False Enemies

Eight years ago

The doorbell rings, jarring me from where I'm doing homework in the living room. Mom's shout comes from her office, where she's locked again, working.

"Lily, get it, please!"

With a sigh, I set down my pen and stand up. Walking over to the door, I open it and come face-to-face with a blond-haired boy my age. I swallow a sigh when I realize what his presence here means, then step aside to let him in.

"Hi," I say, just to keep up the pretences.

"Hi," He replies. He hesitantly accepts my silent invitation and steps inside, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He's got another one of those black, shapeless t-shirts on, paired with the pair of jeans I begin to think he never takes off. Today, his shirt reads Iron Maiden and I inwardly cringe at the unearthly zombie it sports. Why does he insist on wearing something so ugly in the name of music?

"Mom is finishing up her work," I tell him, indicating my head in the direction of the living room in what I hope is a clear come-further gesture. Keith seems to get it because he silently follows me through the house. In the living room, I retake my old spot in the middle of the couch while he chooses the armchair that is a bit off further from the couch than the other one. He doesn't even fully sit on it, just sort of crouches down on the very edge. I don't bother telling him it's okay to get comfortable, knowing he won't listen.

"Mom will be out in a few," I inform Keith, focusing back on my homework. "You can wait for her here."

He doesn't indicate that he heard me and I don't push further. Keith has been hard to communicate with since I met him. I doubt anyone can get through to him.

I pick up the pen and swipe the notebook up with a look, trying to figure where I'd finished. I never really liked Keith. He's quiet and moody and a bit of a weirdo. He never makes eye contact and seems to do everything he can to mask the way he looks. He's not ugly, with his blond hair that always gets into his eyes and blue-gray eyes that never shine, but he always puts on those clothes that somehow seem to suck the light colors out of him. Always baggy. Always dark.

Mom says it's because his dad died. He was a soldier and was killed by a shrapnel in Iraq. Of course, I feel sorry for him but haven't tried to communicate that to him ever since I told him I was sorry about his dad's death and he told me not to mention it. This was the first conversation we've had since we've met five months ago. Probably the longest one, too.

I'm halfway through the task – I hate maths – when Mom's voice startles me again.

"Hello, Keith. Would you like something to drink?"

I don't need to look up to know he shook his head no. He always does.

"Okay then. You know where the kitchen is in case you change your mind. Or you could always ask Lily."

I lift my head at that. Why would he be asking me and not Mom?

"I'm sorry but I can't stay with you today," Mom wears a guilty expression I don't like. "I have lots of work that I need to finish now."

My pulse quickens. I know where it heads. And I don't like it one bit.

"But why don't you two entertain each other?" Mom suggests, confirming my suspicions. My hold on the pen tightens. "You rarely ever talk. Maybe it's time to get to know each other better?"

Or maybe not.

"I have homework to do, Mom," I tell her truthfully. "You know I have a test coming up."

"Then maybe you could do your homework together," Mom says. "Keith also goes to school. Maybe he's better at maths than you."

I hate the way I feel my cheeks heat. Mom just embarrassed me in front of Keith. Great.

"I'll manage on my own," I insist. I don't want Keith teaching me maths. I don't want him sitting here when I need to study.

Something flashes in Mom's eyes a moment before they soften as they land on Keith. "Do you have your books with you, Keith?"

He shakes his head mutely.

"Well, you can go get them. It's not far. Lily will postpone her homework until later and go with you," She says the last part in the tone, letting me know it's not a proposition but a direct order. With her gaze on me, I know better than to roll my eyes but my fingers turn white from how hard I'm clenching the pen in my fist.

"Isn't that right, Lily?" Mom looks at me.

I wait for the wave of anger to pass before lifting my eyes and replying, "Yes, Mommy."