More Than Enough Read Online Free

the pool out onto the backyard where you can sun yourselves in the summer or just sit and drink Cokes and listen to music with friends.”
    I looked over at Jenny, who was smiling and who clearly liked the sound of the new pool as much as I did. “My room,” she said (and I knew very well what she was about to demand since she had done so many times before), “will have two large windows and will be far away from Steven’s, all the way down the hall from his, and right across the hall from a bathroom.” Then she said, “My bathroom.” I usually snapped back at her for her nasty possessiveness and her desire to escape me, but Jenny and I had been in cramped quarters for as long as we could remember, and that afternoon I understood her wish for her own space, for two windows and a bathroom all her own. I wanted that, too.
    â€œOf course,” my father said to Jenny. “You will have your own bathroom. Steven will have one, too. I will have one and your mother will have one. And,” he added, “we will also have a guest bathroom. Five bathrooms.” He lifted his hand from the steering wheel and put out five fingers, wiggling them a little for emphasis. I imagined these bathrooms, my mother’s done in pink colors with little pink seashell soaps beside the sink, Jenny’s done in purple with seashell soaps of that same color, my father’s bathroom and my bathroom in marine blue or in rustic earth colors, though I didn’t know much about how bathrooms should look. I knew only that there would soon be five bathrooms where there was now only the hurried and shameful privacy of one.
    â€œHow are you feeling, Steven?” My mother had turned around and I could see from her face—tired and worried—that she didn’t believe a word my father had said and that she was in no mood to pretend that she did.
    â€œFine,” I said. “Great.”
    â€œGreat,” she said, laughing a little. “How could you feel great?”
    â€œI just do,” I said.
    My mother said something odd then. “You don’t have to feel great for our sakes, you know. You’re allowed to feel however you feel.”
    I didn’t understand her and neither did my father. “Why are you telling him that?” he asked. “He’s doing just fine and you’re telling him he shouldn’t be.”
    â€œHe’s hurt, Billy,” my mother said, “and we’re acting like nothing has happened.”
    â€œWe’re not acting like anything,” my father said. “We’re just making conversation.”
    â€œWe’re talking nonsense. We’re talking about bathrooms we don’t even have.”
    â€œI like to talk about them,” I said. “It makes me feel better to talk about them.” My parents were too angry to continue speaking, and whatever spell I had been under, whatever state of mind had kept the pain away, was broken now. I looked down at my lap and saw again how my palm and forearm were turned up at a wrong angle. My upper arm was swollen, and I moved the ice bag that—though I didn’t remember it—my father must have given me farther up on my shoulder. I felt a stabbing pang, then another and another. “Jesus,” I said, trying to concentrate and keep the pain away.
    â€œWe’re almost there, kiddo,” my mother said.
    â€œA minute ago,” my father said, “he was just fine. And now, no thanks to you, dear, he’s in agony.”
    â€œPlease,” I said, “please don’t argue.”
    They were quiet for a while, and I was glad since the pain now demanded all my concentration and made the tears come to my eyes, though I managed not to sob or make any humiliating childish noises. I just let the tears fall and held on to my arm and was thankful for the silence until my mother turned around again and said, “Please, Steven, tell us how this happened. We