Of June

18- She Gave Me A Heart Attack

"Mom, dad." Adam confronts Mr. Young and Joan, who're concentrating all their interest on a baseball match being broadcasted on the television. "I need you to answer my questions- and please be honest."

"Don't you think we are the parents here, honey?" Joan leans on the arm of the couch she's sat on.

"Go on." Mr. Young acknowledges, lowering down the volume but keeping his eyes glued at the TV.

Adam takes a long breath, stretches back his hand, grabs hold of my wrist and brings me forward, next to him. "Are you really going to take her somewhere else?"

Mr. Young stiffens, shifting his gaze to us. "How did you-?"

"Find out?", he interrupts, "We overheard. Exactly a month ago, when you told mom that we don't have space for her. We also heard you talking to some officer that evening when we came back after the movie, and we even saw you going somewhere last Sunday. You don't even work on Sundays, dad!"

"I. . ." Mr. Young's mouth is left open and so is Joan's, clearly implying that they were speechless about us figuring it all out.

Personally? I can't say that I hadn't been expecting this. I mean, it's not even something I can blame them for, though I have to admit that I do feel kind of wretched.

"I'm sorry, Adam. We were about to decide on when to tell you about it. . ." He glances at us, seeming worried, "It was hard to tell you. . . because we'd guessed your reaction to this decision of ours wasn't going to be positive. It's just, you've basically grown up with that truck, and you even said it was your favourite because you have memories attached to it."

"Ofcourse I'm against this decision! I would never want. . .wait-" his features mould into a perplexed look. "A truck?"

Now it's my turn to act bewildered. When did a truck become a part of all this operation?

"Yeah, the pickup truck we had for almost nine years. . .', Joan clarifies, "After a long time of debating and reconsidering we settled with selling that old wheeler to one of your dad's friends, 'cause it took up a lot of space in the garage. But we were just worried that you might not like us selling the truck you've been so fond of for years."

"So. . .", Adam blinks slowly, mouth agape along with mine. "That 'her' you've been talking about, is our old truck?!"

"What else could it be?" His dad questions.

"But- I'm sure I saw you talking to an officer-", Adam mentions the same doubt I had floating in mind.

"That's the friend I'm selling our truck to," Mr. Young casually informs us, "He's a cop. Though we're close, I just have a fun habit of calling him officer, specially when he tends to dislike it."

I promptly put the pieces together and manage to form the whole picture. Everything makes sense now, from the 'space' problem to Mr. Young driving his truck despite it being a Sunday- maybe that was the day he finally sold it. Now that the cat's out of the box, I begin wondering that it was pretty silly of us in the first place to assume someone like his parents would ever take a step as big and bizarre as that.

"Then. . .", Adam says, a glint of joy in his eyes. "Madison's not going anywhere?!"

Both the elders seem perturbed at the mention of my name. "Madison?", Joan exclaims, realisation washing over her face, "Don't tell me you thought- obviously not-"

"Did you hear that?!" He turns to me and clasps my wrists again, hysterically shaking them up and down. "You're not going anywhere! You're going to stay with us longer!" He says, face lighting up full of excitement, blooming like a flower.