I turned on the radio in the kitchen and immediately started humming along to the Rolling Stones tune that was playing. I couldn't recall the name of it at first, but the melody was familiar and the voice was definitely Mick Jagger's. Once the chorus kicked in, the name suddenly clicked back into my brain: "Sympathy for the Devil." Though those words were never actually said over the course of the song, it was implied throughout. The lyrics cleverly referenced all sorts of historical events, retold from the first-person point of view—anything from the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia to the Hundred Years' War. I wasn't much of a history buff, but I enjoyed the fact that I could recognize some of the references. There were still a few that escaped me, but I could always look them up later if I happened to remember. Or maybe I could ask my sister. She usually knew about that kind of stuff.

I rummaged through the cabinets in search of ingredients. There I found two packages of pasta, some garlic-and-herb-flavored sauce, and a can of diced tomatoes. Then, while checking to make sure there was parmesan cheese in the fridge, I spotted some leftover sloppy joe mix from the other night.

"That could be interesting," I muttered to myself as I pulled out the sloppy joe mix and set it on the counter, thinking I could add it to the sauce.

Making dinner was my favorite time of day. Being able to pull together ingredients and make something for my whole family to enjoy gave me a sense of accomplishment that I rarely got from any other part of my life. Any achievements at school were overshadowed by the fact that my sister was doing better, but cooking was my thing. I was the only one in my family who was both willing and able to cook. I really loved being able to take things that you wouldn't normally think to put together and turn them into something delicious.

After washing my hands, I stooped down to look through the pots and pans. I had to shift some things around a bit, but eventually I was able to pull out a large pot for the pasta and a smaller one with a matching lid for the sauce. I held the larger pot in the sink and turned on the water. The pot grew heavier under the running faucet. I watched as the surface of the water inched higher and higher, all the while trying to estimate how much I would need to boil two packages of angel hair pasta.

Determining that I had enough, I shut off the water and transferred the pot to the stove. I turned the burner on to the highest setting and added a bit of salt and vegetable oil to the water to give the pasta a better flavor and make sure the noodles didn't stick together. Then, while waiting for the water to boil, I started on the sauce.

It wasn't long before I had everything going. After setting the timer on the stove, I pulled out a stool from the kitchen island and took a seat. I played with my hands, since there wasn't much else to do while I waited. I was starting to smell all the spices I'd added to the sauce, and my mouth watered in anticipation. I hadn't made spaghetti in quite a while.

I became lost in thought again and ran my fingers through my unruly hair as I went over all of the things I needed to do this weekend. There were a few pages of AP Chemistry homework that I had to finish, as well as some calculus. I was not looking forward to doing either.

The timer went off then, pulling me out of my thoughts. I slid off of the stool and turned off both burners before grabbing some pot holders from the drawer beside the stove. Then I gripped both handles of the pot and carefully transferred it to the sink, where I dumped the pasta into a colander to drain the water.

By then it was around half past six. As I waited for the pasta to cool, I stepped into the living room and looked out the front window. Ellie would be getting home any minute now, and I wanted to check and see if I could spot her car coming down the road yet.

I saw nothing, so I went back into the kitchen and dished myself up a plate of spaghetti. I was just adding the sauce to my plate when I heard the front door open. I perked up a little and turned to see my sister as she entered the kitchen.

"Hey, how was your day?" I asked as I set my plate down on the island and turned to grab some fresh parmesan from the fridge.

"A nightmare," she said, dropping her backpack on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. She tossed her car keys on the kitchen counter. "I've got three exams on Monday and I'm not ready for any of them. Is that for me?"

"Yeah, you can have it," I said. She wasted no time reaching out and dragging the plate of spaghetti closer to her. "I've got to go study," she breathed. "Do you mind if I take this to my room?"

"That's fine," I said, though I was a bit deflated by the realization that I would have to eat alone again. She grabbed the plate with one hand and stooped down to grab her bag off the floor with the other.

"Wait!" I called. "Don't forget the parmesan!"

"Oh yeah." She turned and put the plate back on the counter. I handed her the block of fresh parmesan and a cheese grater. After she'd taken as much as she wanted, she disappeared upstairs. I got myself a new plate, doled out another portion of spaghetti, and sat down at the island to eat dinner by myself.

I couldn't help but notice that this was becoming more and more common.

ø

It was around nine at night. I was sitting on the couch mindlessly watching reruns of Friends when I heard the first car pull into the driveway. A few minutes later, my mother came through the front door.

"Hey, Mom," I said as she shrugged off her jacket and hung it on the hook by the door.

"Hey, honey," she responded, a bit out of breath. "How was your day?"

"A bit hectic," she said, placing her keys on the small table by the front door. "The deadline for that big project I've been working on is coming up. We've all had to work overtime to make sure it gets done on time."

"Ah. I made spaghetti for dinner. There's some in the fridge if you want it."

"Oh, no thank you, honey. I stopped and got a gyro to eat on my way back from Kalamazoo."

"Oh." I sank into the couch even more. "When's Dad supposed to get back?"

"He texted me earlier saying he had a late meeting with some clients. I suspect he's already on his way home, though, so it shouldn't be too much longer."

I nodded. "Okay."

"Did you have a good day at school?"

"Yeah," I said, not bothering to supply her with any details. She didn't ask for any either.

There had been a time in my life when she would've bugged me relentlessly until I told her something specific about my day, but I had always been stubborn, and after all the stress and exhaustion that came from work, she didn't have the energy to ask anymore. At this point, I was tired of being stubborn, and I would've honestly given her more information if she simply asked for it. But she didn't.

In all honesty, I missed her overbearing and inquisitive nature. It had at least shown that she cared. I knew she still did, but she didn't show it as much anymore.

"That's good." She nodded a little to herself, yawning.

"Welp. This project has me pretty beat. I think I'm going to call it an early night and head up to bed."

"That seems like a wise idea," I said.

She looked like she definitely needed the extra sleep—there were dark circles already forming under her eyes. I couldn't imagine the stress she was under. I didn't know the first thing about design, but I knew she had to work with a whole team of engineers from different disciplines to finish her project, and that was a lot for anyone to juggle.

When we were younger, before my mom got this job, she was more hands on, and while Ellie flourished with her new opportunities, I was feeling further and further behind. It was easier when I was younger. My mom would throw us both into the same activities—gymnastics, toddler dance class, various sports where I'd always sit on the sidelines—but as we got older, she had to work more, and everyone in my house got busier except for me. The idea that I was an island, here, making dinner, watching TV, getting to and from school, was harder and harder to change. I knew I should do more, but I just couldn't.

"I'll see you sometime tomorrow," my mother said.

"Okay." I watched her make her way upstairs to her bedroom. Then, when she was out of sight, I turned my attention back to the television. Dad didn't get home until around half past nine.

"Hey, kiddo," he said, walking in and spotting me on the couch.

"Hey. There's pasta in the kitchen," I informed him. His eyes lit up and he immediately moved in that direction. "Good. I haven't eaten all day. I'm so hungry I could probably eat an entire cow right now and still not be satisfied."

"I don't doubt that."

I pushed myself up off the couch and followed him into the kitchen. I watched as he pulled all the stuff I'd put away earlier out of the refrigerator and assembled his meal. I noticed he didn't put anything away, either, which meant he was already planning on having a second helping.

My father eyed the microwave hungrily as he watched his plate of pasta attempt to turn in circles. We had square-shaped plates, which we only realized after buying were not microwave compatible. Instead of rotating on the little tray at the bottom of the microwave, the plate turned until a corner caught on the front window of the machine and then reversed direction until it got caught on the side of the wall instead. This cycle repeated over and over until the countdown finally ended with a few shrill beeps.

Dad pulled the plate out of the microwave and smothered it in parmesan cheese. Then he practically shoveled the pasta into his mouth. I barely had time to blink before the contents of his plate had vanished. After taking his last bite, he went back to the leftovers and immediately created another massive mountain of noodles on his plate.

"You eat like a teenage boy before football practice," I commented as he put his plate back into the microwave.

"And you eat like a man in his fifties. What's your point, Son?" he replied, teasing.

"I'm just saying you might want to slow down before I have to call an ambulance."

"Trust me—if I die because of food, it'll be because it was your mother who cooked it." He laughed.

"I don't recall your cooking skills being much better," I teased, remembering all the times he'd used the grill to turn perfectly good burgers into bricks of charcoal.

"Hey, I can make sandwiches and pancakes like a pro. That's how I survived before you came along with all your cooking sorcery, and that's how I'll survive after you've gone off to college."

I shook my head, amused.

"Nice hoodie, by the way. You thinking of University of Michigan?"

"I don't know," I said.

"They've got a good business administration and management program there. You should look into it. I think that's one of the ones Ellie is applying to."

"Maybe." I shrugged. I watched him pull his second plate out of the microwave and take his seat again at the island. He ate at a more normal pace this time around.

"There's always Tech too," he said through a mouthful of spaghetti. "I'm pretty sure there are benefits available to you since both your mom and I are alumni."

"Yeah," was all I said, busying myself with putting the leftovers back in the fridge.

"If you wanted to do a business degree up there like your dear old dad, I'm pretty sure the Impact Scholarship competition is happening in February. That's available for incoming accounting, management, engineering management, finance, economics, and marketing majors. I may have missed some, since I'm going off of memory, but I'm pretty sure it encompasses every major under the School of Business. I think applications for that are due in January. I could send you a link if you'd like."

"Sounds good," I said.

"It's a really nice school." He tried to convince me. "It's got that small-town feel where everybody knows everybody. It's also really beautiful. They say it's one of the best places to be in autumn. There are so many trees that everywhere you look is worthy of being a painting."

"Don't they also get, like, thirty feet of snow during the winter?"

"Well, there's that too." He chuckled.

I'd had enough of college talk for the time being, so I changed the subject. "How was work?"

"Not too bad," he said. "I scored a new client today, so things should pick up back at the office. What about you. How was school?"

"Good," I said. "We got assigned new lab partners in AP Chemistry today."

"Did you get a good partner?" he inquired.

"I'm not sure yet. He's the new kid. I don't know much about him."

"Hopefully, he's not a slacker. I always hated being partnered with slackers while I was in school."

"Yeah, they're the worst," I agreed.

"Where's your mother?" he asked after a few moments of silence had stretched between us.

"She went to bed already. She had to work late on that project."

"Oh yeah." He nodded, taking another pretty large bite of spaghetti. I noticed then that his plate was almost empty again. "I'm probably not far behind her. I've got an early day tomorrow."

I nodded again, realizing our conversation was likely going to end as soon as he finished eating. And just as I predicted, as soon as he had taken his last bite and put his dishes in the dishwasher, he was off to bed.

Having nothing else to do, I turned off the television and headed up to my own room as well.

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I rolled out of bed the next morning determined to find something to do. It was actually pretty nice out for a Saturday in November, so I went to my sister's room to see if she wanted to go outside for a walk or something.

I knocked on her door. "Yeah?" she called. I popped my head in to see her sitting cross-legged in bed amid a mountain of textbooks.

"I was wondering if you wanted to take a break from studying and go for a walk to the park with me?"

"I can't, Eli." She looked up at me, her brown eyes apologetic. "Calc II is kicking my ass. I've spent two hours on this last problem already and I still don't have the right answer. I need to keep studying."

"That's fine. I understand." I gave her a small, tight-lipped smile. "I'll be out back if you change your mind."

"Okay, thanks," she said before returning to the textbook in her lap. I closed her bedroom door again and made my way downstairs.

The house was quiet, which meant nobody else was home. I went to the front door and pulled on a pair of sneakers I'd left there and a burgundy-colored sweatshirt hanging on one of the hooks to the right. Then I cut through the kitchen and went through the door there to the garage.

Ellie's car was the only one parked inside. Mom usually parked on the other side of the garage, but I don't think she had last night—probably because she was planning on making a quick escape this morning. I went over to the back wall and looked around for something to do. Our old bikes were back there, but they looked like they needed some air in the tires, so I decided against that. I perked up when I spotted an old soccer ball stuffed behind a few totes. I fished it out and set it on the floor behind me while I searched for the tote with our collapsible goal in it. I found it surprisingly fast and excitedly carried the tote and the ball out to the backyard to set everything up.

I hadn't played soccer in forever. There had been a time when it was all I wanted to do—I didn't care about anything else. Dad was really into it too. He helped me practice in the backyard, and we watched tournaments on television together all the time. But then he got that promotion at work and didn't really have time to help me anymore. I started losing interest after that, and when it became evident that all the other players at school were becoming bigger and better at a faster rate than I was, it all became too overwhelming. I hadn't played much since.

I plopped down on the grass and opened up the tote, dumping out all of the plastic pieces for the goal. I needed to figure out how to put it together—we had long since lost the directions, so I pulled out my phone and searched for an assembly guide on the internet. After a short scroll, I found a set of instructions in a PDF document for the same brand I was using. I didn't bother reading the text, choosing instead to follow the provided pictures. It took a good half hour or so, but eventually I had a suitable goal. I carried it to the base of the only tree in our backyard and set it up there. Then, hanging the old tire swing up in a low-hanging branch to get it out of the way, I started to kick the ball around.

It was therapeutic. I found myself having fun as I bounced the ball between my feet and kicked it into the goal. I pretended there was an actual goalie for a while and aimed for different portions of the net. A good three hours sped by before I decided I should probably head back in and get some of my homework done.