Max Booth III - We Need to Do Something

Our phones wont stop screaming, each slightly out of sync with the other, making the noises jarring and insane.

We form a line and pile into the bathroomMom first, hugging a rolled-up blanket to her chest; followed by Bobby with a stack of board games nearly matching his height; then me, still soaked from the storm outside, walking on autopilot while jabbing my thumbs against the weather alert on my phone; and behind me, whiskey fresh on his breath, my dad. The only thing hes brought with him being his thermos. Nobody has to guess whats inside it.

Oh my god, I say, turning off another alert. Another one immediately generates in its place. Anxietys threat of total annihilation increases with every additional pop-up. Why wont it stop?

Dad flinches, clearly annoyed by the pitch of my voice. Just give it a second, would you?

Mom motions for us to clear space so she can spread the blanket out along the floor. Pink flowers and butterflies decorate the fabric. The design has always made me nauseated. Grandmaon my dads sidehad gifted it to the family several Christmases ago. She also had always nauseated me. Yes, the way she looked and smelled didnt help, but it didnt end there. Her mannerisms were truly atrocious. The way she laughed could boil water. Once I heard her refer to those tiny black heads people get on their faces and necks as n-word babiesonly, shed actually said the word. Of course, Dad had thought that was the funniest thing in the world. Thank god for cancer.

Mom snaps her fingers until I look away from my phone. Where were you? You should have been home by six.

Bobby plops down on the blanket and inspects his stack of board games as if, somehow, hed forgotten one of his favorites.

I set my phone on the sink and attempt to dry my hair off with a nearby hand towel. I told you guys I was doing homework at Amys tonight.

Mom points at my arm. What happened there?

What? I follow her gaze and realize Id forgotten about the band-aid. Amy had slapped it on for me, just below my inner elbow. There had been a moment earlier tonight when I thought it would never stop bleeding.

Did you hurt yourself?

I swallow, thinking fast. Amys cat scratched me. Its no big deal.

She waits for more. I offer nothing. Why werent you answering my calls?

I didnt hear it ringing. And, for once, its the truth.

You need to answer your phone when I call. Thats why we pay for it every month.

I ignore this rerun of a lecture Ive heard a thousand times before by retrieving my phone from the counter and cancelling the weather alert again, only for another to regenerate almost instantaneously. I told you, I didnt hear it ring.

Not good enough.

Thats why I pay for it, Dad whispers, standing next to the closed bathroom door.

Mom turns to him. What?

The anger arrives in his eyes before it finds his lungs. THATS WHY I PAY FOR IT. THATS WHY I PAY FOR THE PHONE.

We flinch and stare at him, wide-eyed, waiting for the outburst to progress. Mom shakes her head, dismissing the tantrum. You know what I meant.

Wow, Dad, I say, whats

Mel, goddammit, Dad says, holding up his thermos to cut me off, when we call your phone, you answer it. No excuses. Next time, you lose it.

Okay, I say, then add under my breath, god

Outside, thunder spooks all four of us. Bobby clutches a Monopoly box against his chest, shaking. I think its an EF5.

Mom sighs, no stranger to this game. Its not a tornado, baby.

It might be an EF5.

Dad snarls. What the hell is an EF5?

Excitement replaces the terror across Bobbys face. Its like when two tornados come togetherhe drops the Monopoly box and claps his hands togetherand make one giant tornado it rips everything in its path. He points to the left, both arms stretched out, stiff, like hes directing a plane to land. If it goes this way, everything would be destroyed. He gestures the opposite direction. And everything this way would be destroyed, as well.

Oh my god, I whisper, heart pounding as I visualize our entire town obliterated. Is that true?

It isnt a tornado, Mom says. Its just a thunderstorm. Everythings going to be okay.

Dad groans, rubbing the space between his eyes that always seems to be the source of all his pain and frustration. Bobby, will you stop trying to scare your sister?

Or it could be a fire tornado.

I gasp, suddenly feeling flames heating my flesh. A fire tornado?

Mom reaches out for him, but is unsuccessful. Bobby

Like, if you get gallons of gasoline, and youhe mimics pouring a gasoline canister along the floorpour it, and if you want to be all the way over here, you can just pour it more, and you throw a match and the flame would shoot up into the tornado and that would be a fire tornado and everything would catch on fire.

Are you planning on starting a fire? Dad asks, sipping from his thermos.

Bobby gives his response serious consideration, then says, No.

Then theres not going to be a fire tornado.

Another realization strikes. Someone else might.

Someone else like who?

Bobby shrugs. I dont know. Just you know, people.

None of this can be real. These alerts are merely exercising caution, something the weather people have to issue or theyll get fined or fired or something. Mom, I say, is there really a tornado?

No, Mel, she says, voice warm like honey, theres not a

Thunder booms, drowning out any remaining hope.

That was loud, I whisper, voice cracking.

Mom nods. It was a little loud.

A little?

Dad clears his throat. Sounded like a gunshot.

Maybe its an EF6, Bobby says, then pauses, face all screwed up. Wait. Is there such a thing as an EF6?

I dont know, Bobby, Dad says, chuckling with exhaustion.

Bobby, Mom says, stern now, theres not going to be a tornado.

He points at her phone. Then why is it saying theres going to be one?

Its just in case, okay? We only have to sit here a couple more minutes. Its almost over.

Dad smirks into his thermos. Most things come to an end, dont they?

Oh, will you knock it off? Its amazing, how quickly Mom can transform from soothing parent to bitter spouse. Both of them have practiced this trick to perfection.

Bobby interrupts whatever the hell was about to happen between our parents by snapping his fingers, excited again, like a brand-new idea occurred to him. Oh! Maybe its a water tornado.

Wouldnt that just be a hurricane? I ask, wondering if hed asked a doofus question on purposeanything to extinguish the argument before it got out of hand.

Were too far away to get a hurricane, sweetie, Mom says.

Despite all his fear, my brother looks disappointed by this answer. Really?

Yes, baby.

He shrugs, never defeated. It could still be an EF5.

Okay, Dad says, in no mood to hear us talk, thats enough, Bobby.

But Im just saying

I said knock it off.

Bobby slumps his head, momentarily beaten, then starts shuffling through his board game collection again. Can we play Exploding Kittens?

The three of us answer in unison: No.

Oh, come on! Please?

That game takes too long, baby, Mom said.

Yeah, I add, plus, you dont even know how to play.

I do, too.

You cant even read.