“And the next,” Kevin agreed. “That’s when I noticed something else. They were arriving at the car wash at one-thirty. On a school day.”
The room felt colder. I looked at Kevin. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning I called the school, Megan. The attendance office told me Noah had missed several afternoon classes in the last month. And Ethan’s grades had slid in math and chemistry. Both boys had been signing out early with notes about extra activities.”
My stomach rolled over like a wet sock in a dryer.
“Notes,” I said. “Who wrote the notes?”
Silence.
“Noah. Look at me.”
He raised his head slowly. His eyes were red-rimmed. “We only missed a few classes.”
“A few?”
“More than a few,” Kevin said, without unkindness.
I pressed the heels of my hands against my forehead. Suddenly I could see it all in a different light. The evenings they dragged through the door with gray skin and aching shoulders. The nights I found Ethan asleep face-down on his algebra. The arguments over why they had stopped caring about subjects they used to love, arguments I’d chalked up to puberty and screens.
