The Perfect Son by Barbara Claypole White

into another chair.
    “Any more news from your dad?”
    “Just that he drove to the beach to clear his head, which is why I have to go to after-school.”
    “Your dad’s a weirdo. You know this, right?”
    Harry nearly replied with “Your dad is creepily normal.” Which was bizarre. Never wandered into a pissing match over dads before. Max’s parents were joined at the hip—always touching each other, which was gross. And Max’s dad, Pete, was everything Dad wasn’t: spontaneous, fun-loving, wanted to be friends in a slightly annoying, hey-I’m-the-cool-dad, have-a-beer kind of way. A parent should be a parent, not a friend.
    “You’re ticcing worse than a howler monkey on meth,” Max said. “What’s going on? I mean, other than your mom being in the hospital and your dad being MIA at the beach.”
    “Dad says she’s going to need a long recovery time even after she gets home. What if Dad loses his job because he has to look after Mom, and I have to go back to public school? I can’t go back to public school. I mean, this shit-hole is falling down around us, but it’s home, you know? Like being part of the von Trapp family.”
    One hundred kids, kindergarten through twelfth grade, in a haunted, historic house in downtown Durham. Needed a complete renovation job, but what was not to love about their school? Best of all, the teachers totally got how Mom could fuss. After the parent-teacher conference when Mom had insisted on giving everyone the full update on how spectacularly he had flunked drivers ed, Ms. Lillian had taken him aside and said, “She just wants to keep us all in the loop, so we can be part of team Harry.” But hadn’t he outgrown team Harry?
    “C’mon, dude,” Max said. “Your dad probably has a whole to-do list of backup plans. Besides, hasn’t he already paid next year’s school fees to get that price break? I remember my dad bitching about it, and then being all excited because it meant they were down to one set of school fees. If my parents have done it, your dad has.”
    “I guess.” Harry cracked his knuckles. “I miss talking with Mom, too. Trying to talk with Dad’s worse than falling into a copperhead’s nest. You know me, I like to talk things out. But Dad starts tapping his hand and says—” Harry cleared his throat for his upper-class Brit voice. “You have already told me that twice .”
    Max cracked up. “I know, dude. But you can always talk to me. Want me to drive you home so you can become a latchkey kid like the rest of us?”
    “Nah. I’m good. Why are you still here?”
    “George asked me to help out this fifth grader. Poor kid is practically math dyslexic.” Max elbowed him. “Oh wait, I get it. You want to go to after-school. Doesn’t Sammie Owen go to after-school?”
    “Does she?” Harry looked at his groin.
    “When’re you gonna actually talk to her, man? Say, ‘I think you’re super hot. Want to hook up?’”
    “Max!” Harry glanced around. “Walls have ears.”
    “Dude, it’s not complicated. You like her, I’m pretty sure she likes you. One plus one equals earth-shattering grope session. If you don’t make a move, I will.”
    Harry scowled. “What the—”
    “On your behalf, dude.” Max punched the air. “Ha! I knew you had the hots for her. Well played, Max. Well played.”
    Harry blushed. He and Max talked about everything. Mom always said they were two halves of a whole; the teachers joked they were Siamese twins separated at birth. They didn’t keep secrets from each other, but this was different. The way he felt about Sammie was different. Fragile and private. Not for sharing. But Max had figured it out anyway. That’s what best friends did, figured out life when you couldn’t.
    “I really like her,” Harry mouthed.
    “Well, duh. Tell me something I don’t know. By the way”—Max leaned closer—“she thinks you’re pretty chill.”
    “How do you know?” Harry whispered.
    “Can we stop whispering like