JESS

Their shouting is rattling the wall next to my bed. Again.

I've tried everything I can to get rid of the noise in the last hour—stuffing my ear buds into my ears, turning on music, stuffing toilet paper in with the ear buds to keep the noise from infiltrating my brain—and none of them, not even the stack of pillows I now have stacked on top of my head, has worked.

I'd like to say that I'm used to it; it's been three years now since Dad lost his job at the newspaper, since Mom has had to pick up a second job on the weekends to cover the loss, since we've had to move to this town so far away from all of my friends. But I'm not used to it at all, and, quite frankly, every time it happens, I feel like a little piece of me comes a little more loose.

We weren't always like this. Flash back to my elementary years, and in all of our pictures you'd see a different family: a tall, athletic brown-haired man with a scruffy beard, his arm wrapped around a mid-height, equally fit woman with long, curly red hair. A young boy, about 5 or 6, with golden skin and hair and bright green eyes, his wide grin revealing all the gaps where he's lost his teeth. And then there'd be me, the proverbial wrench in the well-oiled system: my light brown skin, dark brown eyes, and long, dark, curly hair sets me apart from my family. My mom and dad have never tried to hide the fact that Jacob and I are adopted; we've always known. But if someone were to put the puzzle of my family together without knowing us, I would be the piece they'd be confused about, and that's something I've never forgotten.

For now, though, there is no puzzle of a family. The connectors that hold us together are burnt and tattered, and every yell rips the pieces a little bit more.

***

A loud door slam signals the end of the yelling match. I glance at my alarm clock: 9:30 AM. My parents started the festivities at 8 AM; an entire hour and a half has gone by without any recognition that their children still do exist in this household.

I carefully remove my blue-green seahorse comforter from my legs, trying not to wake Jake, who is peacefully asleep on the opposite side of my bed. His mousy brown hair is tousled just slightly from where he had placed his pillow over his head when my parents started yelling. He doesn't even ask if he can climb into bed with me anymore—he just does. It's as if we've created our own little routine to shelter us from the instability of the ground beneath us.

After I've checked the hallway for human activity, I carefully tiptoe downstairs to raid the kitchen for a makeshift breakfast and the laundry room for my practice uniform. I have three hours until soccer practice starts, but the quicker I can get out of this house, the better.

When I hit the kitchen, though, I realize I'm not alone. Mom's slumped over the kitchen counter, her head in her hands, her frizzy, fire-colored locks cascading messily around the outsides of her face. There's a cup of coffee under her, but from what I can see, it's empty. On the island next to her, there's an opened gallon of almond milk, a carton of eggs, and a stray eggshell dangerously riding the line between staying on the counter or falling to the ground. I don't need to get any closer to see the shaking of her body: I already know she's crying, and the sheer idea of seeing my mother so vulnerable freezes me in my tracks.

I can't remember the last time I saw my mother cry. She didn't cry when Mamaw died three years ago or when Bosco, the dog Dad gave her on their first anniversary, had to be put down. Mom's like a giant marble wall: Things can continue pushing, shoving, and slamming into her, but she never breaks. She finished her Ph.D two months before I was due and, at 27, was the youngest female to become a full-time professor in the Psychology Department at Kirkendall University. She's successfully juggled her full-time job and a part-time job as a case manager for the local Youth Villages, often working 14-hour days, without ever even looking tired. And now here she is, crumbling into an unkempt pile in front of me.

I'm five seconds from turning and escaping back upstairs when the gentle buzz of my phone in my pocket alerts my mother to an outsider's presence. Her head jerks up, eyes locked straight on me, and in a blink of an eye she's recognized that I've seen her. As if by magic, she quickly whips around to the stove, almond milk in hand, and flips on the burner.

"Good morning, sweetheart. Didn't see you come down the stairs. Late night. Want breakfast?" Her voice shakes as she runs her bathrobe's sleeve over the tip of her cheeks.

"No, Mom, I'm okay," but even as the words come out of my mouth, I know they're not loud enough for her to hear. My eyes are glued to the back of her teal robe as if I'm watching a major natural disaster happening in front of my eyes. Look away, my brain continues to tell me, but I'm frozen in space. We're both frozen in space. The world is moving around us—outside, a cardinal stops on the windowsill before quickly flying off, the branches move in tandem with the wind, the sun's rays force themselves through the kitchen's windowpanes—but we're statues, stuck in time.

Mom moves first. Adjusts the pan on the stove eye, reaches over to grab an egg, and ceremoniously drops it on the floor. As if it hadn't happened, she reaches for another, this time keeping it in hand until she can break it against the rim of the shining metal mixing bowl.

Before my mind can protest, my feet take me to the egg mess, my hands grab and paper towel, my body bends at the waist, and I'm picking up the egg, hardly aware of what I'm doing. By the time I've thrown the wasted egg into the trash bin, I've come back to life enough to realize that whatever's happening in this kitchen at this moment is something that I can't handle.

"Soccer. I have soccer practice. At 10." That's a lie, my brain says; I wave it away.

"I thought it was at 1?" But she's not really paying attention. Her gaze has shifted to outside of the window, completely unaware of the events happening in the kitchen. The egg that she's broken is sitting in the mixing bowl, eggshell and all.

"We have conditioning first," I manage to mumble, grabbing a protein bar from the pantry, "I have to be there at 10." Lying to your mom, after all she's been through? my brain says again. Not the first time in my life, I retort.

Mom doesn't even have a chance to respond before I've made my way to the laundry room. I quickly change into my practice gear, grabbing my cleats from the top rack, and throw my bag over my shoulder. As I'm rushing through the front door, I barely hear her say my name, but nothing can stop my body's momentum at this point.

In the spring air, my body feels like it can take its first deep breath.

I pull out my cellphone, running my fingers over the scratches on the back of the case as I open my messages. I manage just five words: S.O.S. Field. 20 minutes. PLEASE.