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toss.
    They were discussing
him.
He could make out his name, but they might as well have been saying "toast" or "bobby pin" or "Doritos." There was not much passion, or nerve, or anything like a tug-of-war. He could never remember them fighting. For years, there had just been a lot of sighing over a toilet seat not put down, or a hand closing like a stone at the kitchen sink when one of them discovered a poorly washed fork. And the laundry? Why did he always hang his shirts so sloppily on the line? And their Lexus? Didn't she know not to park next to a Ford Taurus sure to ding their door?
    Hector heard a coffee cup setting back into the saucer. That's how his parents were, nice and tidy, with no rings on their maple furniture. The flowers in the vase were artificial, and the "Great Writers" leather-bound books on the shelf had never been opened. There was an ormolu clock on the mantel, but a spring inside had broken.
    "Hector," he heard his mom calling. She called a second time, and her voice grew slightly angry: "Hector, we want to talk with you."
    He had already concluded that it involved their divorce. All of his friends' parents were divorced or divorcing. It was nothing new.
    "Coming!" he shouted. He breathed in deeply, blew out a lungful of air, opened the door of his bedroom, and walked down the hallway into the living room.
    They were there, looking neither happy nor unhappy. It was something in between, like when you get in your car and just drive, your eyes lifting to see in the rearview mirror where you've been.
    That's what he was thinking. They get in their car and drive a lot—to work, to the store, to a pastry shop to put sweets in their mouths, to places where he imagined they sat and looked straight ahead. They would look into the rearview mirror now and then and see nothing but blackness.
    "Yeah," he said. He stood like a penguin, his arms like useless wings at his sides.
    His parents' mouths retracted into small puckers. Neither liked the word
yeah,
but they contained their displeasure. They had more important things to say.
    "Hector," his mother started, then paused.
    Hector noticed her smoothing her lap, as if she were inviting him to come and sit. But the last time he had climbed into her lap—he was five, he remembered, and he was holding a baby tooth that had just fallen out—she had told him to get down, that he was big enough to sit in a chair. He did as he was told. From across the living room, he'd held up the tooth and said, "See?"
    "Hector," his father began. His face was moist with something that was not tears.
What is it?
Hector wondered.
Worry?
    "Hector," his mother repeated. "You decide."
    Hector had been prepared by Trent Johnson, a friend at school. Trent's parents were divorced and he'd had to decide who he wanted to live with. Trent had decided to live with his father, who had promised him a bow-and-arrow set. He would get a car when he turned seventeen.
    "Yeah, I know," remarked Hector, the new taste of bitterness in his mouth.
    At the use of the word
yeah,
his mother winced and crumpled the Kleenex in her grip. It looked like a white carnation.
    "What do you mean you know?" his father asked. His tie was loosened, but he still seemed choked by work.
    "I just know. You want me to decide who I should live with."
    "So you know everything," his mother nearly snapped. She crushed the Kleenex again.
    "I didn't say that," Hector risked arguing and added snidely, "I'm only getting Bs." He was surprised how that came out. Was he getting braver?
    His father sighed, leaned forward, and palms out, said that they both loved him. Hector had to be mature and decide who he would like to live with. Would an hour be long enough?
    "Yes," Hector answered this time.
    He returned to his bedroom, where he sat on his bed, a little mousy squeak coming from the springs. He pressed a flashlight against his palm: blood bright, blood dark, blood bright, blood dark. It was a signal to someone far away, a