Shot Again, and Sandro’s personal favorite: If the Music’s Too Loud, You’re Too Old.
“Ah…hang on,” Nikolas said after a long (and probably horrified) pause.
Then came sudden silence, the thud of a body hitting the floor, and the muffled thunder of large feet moving across a rug.
The door swung open, and there stood Nikolas, looking simultaneously guilty and defiant. His chin was stuck out at that stubborn angle he did so well, but his shoulders were hunched in, as though he expected a beating and was prepared to duck and run if the situation degenerated.
“Aah,” Sandro began parsing his words.
One of the problems in dealing with Nikolas was that Sandro could never get the words that came out of his mouth to match his intentions. For example, he might be thinking, Wow, Nikolas got a good grade on that trigonometry exam, but what came out of his mouth was, “Why don’t you study harder so you can get A s in all your classes?”
Every conversation, no matter how trivial, turned into a minefield, and, unfortunately, Sandro hadn’t seen a mine-sniffing dog since he returned stateside. Nor did he have any measurable skills in dealing with kids, especially his kid. His supply of patience was far too depleted.
Still, every conversation was a new chance, and Skylar had faith in his ability to become a good father, and her faith seemed important and auspicious. And he desperately wanted to heal this tattered relationship with his son.
So he opened his mouth, treading carefully. “I, aah, just wanted to tell you something.”
Uh-oh. Even that was wrong. See? There Nikolas went, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes, gestures that were the body-language equivalent of pulling out a pistol and clicking off the safety.
“I did clean my room, okay?” Nikolas snapped. “And I can fold my clothes and put them away later. It’s no big deal.”
Sandro tilted his head a little, peering over Nikolas’s shoulder into the pit in question, which looked pretty much the same as it had the other day, when Sandro had issued the clean your room or else edict.
Shoes were still strewn over the floor, textbooks were still piled on the desk, the laundry basket was still mounded with three tons of clean clothes, and the bed was still unmade.
No, wait. The pillows were up off the floor and on the bed now, and the comforter, though still rumpled, had been flapped once or twice so that it covered up most of the white sheets.
It was cleaner, but nowhere near clean.
Sandro thought back on all the terrifying dorm inspections he’d endured during his tenure at West Point and bit back several potential sarcastic replies, choosing to focus on the task at hand.
Connect with your son, Davies.
Anyway, the kid had attempted to make the bed, and there were fewer pairs of shoes on the floor. That was progress, right?
“Yeah, I, aah, see that,” Sandro said. “Good job. And there’s, aah, no rush on the clothes.”
Nikolas’s jaw dropped.
“But that’s not why I came,” Sandro continued. “I just wanted to, aah, mention that you really helped with the yard cleanup. We couldn’t’ve done it without you. So, I, aah…thanks.”
Nikolas gaped at him.
Sandro waited, just in case there might be some reply.
Nikolas continued gaping.
O-kay, then.
Well, silence was better than a furious rant, right? And any conversation that ended without a furious rant was a complete victory, right? Right.
Time to exit the battlefield.
“So.” Buoyed by this step in the right direction, the first they’d had in months, possibly years, Sandro clapped the boy on the shoulder and strode off before the fragile peace collapsed. “I’ll see you later.”
A few minutes later, Sandro braced his palms on the granite counter, leaning into his rising frustration with enough force to move the entire kitchen six inches closer to the beach. His shoulders bunched; his gut churned; his jaw flexed. The flow of his blood had changed
“Ah…hang on,” Nikolas said after a long (and probably horrified) pause.
Then came sudden silence, the thud of a body hitting the floor, and the muffled thunder of large feet moving across a rug.
The door swung open, and there stood Nikolas, looking simultaneously guilty and defiant. His chin was stuck out at that stubborn angle he did so well, but his shoulders were hunched in, as though he expected a beating and was prepared to duck and run if the situation degenerated.
“Aah,” Sandro began parsing his words.
One of the problems in dealing with Nikolas was that Sandro could never get the words that came out of his mouth to match his intentions. For example, he might be thinking, Wow, Nikolas got a good grade on that trigonometry exam, but what came out of his mouth was, “Why don’t you study harder so you can get A s in all your classes?”
Every conversation, no matter how trivial, turned into a minefield, and, unfortunately, Sandro hadn’t seen a mine-sniffing dog since he returned stateside. Nor did he have any measurable skills in dealing with kids, especially his kid. His supply of patience was far too depleted.
Still, every conversation was a new chance, and Skylar had faith in his ability to become a good father, and her faith seemed important and auspicious. And he desperately wanted to heal this tattered relationship with his son.
So he opened his mouth, treading carefully. “I, aah, just wanted to tell you something.”
Uh-oh. Even that was wrong. See? There Nikolas went, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes, gestures that were the body-language equivalent of pulling out a pistol and clicking off the safety.
“I did clean my room, okay?” Nikolas snapped. “And I can fold my clothes and put them away later. It’s no big deal.”
Sandro tilted his head a little, peering over Nikolas’s shoulder into the pit in question, which looked pretty much the same as it had the other day, when Sandro had issued the clean your room or else edict.
Shoes were still strewn over the floor, textbooks were still piled on the desk, the laundry basket was still mounded with three tons of clean clothes, and the bed was still unmade.
No, wait. The pillows were up off the floor and on the bed now, and the comforter, though still rumpled, had been flapped once or twice so that it covered up most of the white sheets.
It was cleaner, but nowhere near clean.
Sandro thought back on all the terrifying dorm inspections he’d endured during his tenure at West Point and bit back several potential sarcastic replies, choosing to focus on the task at hand.
Connect with your son, Davies.
Anyway, the kid had attempted to make the bed, and there were fewer pairs of shoes on the floor. That was progress, right?
“Yeah, I, aah, see that,” Sandro said. “Good job. And there’s, aah, no rush on the clothes.”
Nikolas’s jaw dropped.
“But that’s not why I came,” Sandro continued. “I just wanted to, aah, mention that you really helped with the yard cleanup. We couldn’t’ve done it without you. So, I, aah…thanks.”
Nikolas gaped at him.
Sandro waited, just in case there might be some reply.
Nikolas continued gaping.
O-kay, then.
Well, silence was better than a furious rant, right? And any conversation that ended without a furious rant was a complete victory, right? Right.
Time to exit the battlefield.
“So.” Buoyed by this step in the right direction, the first they’d had in months, possibly years, Sandro clapped the boy on the shoulder and strode off before the fragile peace collapsed. “I’ll see you later.”
A few minutes later, Sandro braced his palms on the granite counter, leaning into his rising frustration with enough force to move the entire kitchen six inches closer to the beach. His shoulders bunched; his gut churned; his jaw flexed. The flow of his blood had changed
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