Chapter 6: Aftermath

  Remi stood on his front porch, staring at the door like it was the entrao a dragon's ir. The porch light cast harsh shadows across the welat, and through the window, he could see movement in the living room. His phone, dead for hours now, felt like a lead weight in his pocket. The sun had long si, and the autumn chill had settled deep into his bones during the long walk home.

  His key made a soft scraping sound as he unlocked the door. The warmth of the house hit him first, followed by the absolute silehat fell the momeepped ihe TV clicked off abruptly. In the sudden quiet, Remi could hear his father's heavy footsteps approag from the living room.

  Michael Halistaad filled the doorway between the living room and the entryway, his face set in hard lihat Remi knew all too well. Behind him, Remi caught a glimpse of his mother, Melinda, h anxiously, and Rachel perched oairs, trying to make herself invisible while still watg everything.

  "Where have you been?" His father's voice was deceptively calm, the kind of calm that preceded storms.

  Remi swallowed hard. "I—"

  "Your phone?" Michael cut him off.

  "Dead."

  "Dead." His father repeated the word ftly. "Do you have any idea—" He stopped, visibly reining in his temper. "Do you know how many calls we've had to make? To the school? To your friends? To—"

  "Michael," Melinda interrupted softly, stepping forward. "Let him expin."

  "Expin?" Michael's voice rose slightly. "Expin why he walked out of school in the middle of the day? Expin why no one's heard from him for hours? Expin why Andrew had t his backpae because he aba at school?"

  Remi's eyes darted to his backpack, sitting acgly by the stairs where Andrew must have left it. He could picture his friend making that unfortable delivery, probably stammering through an expnation to his parents.

  "I just..." Remi's voice felt small in the charged atmosphere. "I needed some time."

  "Time?" His father's ugh was sharp and humorless. "Time for what? To worry your mother sick? To skip your csses? To throw away everything we've—"

  "Michael, please." Melinda moved fully into the entryway now, positioning herself subtly between father and son. "He's home now. He's safe. That's what matters."

  "What matters," Michael's voice carried that edge of disappoihat Remi had grown to dread, "is that our son seems determio sabotage every opportunity he's given. First the football team—"

  "I tried out," Remi protested weakly.

  "You quit," his father corrected sharply. "Just like you quit the crosse team. Just like you quit everything that requires actual effort instead of hiding in those fantasy games of yours."

  The words hit like physical blows. Remi wao expin about Shawn, about the coach's soing preferential treatment, about the systematic humiliation he'd endured. But the words stu his throat.

  "And now this," Michael tinued, building momentum. "Walking out of school? Do you have any idea what that looks like? eople will think?"

  "I don't care eople think!" The words burst out before Remi could stop them.

  "Well, you should!" Michael's voice filled the entryway. "Because like it or not, people's perceptions matter. Your choices refle this family, on your future—"

  "My future?" Something snapped inside Remi. "You mean your future. Your pns. Your idea of what I should be!"

  "Remi," his mother warned softly, but he ast stopping.

  "You want to know why I left? Because I'm tired! Tired to be whatever version of me you think I should be. Tired of pretending everything's fine when it's not. Tired of—" His voice cracked traitorously.

  "Oh, spare me the teenage dramatics," Michael cut in. "You think life is hard now? Wait until you're in the real world, where you 't just run away when things get difficult."

  "I didn't run away," Remi protested, but even to his own ears, the words sounded weak.

  "No? What would you call it then?" His father's voice dripped with sarcasm. "A strategic retreat? Is that what they call it in those games you waste your time with?"

  From her per the stairs, Rachel made a small sound of protest. Melinda shot her a warning look, and she subsided, but her eyes remained fixed on the frontation.

  "Those games," Remi said through ched teeth, "are the only pce I just be myself without—"

  "Without what?" Michael challenged. "Without having to face reality? Without having to live up to any actual expectations?"

  "Without having to fail at being whatever you wao be!"

  The words echoed in the sudden silence. Remi's chest heaved as if he'd been running, his hands ched into fists at his sides. His father stared at him, something unreadable flickering across his features.

  "Go to your room." Michael's voice was quiet now, trolled. "We'll discuss your punishment in the m. And give me your phone."

  "But—"

  "Now, Remi."

  Melinda touched his arm gently as he passed, but Remi shrugged off the tact. He couldn't bear sympathy right now, couldn't hahe way she tried to mediate between his father's rigid expectations and his own failures to meet them.

  Rachel scrambled out of his way as he climbed the stairs, but he caught her whispered "I'm gd you're okay" as he passed. He didn't respond. Couldn't respond. Everythi raw, exposed, like he'd been fyed open a bleeding in front of everyone.

  His room was exactly as he'd left it that m, his D&D materials still spread across his desk from the previous night's session pnning. The familiar space should have felt f, but instead, it just emphasized how nothing had really ged. He was still here, still trapped, still failing to be whatever his father wanted him to be.

  Dropping onto his bed, Remi stared at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of his parents arguing downstairs. His mother's soft voice trasted with his father's sharper tohough he couldn't make out the actual words.

  His phone buzzed one final time before dying pletely – probably Andrew or Johnny cheg on him. He should feel guilty about w them, about making them cover for him, about everything. But all he felt rofouiness, as if he'd left something essential behind during his long walk through the city.

  Tomorrow would bring sequences – groundings, lectures, probably another visit to Ms. Thurngd's office for one of her famous "g strategies" talks. But for now, in the darkness of his room, Remi allowed himself to imagine another life, another world where he didn't have to stantly fall short of everyone's expectations.

  He didn't realize he was g until he felt the warm tears sliding down his temples into his hair. Angrily, he wiped them away. g wouldn't solve anything. It never did.

  From downstairs, he heard his father's voice rise again: "He o learn that as have sequences!"

  Remi rolled onto his side, pulling his pillow over his head to block out the sound. But he couldn't block out the truth in his father's words, couldn't escape the reality that tomorrow would e, bringing with it all the problems he'd tried to run from today.

  The worst part was, he wasn't even sure what he was running from anymore – Shawn and his ies? His father's disappoi? His own inability to fit into any of the boxes the world tried to put him in?

  Sleep, when it finally came, brought no answers. Only dreams of running, endlessly running, while voices called after him from the darkness.

  The sound of his door banging open jolted Remi awake. He squinted against the sudden light from the hallway, making out his father's bulky silhouette in the doorway.

  "Dad?" His voice was rough with sleep. "What—"

  "Get up," Michael ordered, striding into the room and flig on the overhead light. "Help me disect this."

  Remi's stomach dropped as he realized his father was standing over his desktop puter—the one he'd saved up for months to build, the ohat held all his game saves, his character sheets, his entire digital life.

  "Dad, please—" Remi scrambled out of bed, but Michael was already yanking cables free with methodical efficy.

  "This isn't a discussion," Michael cut him off. "You want to live iy? This is reality. As have sequences."

  "But all my schoolwork is on there!" It wasirely true—most of his assigs were backed up o Remi was desperate. "My essays, my—"

  "Should have thought about that before you decided to walk out of school." Michael hefted the tower, his movements brusque and purposeful. "You use the family puter in the living room for homework. Under supervision."

  "That's not fair!" The words came out childish, petunt, but Remi couldn't help it. "You 't just—"

  "'t what?" Michael turo face him fully, the puter tower tucked under one arm. "'t parent my own son? 't try to save you from wasting your life in fantasy worlds?" His voice hardened. "Watch me."

  "Everything I care about is on that puter," Remi's voice cracked. "My friends—"

  "Friends?" Michael's ugh was sharp. "You mean those people you py make-believe with ohat's not friendship, Remi. That's escapism. And it stops now."

  Remi could only watch helplessly as his father carried his puter away. The door smmed behind him with a finality that seemed to echh the house.

  In the sudden silence, Remi sank bato his bed. His desk looked wrong now, empty where his monitor had been, cables dangling uselessly like severed lifelines. Even his D&D materials seemed to mock him from their scattered positions across the surface.

  From somewhere downstairs, he heard his mother's voice raised in protest, followed by his father's deeper tones: "He o learn there's more to life than games and fantasies."

  Remi pulled his ko his chest, making himself as small as possible. The tears came again, but this time he didn't bother wiping them away. What was the point? His father had made his position clear—reality was whatever Michael Halistaad decided it should be, and Remi's owy didn't factor into that equation at all.

  Sleep, when it finally returned, brought dreams ons and distant worlds. But now even those felt tainted, marked by his father's disapproval, by the growiainty that he would never be the son Michael Halistaad wanted him to be.

  M came too soon, announg itself with the harsh beep of Remi's arm cloore waking up to his favorite gaming soundtraow that his puter was gohe silence felt wrong, oppressive, like the moment before a storm breaks.

  He y there for a moment, staring at the empty spa his desk where his monitor should be. The dangling cables caught the early m light, casting strange shadows on the wall. His D&D materials still y scattered across the surface—his father hadn't taken those, at least not yet.

  A soft knock at his door made him tense, but it was only Rachel, already dressed for school in her favorite sundress and cardigan bination.

  "Mom says breakfast is ready," she said, h in the doorway. Her eyes darted to the empty desk, then ba. "Dad already left for work. Early meeting."

  The knot in Remi's chest loosened slightly. At least he wouldn't have to face his father across the breakfast table.

  "I'll be down in a minute," he managed.

  "Hey." Rachel's voice stopped him as he turoward his closet. "I, um... I saved all those character sheets you se week. The ones for the neaign? They're still in my email, so..."

  Remi felt something cat his throat. He hadn't even thought about those—he'd emailed them to Rachel when she'd shown i in maybe joining their session.

  "Thanks," he whispered.

  She shrugged, trying to look casual despite the in her eyes. "Whatever. I still think D&D is weird, but..." She trailed off, then added quickly, "Mom made French toast. The good kind, with the amon."

  The kit smelled like warmth and childhood memories when Remi finally made his way downstairs. His mother stood at the stove, adding another piece of French toast to an already impressive stack. She wore her usual work outfit—crisp blouse and pencil skirt—but her movements were more careful than usual, as if she erating in a space filled with invisible tripwires.

  "Good m, sweetheart," she said, her voice carrying that particur tone she used when trying to maintain normal decidedly abnormal situations. "I thought you might be hungry, since..." She didn't finish the sentence, but they all knew he haden dihe night before.

  "Thanks, Mom." Remi slid into his usual seat, noting how Rachel had already set out butter, syrup, and powdered sugar—all his favorites.

  "I called Ms. Thurngd this m," his mother said, pg a pte in front of him. "She's expeg you first thing."

  Of course she was. Remi cut into his French toast with perhaps more force than necessary, watg syrup pool around the edges of his pte.

  "And I spoke with your father," she tinued, her ba as she worked on another piece of toast. "He agreed that you still use the family puter for schoolwork. In the living room, where we —" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Where we support you better."

  "Support?" Rachel muttered under her breath. "Is that what we're calling it?"

  "Rachel." Their mother's tone held a warning.

  "What? It's not fair! Remi wasn't even doing anything wrong. Those jerks at school—"

  "That's enough." Melinda turned from the stove, her expression firm but gentle. "We're not discussing this now."

  Rachel subsided, but her foot found Remi's uhe table—a small gesture of solidarity that meant more than words could express.

  The rest of breakfast passed in careful versation about safe topics: Rachel's uping sce project, their mother's yoga css, the weather forecast for the weekend. No oiohe empty space where Remi's puter should be, or the fact that his phone y somewhere in his father's office, probably locked in a drawer.

  As they cleared the table, their mother paused in gathering her work materials. "Remi? You know your father... he's just trying to do what he thinks is best."

  "Yeah." Remi stacked ptes with meical precision. "He always is."

  The drive to school was quiet, broken only by the soft sounds of NPR from the car radio. His father's s had been clear—no more walking to school, no more independence. "If you 't be trusted to stay there," Michael had decred during his mother's attempts at mediation that m, "then you'll be driven. Every m, every afternoon. No exceptions." His mother had adjusted her work schedule accly, though Remi had heard her tense phone call with her supervisor about ing in te and leaving early for "family matters."

  Rachel had cimed the fro, an unusual choice for her, but Remi uood why—she was trying to give him space, letting him retreat into the back seat where he could process everything without having to ehe familiar route felt different somehow, fined by his father's restris, each passing ndmark a reminder of the freedom he'd lost.

  As they pulled up to the school, their mother cleared her throat. "I'll pick you both up after school. We ... we talk more then, if you'd like."

  Remi nodded numbly, already dreading what awaited him inside. Ms. Thurngd's office first, then csses where everyone would know about his disappearing act, then lunch where Shawn and his crew would be waiting...

  "Hey." Rachel caught his arm before he could head toward the building. "If anyone gives you trouble today, I'll—" She g their mother, then lowered her voice. "I'll tell everyone about that time Dad got stu his wetsuit at Cape Cod."

  Despite everything, Remi felt his lips twitch toward a smile. The memory of their father hopping around the beach, struggling with a too-tight rental wetsuit while Rachel recorded the whole thing on her phone, was one of their favorite shared moments of schadenfreude.

  "Thanks, Rach."

  She punched his arm lightly. "Don't mention it. Seriously, don't. I have a reputation to maintain."

  Watg his sister bounce away toward her friends, her sundress swishing around her knees, Remi felt a plicated mix of emotions. She could be a pain, could drive him crazy with her dramatic teenage moments, but when it really mattered... He shook his head, shouldering his backpack.

  Time to face reality, as his father would say. Even if reality seemed determio face him right back.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter End

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