Educated

“Doorknob’s broke,” I lied. “Door blows open. This lock was cheap but
it’ll do the trick.”
Shawn fingered the thick steel, which I was sure he could tell was not
cheap at all. I stood silently, paralyzed by dread but also by pity. In that
moment I hated him, and I wanted to scream it in his face. I imagined the
way he would crumple, crushed under the weight of my words and his own
self-loathing. Even then I understood the truth of it: that Shawn hated himself
far more than I ever could.
“You’re using the wrong screws,” he said. “You need long ones for the
wall and grabbers for the door. Otherwise, it’ll bust right off.”
We walked to the shop. Shawn shuffled around for a few minutes, then
emerged with a handful of steel screws. We walked back to the house and he
installed the lock, humming to himself and smiling, flashing his baby teeth.