f o u r

                                    

                                          
     It made a loud scratching noise when Mr. Hargrove slid his chair back and stood. He was so joyful until the front door opened. Heat radiated off of him. He excused himself and sped walked to the front door, everyone turning in their seats to watch. 
     Mrs. Hargrove followed behind him almost immediately and Silas let out a low whistle. 
     "What's going on?" I ask.
     "Cirus is here," Silas said, picking at his food.
     "Cirus? Who's Cirus?" I ask again. 
     "My brother.. Who's about to get in a shit load of trouble." He replied. 
     From the kitchen, you could hear the argument happening in whispers. Someone's in trouble. Seconds pass until a slapping sound follows it. Then the steps.
     In a single file line, they all come back to the table. 
     Mr. Hargrove
     Mrs. Hargrove
     Cirus
     Only Cirus was rubbing a hand back and forth along his cheek, squinting one eye. 
     "Please excuse us, Vittoria dear. This is Cirus, our secondborn." Mrs. Hargrove explained, glaring at Cirus. Her eyes contradict her voice.
     I wave and watch them take their seats. Cirus' seat is directly across from mine. When he finally sits down, the smell floats to my nose. So potent.
     He's obviously high because his eyes are red, glossy, and low. I stare at him, full of envy. That should be me.
     "Vittoria, I know I've asked earlier, but I don't believe I got your answer. Would you tell us a little about yourself?" Mrs. Hargrove inquired. 
     "Mm! Of course," No use going around the question twice. "I'm from the other side of Maine, I moved here with my aunt and uncle. Me and my sister, Ella." 
     Everyone sat in silence, waiting for me to continue. 
     "Um, I like to read.. and I skate a bit," I say further.
     "Why'd you move here? Where are your parents?" Silas asks. 
     "Prodding much?" Cirus mutters. 
     "High much?" Silas snarks back. 
     "Failing anger management much?" Cirus returns.
     "Boys." Mr. Hargrove warns. 
     Cirus' voice is smokier than Silas'. No pun intended. It has way more fry and quietness to it. Cirus has dirty blond hair, and it's pretty fluffy. From the little I can see, his eyes are a mixture of greens and blues, and his face and neck are scattered with dark circles. Moles.
     His fingers rest on the table, long and slender. Joints rounded and thin. He's a creative, from what I can tell. His fingers are different from everyone else's. 
     Silas has callused hands, which could hint at athleticism. His mother's are padded, which could mean she works in dirt. Little to no manual labor. A gardener maybe. His father's are slick, a result of computer work. But Cirus' are a mixture of everything. Hands that belong to a jack of trades. 
     So bad, do I want to ditch this dinner and ask this guy about his weed. 
     The rest of the dinner went by in blurs. Small talk, slightly smaller talk. Blah, blah, blah.