Shouting bleeds up through the floor. My heart beats fast and loud, like it always does when Mom and Trevor wake me up this way. I get out of bed, careful not to make a peep, and sneak my way to the top of the stairs. I skip the squeaky floorboard—the one outside my bedroom with the tiny sharpie mark that only Mom and me can see—and I breathe real slow so I can hear what they’re saying in the kitchen. Trevor yells grown-up words about the dishes in the sink, and I hear the familiar crash-crash-crash of something breaking.

 

Mom’s on her hands and knees when I come downstairs. She’s scooping bits of broken porcelain off the floor and using her bathrobe to sop up small black pools of coffee before it can soak into the couch cushions. I stop on the last step and knock once, lightly, on the wall with my knuckle. Mom looks over, and I notice a bright red trickle of blood beginning its slow drip-drip-drip down her forehead. She takes off her robe and covers the mess with it before sitting back down on the couch. She places a single, skinny finger to her lips. Shhhhhh.

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Trevor makes a lot of noise in the kitchen. It sounds like he’s putting the kettle on for another pot of coffee. I can’t see him from where I’m standing at the foot of the stairs, but I can hear him tapping his steel-toes against the linoleum while he waits for the water to heat up. Well, Giulia, he says, look on the bright side—you’ve got one less f-word-ing mug to wash. Mom turns up the volume on the morning news. Sometimes louder is better. She makes eye contact with me, tap-tap-taps on the bottom of the coffee table with her dripping-wet slipper. I nod.

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The water bubbles faster in the kettle. I’m under the table in the entryway now—a place where only Mom can see me. She pretends to watch TV. Without taking my eyes off her, I scrape some dust off the ground and roll it in a ball between my fingers. I make five whole dust balls before Mom finally points to the sliding glass door and mouths go outside. qui-et-ly. I’m scared, but I slink out into the open and tip-tip-tiptoe toward the door in my bare feet. 

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The kettle starts to hiss. The bubbles inside bump quickly and randomly into one another, trying to reach the surface and escape through the spout. I pull softly on the door handle. The heavy glass door doesn’t budge. I try again, a little harder. Nothing. The hissing gets louder, and Mom mouths pull harder. I tug-tug-tug at the door again, pulling as strongly and quietly as I can. Steam screams out of the kettle now, a sharp whistle filling the air. It’s so loud I can’t even hear my heart beating anymore. I grab the door handle one last time and pull. 

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The concrete feels cold on my bare feet. I pace up and down the side yard, away from the windows. It’s chilly enough that I can see my breath, and I blow out slow like Trevor does when he’s smoking. Over by the recycling bin, a line of tiny, black dots crosses the path and disappears into a crack under the house. I watch the ants between puffs of my pretend cigarette, and after a long time, I hear Trevor’s truck engine out front. The sound gives me a feeling I don’t like. It starts in my stomach, bubbles and shakes under my skin like the steam in the kettle. When it feels like I’m about to explode, I pull my foot up, close my eyes, and stomp.

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When I open my eyes again, the ants are running around like crazy. Some of them try to get under the house as fast as they can. Others go back the way they came, scurrying under the fence and out of sight. A few crawl between my toes, onto my bare feet and up my leg. I smack-smack-smack at them with my hands, dance around on my tiptoes to try and shake them off. But it’s no use. I sit down on the cement and start to cry. By the time Mom finds me, the sound of Trevor’s truck has already faded away in the distance. She picks me up to carry me inside, and looking back over her shoulder, I can see that the ants have already reformed their line.