Logs:Vignette - Hindsight

Vignette - Hindsight
Dramatis Personae Roscoe, the Vos	summer vacation, 2023 technically-not-parole
Location <BOS> Vo Apartment
july 29 Roscoe promised to tell his mom and his sisters everything about the past two years, but he's been awake for a very long time -- since even before the cages opened -- and as soon as they reach exit velocity out of the traffic jams surrounding the lab complex, the highway lulls him to sleep, still clutching his Occupy Lassiter tote of loot protectively to his chest, head tucked against the cool glass of the window, seat belt pressed against his cheek. Maybe everyone is privately relieved. Maybe nobody really wanted to hear everything about the past two years. Without Roscoe keeping the energy up, though, the car lapses into silence, illuminated only in flashes when the streetlights zoom past. --- july 30 Only visible as a shadowy shape in the dim, dusky morning, Roscoe is awake and dressed anyway, leaning against his bed like he's waiting for something. When his dad shuffles past his room on the way to the kitchen to make himself coffee, Roscoe straightens up automatically and Larry -- clearly not expecting anybody else to be awake this early on a Saturday -- jumps. "Holy mackerel," he says. "You scared me." "Sorry," says Roscoe, in a hush -- he was startled too; there's a squeaky pitch to his voice. "I just..." Apparently, he can't explain what he's doing or why. He shrugs and sags against his bed again. Larry hesitates in the doorframe before he says, "What do you... do you want breakfast?" "Okay," says Roscoe guardedly. There is a very awkward pause as they stare at each other. "Okay," says Larry finally, "I make breakfast." He beckons Roscoe along with a jerky little twitch of his head; even with permission to follow, Roscoe hesitates before he follows his dad to the kitchen. --- august 4 "{He scared of needles?}" Larry is saying, following his wife out from the kitchen. "{All this shit he talks --}" "{He says he doesn't like the chair.}" Both of Roscoe's parents are being careful not to use his name, not to alert him that they're talking about him, though at this point they probably don't need to worry; as My brings a glass of water over to the couch she finds him drowsing off, his chin drooping into his chest. She reaches into the cushions to find the remote, but can't figure out how to pause his Minecraft game until Larry, beside her, carefully pries the PlayStation controller out of Roscoe's hand to do so. In the sudden quiet, My's voice seems too loud -- "{They say Dr. Gao can put the brackets back, but -- they think maybe we should just stop treatment. Wait for his teeth to heal.}" Larry's bushy eyebrows are scrunching down behind his glasses. "{He's already wasted so much money,}" he says. "{The restitution and court fees and whatever the hell he spent it on in that place -- God, when he wakes up -- no way he was actually just buying toothpaste like he says -- he should just get to keep throwing money away?}" "{It's not his fault,}" says My, though her eyebrows pinch together with -- something, when she looks down at Roscoe again. "{He didn't have a dentist there.}" "Pssh, {I think it's mostly his fault,}" says Larry. --- august 11 Roscoe wasn't the first to raise his voice tonight, but he's catching up quickly. He's abandoned his game for now, kneeling up on the sofa with his elbows propped on the backrest, still holding his controller in his hands, but the Minecraft theme is still playing behind him, incongruously lullabylike. "But I'm not even on probation, they exculpated me!" This actually isn't true, but he says the word as though each syllable lends uncounterable strength to his case. "What do I have to do? I'm not even doing anything wrong and you're still acting like I need you to babysit me -- you know, I managed fine all by myself for two fucking years!" Everybody is talking at once now, overlapping each other -- "Roscoe," Larry interjects from beside Roscoe, reaching for his elbow to tug him back down; most of his contributions have been in this vein, like he's a referee only calling Roscoe's fouls. "Next time I have to tell you to watch your mouth --" Meanwhile, "Don't talk to us like that," snaps My. "I don't care how smart you think you are, Roscoe, I don't know how you can expect us to trust you, after everything you've done -- you don't get to pretend like nothing happened!" Roscoe yanks his arm back -- "I'm not the one pretending nothing happened!" --- august 21 There is an oppressive weight of supercharged teenage angst in Roscoe's room, even in the still-summer-bright afternoon. Roscoe is huddled small in bed, bony limbs tucked up close to himself, plush Enderman cradled to his cheek, still wearing street clothes. There's no door to knock on, but Roscoe's mom knocks on the doorframe anyway to announce her arrival. Roscoe says, "Ocupado," but she ignores it and comes in anyway. "Can I sit?" she asks. "No," says Roscoe. She ignores this too, sitting next to him, squeezing his shoulder with one hand in what is probably meant to be a comforting gesture. Is it comforting? Roscoe's not responding to it. "Your dad doesn't mean to scare you," she says. Roscoe doesn't react to this either; after a moment My goes on. "He still getting used to all these changes, you know? We all getting used to it. We trying. But you have to try, too, okay?" For a moment it doesn't seem as though Roscoe heard her at all, but finally his head shifts, tilts downward, his mouth pressing sourly down at the edges. "Okay," is all he says, very quietly. My squeezes his shoulder again, fondly (but firmly), and then stands up. "Think about it," she advises, before she goes. --- august 25 Roscoe and his dad started out sort of on-topic (this began as another attempt to relitigate Roscoe's totally-not-house-arrest while My is out of the house) but by now it has become something else entirely -- Larry is shouting, "You can't blame this on us! You said you want to go, you said you want to be cured, you said you want to get better! I thought you would at least try!" -- and Roscoe is shouting back, "There is no cure -- they weren't trying to cure us -- they weren't gonna make me better, they weren't gonna make me human -- this is the best you're ever gonna get!" It doesn't seem like either of them is hearing or understanding the other, but maybe this is an unimportant detail. Maybe they should just raise their voices more? It's worth a shot. --- august 28 "I mean, I get it," Roscoe is saying, eyes trained on the Minecraft house he's laying a foundation for, spinning out in concentric cobblestone squares. "Nobody wants me to get in trouble again. I actually don't want that either, in case anyone was wondering. Everyone acts like I somehow didn't notice that jail sucks -- I was there." "I mean," says Sharon, frowning slightly at her controller. "You know they're bad at admitting when they're wrong. I think they really feel terrible about what happened to you, they just don't know what to do. I mean -- there's really nothing they can do to make things right, is there?" "They could put the door back on my room," suggests Roscoe, perhaps not seriously. "You can't rush them," says Sharon; she is staring with intense focus at her side of the split screen, so she misses the way Roscoe's expression pinches bitterly-- in another moment it smooths itself out anyway. --- september 1 Roscoe still hasn't changed out of his gym uniform; he's sulking slouchily in the passenger seat, staring out the car window with his arms folded tightly, ignoring his mom as she yells at him. The yelling is fairly predictable anyway -- a mix of accusations and complaints and threats, all given an oddly rhythmic quality by the background ding-ding-ding trying to alert them both that Roscoe is not wearing his seat belt. The SUV is weaving in its lane, with My driving distracted and constantly having to course-correct. "Two days!" she says. "You can't go two days without messing up -- two days! I don't know what the hell goes on in your head -- we tell you over and over -- people are waiting for you to make mistakes again, people are watching you!" Roscoe doesn't turn his head to look at his mother. "He disrespected me. I'm not tryna look like a little bitch," he says; there is a surprisingly fierce note of frustration in his low voice, an odd chord of annoyance and indignation when he goes on. "In Lassiter you could always start shit in the showers." "You are not in juvie anymore!" cries My. "I wasn't in juvie!" Roscoe says -- now he's raising his voice, bolting upright in the car seat. "You can lie to everybody else but you know where I was!" --- september 1 "{I knew we should have kept him at home,}" My is ranting from the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself. "{I knew it was too soon -- I knew once we let him out of our sight this would start happening again -- the way he talks about that place, it's like he's proud of himself -- I told you we shouldn't send him there, I told you --}" It seems clear by now that Roscoe is not in his closet, is not under his bed, doesn't even seem to have gone down the fire escape, but this hasn't stopped Larry tearing through his room like he might find some clue as to his whereabouts under his pillow or behind his Lego models or in his clothes. "{He wanted to go!}" This reply is fierce, low, and angry -- perhaps for Larry this is still a little raw. "{He begged me -- he begged me to talk you into it!}" "{Of course he did,}" snaps My. "{You wanted him to go -- you never forgave him for being a freak in the first place -- do you know how much he looks up to you?}" "{I don't care that he's a freak!}" Larry argues. "{He's a liar and a thief and a fucking moron! What were we supposed to do?}" --- september 4 When did Roscoe get home? How did Roscoe get home? He's coming into the kitchen as though he was never gone, still wearing his gym uniform from Friday; his hair now grown out just long enough to be sticking up where he slept on it funny. He's probably still at least a little high. In the kitchen it is still pre-dawn dim. His dad is drinking his coffee at the table; his hands go still around his mug, but he makes no other indication that he saw Roscoe come in, even as Roscoe pulls out the chair next to him and has a seat. Larry takes a long, slow sip of coffee before he says, his voice low with exhaustion, "Well." "Well," repeats Roscoe quietly. "What are we supposed to do with you," says Larry. "Huh?" Now he does look up, takes in the tiny answering hitch of Roscoe's shoulders and sighs. "Yeah," he says, at last. "I know."