Up Against It - M. J. Locke [112]
Mr. Agre stabbed a finger at Geoff. “His brother just died! Last night his friend suffered a traumatic amputation—doing your bidding! Don’t give me high-minded speeches. Let someone else risk their life next time.”
Sean hesitated. His first instinct was to tell the man to let his son grow up. He had had men and women Geoff’s age under his command who fought, killed, and died for their country. Still, the contrast with the Carmichaels was stark. At least he cared enough to get angry. From the expression on Geoff’s face, though, he didn’t see it that way.
“What the hell do you care?” Geoff asked.
His father turned on him. “What did you just say?”
Geoff paled, but his back stiffened and his fists balled. He repeated, “What do you care? You never gave a damn about me. It was Carl you cared about.” His mother’s hands went to her mouth, and her eyes went wide; his father’s eyes narrowed. Geoff went on, “All you’ve ever done is ignore me, and when you weren’t doing that all you did was criticize.
“And now Carl’s dead,” he said, “and I’m all you have left, and you think that gives you the right to start telling me how to live my life? Well, you don’t. I’m an adult now. I make my own choices.”
Mrs. Agre reached toward him, but he pulled away from her.
“That’s the problem with you, Geoff!” his father said. “You don’t make choices. You’re completely random. The way you chase all your damn stupid ice rocks, you fool yourself into thinking what you’re doing means something, when the truth is, you’re just running away. You dodge the sweat and tedium it takes to do well in school. You dodge your responsibilities at home. You dodge the people who want to get to know you. I don’t know how many girls have come by here while you were out somewhere, and you never follow up. You are afraid of failure!”
“Don’t put that on me, Dad. You don’t have a clue who or what I like. You’re the one who ran away all your life. You ran away from Earth. You ran away from your first family and all your screw-ups back on the moon. So get off my back.”
His father was so angry he shook. “I’m still your father and while you live under my roof, you’ll do what I say.”
“Then I’m moving out.”
“The hell you are!”
Geoff moved toward the door. Mr. Agre blocked him, and, when Geoff tried to shove past, struck him in the face. Mrs. Agre screamed. “Sal! Stop!”
Geoff’s hand went to his face, where the imprint of his father’s knuckles stood out—first marble white, then an angry red. They stood there, looking at each other: Geoff still as stone, his father panting and flushed. Then Geoff grabbed his helmet off a hook by the door and left.
Mrs. Agre looked aghast at her husband. “How could you?”
“He deliberately defies me, Dee. You’ve seen how he acts.”
“I’ve had enough,” she whispered. When he tried to reply, she screamed, “Enough!” She fled into the other room and closed the door. Sean heard a soft snick as it locked. Agre collapsed into a chair.
Sean had already stayed too long. He stepped toward the door. It whispered open behind him, and more motes swirled in on the cold breeze. But he had to say one thing. “Mr. Agre, your son’s courage and quick thinking have been all that have stood between us and many people dying. Not once, but twice. If he were my son, I would be proud.” He paused. “And I would tell him so.”
Agre gave him a tormented look as the door closed between them. Sean looked up and down the corridor, but Geoff was nowhere to be seen.
22
Geoff met Kam and Amaya in New Little Austin for breakfast. He could tell by their glances that they both noticed the fist-shaped bruise blossoming on his left cheek. He hoped they would assume it happened yesterday, during his fight with Ian or the run-in with the feral sapient.
They decided to get take-out and visit Ian.
While they were waiting in line at the café, Amaya grew tense.