by Xavier Neal
With my own plate to the side of me, I open my calculus book that I swear grows larger every damn day, and begin to do my homework in hopes I can finish in time to go to bed with her.
Chapter 2
6:30 a.m. on the dot, the poking begins. Her tiny toes poke my calf. My hip. Usually a toe tries to find a new home between my ribs. When the beginning efforts of pulling me out of sleep fail, she defaults to her back up plan. Poking me in the arm, the neck, the head, and eventually the ear. Not gonna lie, the ear typically gets me.
I force my eyes open to see her staring at me from a sitting position on top of my chest.
“Daddy,” she whines loudly. “Daddy get up! We have to get ready for school!”
“I know,” a deep groan escapes me, missing the days where I could sleep in until ten minutes before the bell would ring. Those days are on a long list of things I miss. Decent clothes that fit and an active social life also on that list.
Pushing the hair out of her eyes, I smirk as I relish the fact this little face that greets me every morning caught most of my genetics. I couldn't handle the heartbreak of waking up to her mother's face every morning. “Good morning.”
“Morning Daddy!” another adorable giggle leaves her. I have to be the world's luckiest dad to have a daughter with such an even temperament.
“Did my angel sleep well?”
“Yes. Did Daddy?”
“Yes. Thanks for asking,” I sit slightly up, her knees digging into my exposed six pack. “Do you want a bagel for breakfast?”
“Cereal.”
“You had cereal yesterday. How about a little bit of yogurt and a bagel?”
“Cereal.”
“How about a few grapes and toast?”
She folds her arms over her favorite princess nightgown in protest. “Cereal.”
Rolling my eyes, ready to fight with her like I do at least twice a week in the morning, I’m interrupted by my mother who's out of her drunken state and has ventured into her hang over mode.
“Oh let the child have some damn cereal,” she sighs hitting the light, which stings my eyes.
“Grandma!” Mak springs off my chest and our queen sized bed into my mother’s arm.
“Hello baby.” My mother holds her tight before Mak begins to try to pull the curls out she just put in. “You being a good girl for daddy?”
“Yes.” Mak lays her head on her shoulder. “But I want cereal.”
“I know.” She places a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll take you to the kitchen and make you a bowl. You can eat while I have my coffee and daddy gets his lazy butt out of bed to take a shower. Sound good?”
Lazy? Which one of us busts their ass to go to school and work, to take care of their child? Which one of us cleans the house and does the laundry while the other one gets drunk and whores them self around? If that is the definition of lazy, I might need to start using a dictionary to clarify simple words.
“Yes!” she squeals for glee as they exit out of the room.
I lay my head back down on my pillow for a second hoping to get another moment of sleep since it’s rare. She can have four bowls of cereal if I can have just another five minutes.
“Shower now, Connor!” My mother’s shrill voice screeches from the kitchen.
“I’m going!” I yell back slowly hauling myself out of the bed and into the bathroom directly next to our bedroom.
In general, my shower time has been extended a little longer each day Mak gets older. On rare days like today when my mother is up earlier than expected, she helps get her dressed and hair fixed. While Mak doesn't appreciate the simplicity of having her hair brushed and a colorful hair band added, I am quite proud of what I've learned to do. My mother taught me in the beginning how much easier her hair would be to deal with when it was wet. To always wet the brush or comb first. Be slow and gentle and distract during the tangles. It’s almost amazing to think about how loving she is when she’s not guzzling booze. Or offering what lies between her legs for a less than adequate price. After my brief ten minute shower, which is just enough time to wake up, scrub myself off, and wash my hair, I quickly stumble back into my room to slide into a pair of jeans I find, a baby blue t-shirt with a dark blue button down shirt on top. On the way back to the bathroom, I run my fingers over my hair to shake away any access water. In an odd multitasking combination, I start brushing my teeth and fastening my belt at the same time.
“Daddy! Daddy! Look!” Mak comes bouncing into the bathroom wearing the shirt I specifically washed yesterday, jeans, pink tennis shoes, and a pair of high pigtails.
Spitting out the toothpaste, I quickly rinse my mouth out, before exclaiming, “Oh! Nice pig tails. Did grandma do those for you?”
“Yes...” She wiggles back and forth, her baba in her hand.
“Well how about you go get your backpack, so I can take you to school?”
“But I want grandma to take me to school.”
“Grandma has to get to work,” I remind her only to see her bottom lip start to poke out.
“But daddy—”
“MaKayla Ashley…”
“Fine,” her voice croaks before she stomps away. I fucking hate being the only parent. The only one who has to tell her no. The only one to share the responsibility of having to explain to her why certain things can't happen, like attending her friends’ birthday parties.
When I exit the bathroom I run straight into my mother who is dressed and ready for work. Last night she looked like a stripper in her black mini skirt, gold bathing suit top, yet now she looks the professional banker she pretends to be during the day. She’s a supervisor of a bank downtown in which she has to carry herself like she’s in corporate America, but at night after a long days’ work of pretending to be stable she lets loose by being the town slut.
“Mom, I know you like to drink especially when you get off--”
“Of course I do.”
“And I'm not asking you not to--”
“Which is good because I would tell you to fu-”
“I'm asking, could you refrain from leaving the bottles around the house?”
“They’re just bottles Connor.”
Still whispering under my breath I add, “Not to mention the drug products--”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” she snaps while buttoning down her black business jacket. “This is my household, and I’ll do as I damn well please.”
“Your household?” I’m taken off guard as I watch her pull down her matching pencil skirt. “Your household?”
“I pay the rent don’t I?”
“Barely. And that’s about all you pay.”
“Don’t start Connor.” She disapprovingly shakes her finger at me.
“You know mom, I could care less if you wanna get drunk day in and day out, but think about MaKayla okay? I’ve caught her with a bottle before that still had alcohol in it. Not to mention I hate for her to see her grandmother passed out like a drunken whore on the couch.”
“How dare you...” her voice trembles.
“Oh don’t even.” I shake my head and walk around her to grab my backpack from my bedroom. Lord knows I'm going to have enough theatrics in my day already. At least the other one comes on a pair of legs I swear I've only seen on Victoria Secret Angel models.
“You know what Connor? I don’t feel like dealing with your bullshit this morning!” She screams at me not realizing Mak is behind her.
“Language please.” My head nods in Mak’s direction, who looks like she might cry, much like she always does when she hears us fighting.
“Sorry,” she apologizes to my daughter, leans down and kisses her on the forehead. “Can you go sit on the couch while Grandma and Daddy finish talking please?” She nods and slowly wanders off towards the direction of the living room. My mother shuts my door after her to return to yelling, “Who the hell do you think you are? I am the mother and you are the child.”
“No I am a father and that is my child.” I point the
direction my daughter went. “You hardly classify as a mother half the time.”
“I put a roof over your head—”
“No, the men you sleep with put the roof over my head, but then again you’re right mom. Someone has to sleep with them in order for that money to pay rent.”
Her fingers violently run through her bobbed, dyed blonde hair, a color my father hated on her. “You think that’s funny Connor?”
“Do you see me laughing? You think I enjoy the fact my mother is the town tramp? It’s not exactly something I’m going around bragging about.”
“I do what I want on my own time! You never hear me complain about your personal life!”
“What personal life?!” I snap. “How the hell can I have a personal life between caring for you when you’re drunkenly passed out and watching for drugs around the house I don't want my child to get into. Oh, not to mention the strange men that randomly appear in the apartment. Can't forget to add making sure they don't try to pound my face in or rob us. How can I possibly have a personal life when I spend every waking moment taking care of other people?”
“Connor—”
“I’m not even listening.” I raise a hand. “I just wanted to make a point to let you know that I’m sick of seeing your drugs or your boyfriend’s drugs or whoever’s drugs around the house, so if could please just try to keep it in your room so that my 2½ almost 3 year old doesn’t get a hold of them that would be really appreciated.”
She pouts her pink glossed lips at me before she tosses her hands in the air to surrender. For a moment she stares at me, one hand wrapped around her stomach and the other pressed against her heart as if it aches. This isn't the life she expected to live. Hell this isn't the life either of us expected to fall into.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get my daughter to school.” I open the door and stroll out past her with a fake smile on my face in hopes of confusing MaKayla, who’s camped out with her coloring book. “Come on Mak. It’s time to go.”
MaKayla slides off the couch and over to me so that I can button her light jacket and her pink puffy marshmallow coat.
Fighting tears my mother whispers, “Button her up tight okay babe?”
Without so much as glancing her direction, I sigh, “Will do.”
Once she’s snug, I join her by sliding on my black oversized leather jacket I was sent from my grandmother for Christmas, over my outfit. She was my father's mother. Still lives in Hawaii. She sends me extra money when she gets a chance or hand me down clothes from a neighbor. She's even offered to have me and Mak pack up our entire lives and move there to live with her and my grandfather. To live the way my dad would've wanted. More secure. Safe. Peaceful.
Prepared to leave it unzipped my mother calls out again, “You too. It’s cold outside.”
My shoulders slump slightly as I turn around to face her, mascara drops on her cheek, trembling hands fumbling around for a place to land on her body, and wobbly legs doing their best to stand strong. There used to be a time when she wasn't weak. I guess this is the echo death leaves.
Instinctively I cross the room, wrap my arms around her, and whisper sweetly, “It’ll be okay mom. It always is.”
Pulling away she nods, touches my cheek, and tries to smile. She lets me go and calls to her granddaughter, “Have a good day princess, okay? Play nice with everyone.”
“I will,” Mak giggles her pigtails bouncing back and forth. “Thank you for my piggy tails.”
“You’re welcome. Grandma loves you.”
“I love you too.” She blows my mother a kiss and tries to reach the door knob.
“And I love you.” My mother's hand lands on my shoulder before gently touching my chin. The pain I can see running through her eyes because I look like my father makes me even more grateful Mak doesn't look like her mother. Clearly trying to shake off the emotions, she pulls back and folds her arms across her chest, “Be careful.”
I briefly nod before strolling away to pick up MaKayla, our backpacks, and take off towards my car in the violently, cold wind.
Hours later after being late to first period again and suffering through a long day of Calculus, a subject I highly doubt I'll ever need, and econ, where my teacher is obsessed with old 80s videos he thinks we can learn from, I’m fortunate enough to be sitting at a lunch table with my two best friends. More like my only friends. By choice. The less people I have poking around in what goes on when I leave campus, the better. Our conversations are usually about video games, something I rarely get to play, but more often now that I got a used X-box 360, which I keep hidden in my room. While Brent and I skipped school to get me a tatt for my birthday, Bret gave me his old system he was going to sell back to the game store, claiming he was so tired of me not having a clue what the hell they were talking about. Looks like pity, feels like pity, but it's friendship. Long before they knew anything about my secret most people could never guess, they were still my friends. Friends from the moment, I put them in their place on the basketball court. Hey, I may have had to leave the team behind at my other school, but it doesn't mean I have to leave the skills there too.
Unfortunately for me, only a few minutes into the conversation, the pair of legs for days with the mouth made for misery, comes waltzing over to the table.
“Connor,” Gianna speaks with a manipulative smirk.
Not responding, I continue with my conversation, “Wait, so what happens when you make it to the part where he—”
“Connor,” she interrupts once more.
Doing my best to hide my growing annoyance, I try again, “The part where he—”
“Connor,” she pouts louder this time, grabbing my friend's attention like she’s some sort of foreign goddess. Fine. Between the coffee colored legs, the short skirt, the knee high leather boots, and the incredible tight white sweater, she looks good. Damn good. Almost good enough to forget the fact that her high horse is on the top of a fucking mountain.
I place another chip in my mouth, the small amount of lunch I can afford.
Gianna snaps, “Aren’t you going to say hi?”
“Hadn’t planned on it,” my answer makes my two friends snicker.
Slightly riled she huffs, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”
With a completely serious face I question, “And why would I ever do such a thing?”
“Ugh,” her growl turns into another pout as she folds her arms across her chest. After a moment she whines again, “Well…”
“Well…what?”
“Introduce me.”
“I don't want to.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“Just introduce me.” She stomps her boot covered foot at me.
“No.” I land another chip in my mouth.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.” Our conversation gains more chuckles from my friends.
Gianna slightly leans over and whispers in my ear. “Introduce me before I introduce myself in a way that’ll get the whole school talking about you.”
Not sure if her threat holds any ground, but not willing to risk my good name being challenged, I sigh, “Brent and Bret, this is Gianna.” She smiles widely at the two of them as they ogle her decent rack. A weird surge of jealousy shoots through me. Quickly I dismiss it by declaring, “She’s a stripper.”
Her jaw hits the ground and before she can snap back Bret playfully asks, “Really? I was hoping to get one for my 18th birthday. Do you think you could help me out? Give us a discount?”
Clearing her throat, she pops her hip to the side and smirks, “Boys, could you please excuse us? I have something I need to talk to the last resort about.”
The two of them look at me for approval of dismissal. Once received, they pick up their trash and allow Gianna to sit down at the lunch table across from me.
“Can I help you?” I ask in an all too familiar tone to her. “Was being a bitch yest
erday not enough to last you a couple days? Do you have to hit the restart button every morning when you wake up?”
“Look Connor, I know yesterday we got off on the wrong foot—”
“Wrong foot? That’s putting it mildly.”
“Fine. Yesterday we got off to a bad start—”
“Bad start? My car gets off to a bad start on a cold morning.”
“Fine awful. Whatever. I’d just like to say I’m not a bad person—”
“Said the devil right before God kicked him out.”
“I mean I’m really not so terrible once you get to know me—”
“Is what a serial killer says in court right before they’re about to sentence him.”
“In fact if you just give me a chance I’m sure—”
“I’ll hate you more as time goes on.”
“Damn it! Will you let me talk?!”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to apologize!”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you really?”
“Yes!”
“And why is that?” I admire the frustrated look on her skillfully painted face. Even though I hesitate to admit this, but evil never looked so beautiful. There’s something about the simplicity of her make up that doesn’t distract from her hazel eyes, her high cheek bones, or the dimple that slightly exists in her left cheek.
“Because I wanna be your partner.”
“Uh-huh and why’s that?”
“Because I think you’ve got real potential,” she says in what sounds like a rehearsed tone. I give her an emotionless stare. “Because I think you’ve got real talent.” Not receiving a different response with that she tries to keep muttering responses she thinks I want to hear, “Because you’re amazing. Because everyone wants to be your partner. Because—”