Logs:Vignette - Foresight

Vignette - Foresight
Dramatis Personae Roscoe, the Vos
In Absentia	summer vacation, 2021 technically-not-probation
Location <BOS> Vo Apartment
When Roscoe comes home, he seems unsurprised to find his dad waiting up for him; he closes the door quietly behind him, dipping his head to let his hair fall shaggy over his eyes. His dad doesn't seem startled by Roscoe coming in, either -- he is watching TV on the sofa, the brightly-colored light from the screen reflecting off his glasses, flickering eerily over his lined face. Larry doesn't look over his shoulder at his son, but he finds the remote and pauses his show -- in the sudden stillness, the sudden silence, the atmosphere thickens apprehensively. "Well," says Larry. "Well," repeats Roscoe; he has to force this out like there's a physical obstruction in his throat. Probably he's a teensy bit high. Only now does Larry look around at him, appraisingly, bushy eyebrows raised -- "What I'm supposed to do with you, huh?" he says, but at Roscoe's answering cringe he sighs and looks back at the TV. "I know," he says. "You trying." He presses play before Roscoe can respond -- Roscoe opens his mouth, then closes it, then slips down the inky-dark hallway. --- My is wearing a pair of reading glasses on a red beaded chain, perched at the tip of her nose, as she goes through some mail at the table -- "We going to need to open another credit card," she says tightly, her face pinching into a slow, deep frown. "Take out a loan maybe. This boy expensive." Larry is washing dishes. At first he doesn't even seem to have heard her, but then -- "I don't like to borrow money," he says. "We already had to lay off Mrs. Kang. We have money for him." "For school," says My. Larry huffs out what might have started as a laugh, sudden and rough. "You think he gonna need it? Mister Keane said he was lucky he finished eighth grade." After this, the silence is disturbed only by the rustling of paper; My doesn't even look back up. --- Nobody is speaking as the car pulls out of the parking lot of juvenile court. Roscoe, in the backseat, is hanging his head low, his hair covering his face; with his posture this slouchy, the seat belt presses at the side of his chin instead of his shoulder. He has his foot pulled onto the seat with him, fiddling with his ankle monitor, trying to adjust the way it sits against his hi-top sneaker. They've been on the road for several minutes in this stifling silence when My says, to the rearview mirror, "Well? You have something to say for yourself?" It is so abrupt that Roscoe startles, his eyes going wide behind his bangs -- his mouth opens, but he doesn't say anything -- he doesn't have the chance. "Goddamn it, Roscoe!" My whirls to yell over her shoulder -- "This isn't like the other things, Roscoe, this isn't like cutting school or cheating tests or curfew or getting high -- since when you're such a thug -- what the hell were you thinking? You think this makes you tough? You think this makes you cool? {Motherfuck} -- you realize there's no coming back from this?" --- "You have to remember," says Sharon, "they're not used to any of this, they're not used to lawyers or social workers or cops -- they barely speak English -- anyone would be struggling to handle all of this. They just don't know what to do with you." Is this meant to be reassuring? Roscoe does not seem to find it reassuring -- he's sulking spikily on the sofa next to her, playing half-heartedly with a 4x4 Rubik's cube he can't finish a second side on, pretending not to listen. Sharon is undeterred; she keeps talking, scrolling on her phone, determinedly not looking at her brother. "And I know you feel terrible about everything that's happened, but like -- what have you done to try and make it up to them, you know? You're probably gonna cost them thousands of dollars for middle school bullshit and you act like it's no big deal, God, no wonder they think you're such a little asshole." Roscoe sacrifices the first side of the Rubik's cube to complete the second; his eyebrows are pulling very low over his face with concentrated frustration. He still doesn't respond. "They'll come around," says Sharon. "But you can't rush them." --- Roscoe's room, with its west-facing window, is sweltering hot; most of his bedding has been thrown off the bed so he can lie on just the cool sheets, staring up at the ceiling. He evidently doesn't see his mom come in, even in his peripheral vision -- he startles when she says, "It won't kill you to pick up after yourself." A moment later his balled-up blankets land in a pile on top of him. "You going to sulk in here all summer? That's what you want?" "I'm not sulking," says Roscoe, though this assertion would be more convincing if he actually weren't sulking. He fights the blankets off fitfully, but he doesn't try to sit up, though he's evidently snapped back to his regular vision now, is fixing his mother with a baleful squint. "If you have a problem with it then, fine, just call my probation officer and have him put sulking on the list, see if I care!" He was already lying down, but he hauls up on his elbows just enough to flop with illustrative petulance back against his pillow, curling away from her. This only seems to incense My -- she pulls his arm to yank him onto his back again -- "You think I feel bad for you?" she says. "Whose fault this is? You the one making things worse -- if you ever took anything seriously --" Roscoe is flailing furiously upright, shaking his hair out of his eyes, trying to twist out of her grip -- "I know you don't feel bad for me," he hisses back. "Isn't this what you wanted -- good thing I finally fucked up so bad that now someone will always know where I am and what I'm doing, right?" "What's wrong with you?" My snaps, letting go of him like he's burned her. "Of course this isn't what I want -- none of this is what I want!" --- It's too late to really see anything, but nevertheless there is something giving My pause as she passes her son's room on her way to bed. "Roscoe?" she ventures. "You still up?" The only answer that comes is a soft creak as Roscoe shifts in bed, sitting up. When My creeps inside, it is easier to locate him, a darker silhouette in the dark room. She sits next to him, wraps one arm around his shoulders, lets him tuck his head against her neck. He's wringing a raggedy Enderman plush in his hands, his shoulders slumping. "You can't sleep?" My whispers into his hair. "Naw," Roscoe says hoarsely. After a moment, he adds, his voice starting to pitch higher, "I didn't mean to mess with it, I was just -- it gets hot when it's charging and it makes my ankle all itchy and now I don't even have a little wiggle room, they put it way too tight --" My reaches down to rescue his poor Enderman, curls her fingers around his to still them. "Whose fault that is," she says, but then, softer, she adds, "{Precious lump.} You okay. Mommy here." --- Is Roscoe high right now? His mom is clutching him to her side, one hand draped protectively on top of his head like she's trying to shield him from everyone's raised voices, but he's swaying on his feet, watching his family argue with mild, detached confusion. Maybe he just doesn't speak enough Vietnamese to understand this; maybe everyone is just speaking too loudly over each other. It definitely doesn't help that he's high. Larry is shouting at Sharon -- "{You think you're helping? You think you're doing him any good enabling him? Everything he does has made things worse -- every single thing -- what else are we supposed to do?}" -- and Sharon is standing her ground, her voice rising defensively -- "{He's just a stupid kid, he doesn't know what he's doing, he's so scared of you that I'm the only one he feels like can come to, and this is my fault somehow? There's something wrong with this picture, can't you see that?}" -- and My, through this, is crying, "{You are so gullible, you know he's a liar, you know he lies! Why do you believe his crap -- why do you let him manipulate you -- he doesn't need protecting from us, he needs protecting from himself!}" Roscoe drops his head onto his mom's shoulder, still staring at this scene like it has no particular relevance to him; his eyes are starting to droop shut. --- Larry is sitting with his head in his hands; the rising steam from his tea is fogging over his glasses. My's cup is also steaming on the table, next to his elbow, but she is too agitated to sit and drink it, pacing by the window in her dressing gown and slippers, arms wrapped tight around herself like she's holding herself precariously together. Eventually, Larry lets out a short sigh. "He been on his last chance for so long," he says. "I just don't think this time --" It's like My was waiting for something to snap at; she snaps. "So that's it, then? You giving up?" "He's giving up! He throws away every chance they give him, he's not going to get a better deal than this!" Larry protests. "You want to keep doing this -- I'm done. I hate fighting with him -- I hate punishing him -- {I'm so sick of living like this! If he has to be locked up in his room all the time, if he can't go to normal school, why shouldn't we try this? Maybe -- maybe it will be good for him. Maybe they can help him.}" "{He's a little boy!}" My insists furiously. "{He belongs here, with us, he belongs with his family -- we should be fixing this!}" "{We tried!}" Larry says. "{What else are we supposed to do?}" --- It's dark in the apartment; probably Roscoe should be in bed by now -- he has to be up early tomorrow. He's half-asleep already, sprawled on the couch in front of the blank TV, his face half-squished against a throw pillow, eyes almost completely shut. But he's not actually asleep -- when the door opens behind him, he swings himself upright, looks blearily over the back of the couch as Larry turns on the light in the kitchen to put his things away. "You can't sleep?" Larry says; his voice is rough with the late hour. He comes over to sit, too; Roscoe curls his legs out of the way to make room, but it still takes a little adjustment to fit Larry in around the charging cord tethering Roscoe's ankle to the outlet. Finally Larry finds the remote, turns on the TV, flicks through their shows. "Is Mom mad at you now?" says Roscoe. "I didn't mean..." Larry closes his eyes behind his glasses as Roscoe trails off; he lowers the remote control to his lap. "Your mom," he says, slowly, "not ready to see you go. But -- she'll come around. It's a good thing. You can pay your debts, make your amends -- and maybe you won't have to deal with all of this anymore, all this mutant stuff, maybe we can put it all behind us, but -- but you have to try, too, you have to do better too." Roscoe is nodding along to this with a grave expression; his eyebrows pinch in a teeny-tiny frown. He's looking more at his lap than at the TV. "Yeah," he says. "But she's still -- you're gonna come see me, right? If I'm good?" "Yeah," says Larry faintly, "Yeah, if you're good, if they let us." --- Roscoe won't need any personal items, they've been told, but My made him dress nicely anyway, and even combed his hair neatly out of his face. It makes him look both older and younger than usual, though maybe that's just the melancholy way he's sulking in the backseat, his chin in his hand, staring at the blur of the city out his window, chewing on his lip. His parents are alternating glances over their shoulders or in the rearview mirror at him, but nobody seems to have anything to say. Maybe this is for the best; maybe anything anyone could say right now would be too much. But as Larry pulls off the freeway, without even the tick-tick-tick of the blinker, maybe this silence is too much, too.