air above her head, catching it before it can collide with her face. “He just came over and talked to a few of us while we were stretching. It was nice.”

“Okay,” Andrea shrugs, leaning over the sink with the now-empty gelato tub.

“It doesn’t matter, anyways,” Beatrice continues, flipping the spoon again, “He’s a long-distance coach and I’m a sprinter. It’s basically two different sports.”

Andrea turns on the tap, rinsing the tub slowly beneath the steady stream of water. “Long-distance?” he asks, swallowing roughly.

“Yeah,” Beatrice laughs, “Mom probably would’ve loved to talk to him. They could’ve gotten each other all riled up about endurance and race snacks.” She flips the spoon once more, but her aim is off just a little and it misses her grasp, clattering against the tile floor.

Andrea jumps at the sound.

Beatrice sighs, rolling off her chair to retrieve it. “He even said he’d trained an athlete who went to the Olympics,” she chuckles as she strolls across the kitchen, dropping her dirty spoon in the sink. “Isn’t that crazy?”

“Yeah,” Andrea whispers, “Crazy.”

~

It’s a typical Friday night dinner; takeout containers spread across the table, Beatrice babbling away animatedly about her day and forgetting to eat. Andrea sits at the other end, more focused on his meal than the chatter, quiet until his little sister finally relinquishes her hold on their mother’s attention.

Carina watches as it unfolds, as Maya nods along to everything their daughter has to say even though she’s probably only half-listening, as those familiar blue eyes of her wife’s dart up every few minutes to find her own. They’ve barely had an hour together in the same place all week, between the track meet and their work schedules and Andrea’s college fair, the requirements of motherhood taking precedence as usual.

“And what did Mr. Harcourt say?” Maya prompts, smirking as the question launches Beatrice into another tirade, their daughter barely pausing for breath as she tells the story.

Carina finds herself looking to Andrea instead, analyzing the slope of his shoulders as he hunches over his plate. He’s been not quite himself all evening: his smile not quite reaching his eyes, his posture not quite as upright, his fingers busy tapping at his thighs more than is typical.

When Maya looks her way again, she holds her gaze, left eyebrow lifting as she tips her head towards their son. Maya frowns in response, her jaw shifting side to side in acknowledgement. Something on his mind.

They’ve been looking at colleges for a few months now and the process has been weighing on him, Carina knows. Even though he still has time to decide, he can’t seem to settle on a major, which makes picking a school more difficult, and the added pressure just seems to be dragging him down.

Their sweet, sensitive boy has never been one to flourish amidst change.

“Andrea,” Carina interrupts, halting the string of Beatrice’s thought before she can launch into another tale of freshman drama, “How was your day?”

He shrugs, eyes still on his plate. “It was fine, Mama.”

“Lots of homework?” Maya presses, reaching across the table as if she’s only half-focused on him, too.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “That essay is due on Monday.” He bookends the sentence with a forkful of chicken, taking his time to chew.

“You got a lot done earlier, though,” Beatrice pipes up, tossing him a wide grin from the opposite end of the table, “Didn’t you?”

Andrea nods, still chewing.

“Was that before or after you got into my gelato stash?” Maya teases, lifting her own fork in accusation. Beatrice’s nose crinkles in response, those big brown eyes of hers sparkling with mischief. Andrea smirks, his cheeks colouring.

“My gelato,” Carina corrects, leaning into the banter in the hopes that it’ll lower Andrea’s guard for at least a few minutes. A good joke can do that sometimes; drag down his armour long enough to get out what’s racing through his mind.

It warms her inside, this intimacy of their family. That Maya, too, knows that letting Beatrice talk through all of dinner will mean their daughter can settle into the calm of their home with a clear head. That Andrea needs laughter when his mind is swirling through a scenario he can’t work out on his own. That even now, when their children are teenagers who sit at either ends of the table, they can still read them, still decipher them, still look at each other and communicate the rhythm needed to reach them both.

It's intoxicating, this synchronicity, and it makes her want to lean across the table and pull Maya into a kiss.

“I’m the one who hid it,” Maya argues.

“But you hide everything in the same spot,” Beatrice bickers right back.

“Yeah, cause none of you ever touch the peas!”

“Why don’t you tell Moms about the scout, B?” Andrea suggests, derailing their banter. He looks up expectantly when he says it, wide eyes and an encouraging smile filling his face as he stares at his sister.

Carina watches as Beatrice squints at him, clearly attempting to deduce his motive.

“A scout?” Maya asks, eyebrows rising comically high up her forehead, “At practice?”

“Uh, yeah,” Beatrice nods, still focused on her brother, “Getting an early look at the juniors, I guess.”

“Sophomores, too, probably,” Maya adds.

Beatrice pales at the suggestion, her bottom lip disappearing between her teeth. Unlike Andrea, their not-so-little girl has a pretty solid idea of where she’d like to go after high school, already watching as the seniors embark on the track scholarship pipeline she’s begun dreaming of. It’s not pressure, she’d assured them all over dinner a few weeks ago, Just a goal.

“But he was a long-distance coach, right?” Andrea continues, feigning nonchalance. He falls a little flat of his target, though, his eyes flicking upwards to Beatrice’s face too often to not declare the obviousness of intent behind his question. “Didn’t you say he coached someone who went to the Olympics?”

Maya stills immediately, the muscles in her arms tightening so minutely Carina’s certain she’d have missed it if there weren’t decades of memorizing her wife under her belt. There’s a tightness in Maya’s jaw when she goes searching for her gaze, every inch of her body suddenly on high alert.

Andrea swallows roughly beside his mother. “What was his name again?” he asks.

Beatrice shrugs, completely oblivious to the rising temperature at the table. “I don’t know, something obnoxiously running-related,” she grins as the memory resurfaces, digging back into her food with a renewed vigor, “Kate kept snickering about it after.”

“Track?” Andrea suggests.

Blonde hair swishes as Beatrice shakes her head, food finally making its way into her mouth. She doesn’t answer as she chews but her eyes flick up towards the ceiling, attempting to remember.

“Dash?” Carina murmurs, watching as Maya’s throat bobs.

“Mmm-mmm,” Beatrice hums.

Maya’s mouth opens slowly, her fingers tensed on the tabletop. Her voice is flat when she speaks, so cold and so un-Maya that it makes Carina shiver. “Lane?”

“Yeah!” Beatrice laughs, “Can you imagine? I think I’d rather be named starting block or sprint.” She brushes a wisp of loose hair behind her ear, somehow still unaware of the change in energy occurring around the table.

Forever in her own little world, their Beatrice.

Andrea, however, ducks his chin, abandoning his fork on the table as he shifts backwards in his chair. Maya doesn’t look at him, doesn’t look anywhere but at the plate in front of herself, muscles winding themselves tighter and tighter with every second.

He’d asked about his grandfather the summer before last, when a traipse through the basement for some camping supplies had unearthed a photo album he’d never seen before. The pictures had been cute and untroubling at first; braids and braces and Maya’s triumphant grin. Until Andrea had turned to the last page and Carina had caught sight of Lane Bishop for the first time in more than 15 years.

She’d tried to tread carefully around the subject. Tried to convey as gently as she could the reason their children have never known their grandfather, the reason that Maya never speaks his name in their home. But he’s receptive, their son, and far smarter than she sometimes knows what to do with.

Andrea understood it seemed, even then, that Lane Bishop wasn’t a person to ask his mom about, nor a name to blab to his little sister. Carina had been grateful when he’d tucked it away inside his mind, despite the swirl of guilt in her gut at her own selfishness. There’d been too many years of therapy, she’d rationed, too much time spent burying his memory to dig it back out again.

Only, Andrea doesn’t forget.

And Maya’s father will probably always be a festering wound.

“You are not to speak to that scout,” Maya manages through a jaw so tight her mouth barely opens.

Beatrice scoffs, the sound dying only when she finally looks up at her mother in the millisecond before she’s about to protest. Her brow furrows, eyes darting around the table as she takes in the tension that’s looped its way into everyone else. “Oh… kay,” she mumbles, “What did I miss?”

Maya swallows and it looks so painful Carina feels her heart clench in response. The desire to reach for Maya flares loudly, a voice screaming in her head to grab her hand or round the table to pull her into her arms. But it won’t help, Carina knows, won’t do anything but speed up the inevitable unraveling or spark the explosion.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Andrea whispers.

“It’s okay,” Maya exhales, “You didn’t do anything.”

Beatrice squints, her shoulders hiking up towards her ears with sudden nerves. “Did… did I do something?” she murmurs.

“No,” Carina soothes, reaching for Beatrice’s hand instead. She squeezes at their daughter’s fingers and smiles as softly as she can manage, suddenly desperate to spin time backwards a few minutes. “We just…” She trails off, unsure what to say.

Maya swallows again, drawing in a slow breath. “I need a minute,” she mutters, rising from the table. She’s gone in a second, disappearing up the stairs and leaving the wide, panicked looks of their children in her wake.

“It’s okay,” Carina soothes immediately, patting Beatrice’s hand, “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She reaches for Andrea as she gets up, too, leaning over to press a kiss against the top of his head. “Either of you.”

The voice in her head is getting louder, screaming that Maya needs her.

“Should I go check on her?” Andrea asks. It really is a family curse, the incessant need to take care of others; it’s printed into Andrea’s DNA, even though she didn’t mean to put it there.

“No,” Carina murmurs.

Even though she meant to shield them both from this.

“I’ve got her.”