Thought Catalog - Cicada, Ladybug (Chapter 1) lyrics

“I can't believe he'd do that, but I'll handle it,” I tell Mr. Sato. My seven-year-old brother, Izzy, stiffens in the guest seat then peeks over his shoulder at me, and when I nod toward the door, he slides himself off the chair and shuffles through the exit under my glare. In gold lettering, the door pane reads, “Principal's Office.” “Wait,” says Mr. Sato, catching my wrist before I leave. He tells Izzy, “We'll only be a minute,” and strands him in the hallway with a door click. Then he turns, scratches his 2 o'clock shadow, and crosses his arms. I tell him, “Thanks for playing along just now, but I don't want to talk about it. Izzy's having a rough time. Whole dad thing; it'll pa**; but the teasing doesn't help. Thanks for playing along, though, just don't want to talk about it.” “Of course. Think you're handling it well,” he says, “But that's not what I want to know.” I exhale slowly and nod for him to continue, but Mr. Sato shakes his head as though to warn me it's not over yet. He says, “You promised me on the phone that your grandfather would pick him up. Students aren't suppose to leave with minors, so where is he? Where has he been?” My forehead heats up. “He even missed Izzy's parent-teacher conference.” “But I went,” I say. “But you shouldn't have had to. Where is he?” “You know the times. Has to work.” Mr. Sato stop-signs a palm and says, “Never mind that. That's not even what's bothering me most.” His nails scrape along his cheek scruff again. “What's been going on with you?” My jaw flexes. “You can come back. Why don't you come back? You were on your way, Santiago.” I shrug. “What does that mean?” he asks, then he mimics my shoulders with a scoff. “What is that?” I mumble, “I don't know.” “There's reform, Santi. Sure, out-of-state tuition for now, but with your grades.” My gaze drifts from him to focus on anything, anything else, like the vinyl MF Doom record framed on the wall behind his desk, or his Duke diploma next to it, not in gla**, just thumbtacked to the wall. Or the turquoise and lime SAT book on the pile of textbooks beside his desk. Seeing it again twists my stomach. Who's he tutoring with it now? Then Mr. Sato says, “Just because you don't have a number, doesn't mean you don't have a chance. You're not trapped.” Glancing at him from the side, “It ain't for me—I'd rather stay at home.” “It ‘ain't for you? ‘Ain't f**ing for you? It's what we've been working–” He grunts then clears his throat. “Well, what have you been doing?” he asks. “Working? Where?” I nod, still roaming my sight around the room. “If your grandfather can't care for you two, I'll help,” he says. “You don't have to babysit Izzy.” “It's not ‘babysitting.'” “That's not what I meant. I'm trying—“ “That's not even the reason I left. And just because Grandpa has to grind right now, it doesn't mean he's a bad parent.” Mr. Sato's eyes drop to his black and white Vans, and his fingers scuff scuff along his chin. “Of course,” he says, scooting closer, “but where is he?” His eyes pry into mine, the white flakes in his irises shivering. I've grown taller than he is since I left a year ago. “They showed up at the gun shop he was at,” I say, “and he barely scrambled out.” Mr. Sato's eyes jab. “So he's at a telephone company now,” I say. “Fifty-two-years old and yanking wires all throughout skyscrapers. From five in the morning to ten at night. Want to know how much he makes, too?” But before he can respond I dig into my pocket, tear out all that I have, and let the green flutter from my palm to his feet. “That's about right.” Mr. Sato stares down at the bills and says, “Didn't have to do that.” “You asked me. There. I know he's gone all the time, but whatever.” I sniffle. “So there. He works. And I work.” Mr. Sato is still making eye contact with a Washington on the floor. Then he kneels, swipes the bills off the carpet, and clutches them at his waist. He says, “I'm sorry. It's just that—you were on your—we worked so—” The dollars crinkle within his fist as it trembles. “Reform, Santi. You're not trapped.” “You taught history, right?” I ask him. His throat croaks some response. “Okay, so you'll understand when I say this. Remember the gilded age? When all the Irish came on boats hungry, broke as sh**, but then white men met them at the docks with potato soup and promises? And those men would say, ‘Work, homes to live in, education! But only if you vote for me.' Remember those white men?” I ask him and sneer so he looks up. “Remember those guys?” And when his sight finally lifts, I say, “That's Obama.” Then I step around him and with my hand on the door handle, I say, “Thanks for playing along with Izzy—it's a phase. As for what happened today, I'll handle it.” Then I strand him in his room with a door click.