Operation Sal | Sally Face x Travis Phelps

31

   "So, this boy," Lisa begins casually, her eyebrows drawn together in a way that makes her look mildly concerned, "Trevor,"

   "Travis, Ma." Larry corrects her, his mouth stuffed full of pepperoni pizza, his eyes half-lidded. He slouches dramatically in his seat at the dinner table, practically laying down.

   Perpendicular to him, Sal sits quietly. The matte lower buckles of his prosthetic are unclasped and hanging loosely at either side of his head so that he's able to eat, but he wordlessly stares down at his untouched, cold slice of cheese pizza as if it has wronged him somehow.

   "Sorry, yes," Lisa nods thoughtfully, "Travis," she sets a large pitcher of lemon water down between her two boys. Condensation clouds the exterior of the glass. "His father is the local town preacher, right?"

   Larry reaches for the pitcher with a grunt and pours a fair amount of water into his cup, "Affirmative," he holds back a burp.

   Sal doesn't say it out loud, but he's a bit irked that all anyone seems to know about Travis is that he's Kenneth's son, especially because he knows personally that Travis is so much more than a glorified altar boy.

   "And," Henry pipes up gruffly from where he sits at the opposite side of the dining room table, "he's dropping out of high school?" His eyes are tired and dull and the skin around them is sagging with exhaustion.

   Larry takes an excruciatingly long sip from his cup and then sighs after swallowing, "Yeah, sure seems that way." He clears his throat, "Dude doesn't exactly give me the impression that he's planning on coming back."

   Henry cocks a blue eyebrow, propping his arm up on the table, "And Mr. Phelps supports that?" He asks in slight disbelief, "God, I can't imagine a man as rigid as him having such a troublesome boy. Wouldn't that damage his holy image or — credibility — or whatever?"

Lisa and Henry have never been frequent churchgoers. In fact, for years, they'd thought that the infinite unwavering love that Nockfell seemed to have for their preacher was borderline disconcerting.

"Kenneth Phelps is a real freaky man," Larry huffs playfully, "and evvvvveryone loves him. Being a dropout will probably just make ol' Travvy look like a real law-abiding, dedicated lamb of God. What a joke."

"Would you knock it off?" Sal says through his teeth, kicking him under the table. He gives him a stern look, his eyes lacking their usual soft friendliness, a look that's meant to be his cue to drop the conversation.

But Larry's high, as usual, and he's not thinking clearly, "What?" He scrunches his face up, looking half disgusted and half bored. "Jeez, I didn't realize this was a fight ring, dude." He recoils a little bit, tucking his feet underneath the chair he's sitting on.

Sal's blood is still pumping quickly, and he's about to apologize for hitting him so hard when Lisa speaks up again.

"Can you imagine, Henry?" She glances at him, her eyebrows raised, "The son of our town's beloved minister," she rolls her eyes, "a high school dropout."

Sal curls his hands into fists. His jaw is firm and as Travis's rare, content expression flashes in his mind, the visual pushes words into his mouth much too quickly, "He's not a dropout!" He yells, really yells. His knuckles are white and he's hunched over slightly, and when he realizes what he's done, he lifts his head, wide-eyed.

Lisa and Henry stare at him with shock plain as day on their faces. Larry just keeps his gaze settled on his pizza crust, laying flat on the paper plate in front of him. He bends it back and forth with his fingers. His eyebrows are drawn towards each other slightly