Labeled Love

by Danielle Rocco

  I wonder if Grace is even home. You can never tell. Sometimes she works at the hole-in-the-wall bar down the street. She tells me she works there to make extra money on the side. It’s under the table because we get food stamps, and she can’t say she works or she won’t get assistance anymore. I don’t know if she’s telling me the truth or what she even does with the money. I never see any of it, and we rarely have enough food. I’m guessing she spends it on alcohol and cigarettes since she’s never without those.

  On cue, she staggers into my bedroom, clearing her throat as she leans onto my doorframe. I lie in my bed with my hands stretched over my head. I’m shirtless with a pair of boxers on because it’s hotter than hell in this stagnant space. It doesn’t start to cool down here until November, and this has been one hot October.

  There’s nothing graceful about Grace. I have always found it sad that my mother was given such a beautiful name with meaning, when she is nothing like its definition. Maybe at one time she was worthy of her name, but I’ve never seen that time.

  “Did you take money from me?” I bring my coherent gaze to her incoherent one and give her a questioning look. Even though I didn’t take any money, I do know where some is. It’s not much—only enough to catch a bus ride to the community center, but I don’t tell her that for fear she will take it from me. She shrugs her frail shoulders when I don’t answer. “Are you going to school today?” she asks with a hoarse voice, scratching the top of her head through her unkempt hair. She either stayed up all night partying or her raspy voice is from barely waking up. That’s usually the first thing she says to me in the morning as she comes stumbling through my bedroom door.

  Rolling my eyes, I respond with as much interest as she just voiced me. “I don’t know, Mom. Don’t most kids go to school every morning?”

  “Why do you have to be such a wise ass, Jace? If I find out you take money when I’m not looking, you’re going to get it, boy.” I elude my blue eyes from her dull brown ones and roll over in my toddler-sized bed, blocking her out. She walks out as quickly as she walked in. “If you’re going, get ready or you’re going to be late. I don’t feel like having to go to another meeting about how I can’t control my kid,” she yells over her skinny shoulder.

  Of course, she doesn’t. That would be actual parenting, and I know how much she hates doing that. The couple of times she had to come to a school meeting were because I was falling behind in a few classes, and the teachers were concerned. She took that as I was being uncontrollable, when really I was struggling. She swore like a sailor the whole time she was in the office. I remember biting down so hard on my bottom lip with embarrassment that I made myself bleed. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs to shut her up, but I didn’t want to make the situation any worse than she was already doing.

  “Don’t make me come down to this school one more fucking time,” Grace said as we walked out of the office. I remember the sad expression on the principal’s face as Grace stormed through his office door that day. He’s a rather large man who doesn’t look like he gets intimidated easily. I bet that’s why he got the principal’s job at the school. This is a tough crowd of kids to watch over. He witnessed my mom firsthand on two different memorable encounters in all her drunken glory—because, believe me, Grace leaves an impression—and then add my fight, and I’m looking like a model citizen with a bright future to him. I’m sure he thinks I’m going to amount to nothing but a messed-up kid with a shitty home life, shitty grades, and a fist I have no problem using.

  Never owning a car, I trailed behind her, speaking to her slumped back as she dragged herself back to her private pity party of hell she created. I mouthed, “You’re the worst fucking mother in the world.”

  Struggling.

  That’s all I’ve ever known. I try to stay out of trouble, but it’s all around me. Trouble breeds here, even though only a few miles away the rich and famous lay down their perfectly groomed heads, enjoying their joyous days of leisure and overly indulgent lives comfortably. While over here, where I lay mine, is a constant struggle.

  The beginning

  WHEN MORNING IS upon us, our bodies just know it is time to get up and starts to stir. It’s like a built-in alarm clock telling us it’s time to start our day. I’m not ready to get up, though. My body is wrapped tightly with my head resting comfortably on my big, fluffy pillow. I wish it were Saturday morning, so I could sleep in. No such luck. My human alarm clock just came prancing through my bedroom door. “Good morning, baby girl. Time to start your day.”

  My mother.

  Also known as my human alarm clock—not that annoying buzzer kind of alarm.

  No.

  My human alarm clock consists of the most loving sound. I can always count on her smelling like whatever she’s been up at the crack of dawn cooking for us. Today, she has the sugary sweet smell of pancakes and maple syrup all around her.

  “I’m not a baby anymore, Mom. I’m practically getting boobs.” I peek up out of my covers to get a glimpse of her facial expression. She always makes a goofy face when we say something out of character. Yes, she’s totally making that face. She shrugs her delicate shoulders up and down like she’s doing a little dance.

  “You’re twelve years old, barely in middle school. You don’t have boobs yet, Shay.”

  “Why? Because I’m in the sixth grade, or because I’m twelve?”

  “Both.”

  “Are you sure, Mom? I’m pretty sure I’m getting boobs.”

  “Who’s talking about boobs?” Dad says, peeking into my bedroom.

  “Mom doesn’t want to accept that I’m maturing.”

  “Me either. I’m not ready for my little girl to get boobs, not until you’re like twenty-one.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll still let you baby me even when I get boobs.”

  He walks away, laughing.

  “I don’t think I’ve heard the word boob so many times in my life. Time to get up, girlie,” Mom says.

  I whine, sounding like I could still be a baby. “I don’t want to get up.”

  “Oh, come on, Shay. You’ve been sleeping all night on those pretty curls we put in your hair last night. Time to get up and fluff those long locks out.”

  I want to turn her off. I want to hit Snooze, but one thing about my mother—she doesn’t have a Snooze button. She is way too full of life and rarely lets us rest. Not in a bad way, she just doesn’t believe in wasting a day away. “Did you feel the earthquake last night?”

  “Nope,” I mumble, eyes still closed.

  “Really, Shay, you sleep like a rock. Your dad jumped up so quickly out of bed that he stubbed his toe. I tried hard not to laugh at him, but you know your dad. He has such a tough exterior that hearing him squeal like a little girl around the room was hysterical.”

  I have to agree; that would be comical to see. My dad has a presence. He’s one of those guys that walks into a room and owns it. Everyone knows who my father is around this town. My dad is Steven Stark. That’s right. The Steven Stark of Stark Records. He owns one of the biggest record labels in the business. He might intimidate others with his bigger-than-life way about him, but that’s not a bad thing. Don’t get me wrong. My dad is handsome and very sweet, but really, he only shows his family that side of him. Daddy is the sweetest dad ever.

  My mom laughs. I swear, she laughs at herself all the time. She starts walking over to my windows, and I know she’s going to open my curtains. It’s pretty much our routine. “Don’t tell him I said that, but if you see your dad walking with less pep in his step this morning, you know why.” Then she laughs again, shaking her head with the biggest smile on her face. “Your dad… He cracks me up.”

  I think she said that more to herself. I just smile into my cozy blanket that smells like dryer sheets. My mom is obsessed with everything smelling clean. She tries so hard at times to be earth-friendly, but yet she buys boxes of dryer sheets to put all over the place. If something smells, she says, “Just put a dr
yer sheet in there.” Funny thing is, dryer sheets are terrible for our environment. My mom is so cute.

  Making her way across my room, she pulls open the curtains to the window closest to her. The bright warm glow of the morning sun spills through my huge window. She then goes over and opens the other window. Mom might as well have opened the roof of the house it’s so bright in here.

  “It’s so bright outside,” I moan. The California sun spreads onto my white comforter, instantly warming my already cozy bed. Well, I guess I have no choice now. It’s time to get up. Then she opens the window. The light breeze that rushes in makes her light brown hair blow back onto her shoulders, and my senses are instantly hit with the fragrant smell of the orange blossoms coming off our fruit trees. My dad had them planted all around our property so my mom could enjoy them. She loves gardening and would stay outside all day picking fruit if she could.

  Mom inhales deeply. “The trees are really brimming this season. I better go out and pick a couple more baskets.”

  “Pick away,” I say sweetly. Then in a sleepy voice I ask, “Please, tell me you made fresh orange juice this morning?”

  “Of course, I did,” she answers with a look that says is that even a question?

  “Thank God. I could live off that juice.” Pulling the covers over my head, I ask her, “What time is it?”

  “After seven.” I know I have to get up. She comes over and grabs the covers, exposing my face to hers. I roll my eyes. “I’ll go start the shower for you, lazy girl.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  How can I not be motivated when I get that kind of wake-up call every morning? But still, I pretty much crawl out of bed and make my way into the bathroom once I hear the shower start. What? I can’t help it. I love my sleep.

  AS I WALK into my bathroom, my clothes are already laid out. Mom and I went shopping this past weekend with my best friend Jules. We went into a few of my mom’s favorite stores before Jules begged her to take us into this new store that she’d heard about. Jules looked at Mom like she was crazy when she said, “Jules, you’re in no danger to wear these clothes until you’re an adult. I will take you girls to this new tween store instead.”

  Both Jules and I looked up at her with scrunched-up noses. “What the heck is a tween?” we said in unison.

  “That’s what you girls are. You’re in between the little girl and the teen section, so you’re a tween.”

  Jules did a dramatic sigh saying, “Well, if you and my mom hadn’t held us back from starting school, we would be in the seventh grade right now. But, no… You had to make sure ‘we were ready.’”

  “Oh, don’t try growing up so fast, Jules. You’ll thank us later when you’re more mature.”

  “We’re already more mature,” I chimed in.

  “Yeah, we totally are. The boys in our grade act like morons.” Jules looked over at me. “Don’t they, Shay?”

  “Totally,” I answered, rolling my eyes. I walked behind them like blah, blah, blah, as Jules went on and on to my mom about how she liked the latest fashions, and that they were not in the tween section.

  So, I’m pretty much a tween on the verge of becoming a teen. God, I can’t wait to become an official teenager. I need to skip twelve and turn thirteen.

  I couldn’t care less about what I wear, but Jules is pretty much a fashionista-in-training. Anyway, she picked out the outfit that is lying on my bathroom counter for me to wear to school today.

  Last night she called to remind me we were to coordinate our outfits for today. Despite my lack of interest, I went along with it.

  My phone beeps, knocking me back to the present. I grab it. “Hey, make sure you wear your new tank today. I’m wearing my new outfit.”

  “I told you I would,” I tell Jules.

  “Yeah, I know, but I know how you are, so I texted your mom last night after I talked to you to have everything laid out for you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Um, yes, Shay, I did,” she answers. I hang up the phone before she tells me to start accessorizing.

  I take my shower, trying not to get my hair wet. I don’t want to mess up the curls my mom put in my hair last night. She said I could wear a shower cap. I just gave her an are you kidding me? look that said aren’t those just for old people? I’m not wearing a shower cap. I don’t even think Betty White would wear a shower cap.

  After carefully rinsing off, I grab my light-colored ripped jeans that I told Jules were not up for negotiation and paired them with my new pink frilly tank top. Yes, it’s frilly. Like I said, Jules picked it out, and she loves frilly.

  I get dressed and spritz my tropical body spray all around me. It’s like a tropical storm cloud of fragrance. My older brother, Beau, hates to smell it since it lingers in my room and pretty much the entire house. I don’t care because I love it. Does he think we want to smell his dirty football socks? Well, honestly, that smell doesn’t last long, as Mom pretty much pulls them off his feet when he walks through the front door. She even puts dryer sheets in his shoes. Who does that? His room smells like Hollister, the clothing store. You could probably put a live stream of Huntington Beach inside his room, making you think you had just walked into the store.

  MY MOM PEEKS her head through my bedroom door again. “Here’s the box to put the books in you’d like to donate.” Earlier, she said we were volunteering at one of the local community centers today and asked me if I had any old books I wanted to give. She sets the box down as I shake my head. I swear, I have no privacy.

  I walk over to my bookcase. It’s loaded with books I’ve collected over the years. I love to read, getting it from my mom. She’s an avid reader. I run my finger over the book spines that I have lined up perfectly. They’re organized. I like to keep my favorites on the first couple of shelves. I grab one of the books I finished recently. It’s a love story about a girl finding her perfect boy. I’m not really supposed to be reading it yet. According to Mom, it has ‘suggestive scenes’ in it, but she rarely looks at my bookcase, and Jules let me read her copy first. We have our own little best friend book club. I place it back in its specific spot next to the rest of the series, and then I lean down and grab a small stack that I don’t mind donating. I put them into the box.

  After grabbing my backpack, I shut my bedroom door, practically getting run over by my brother who is racing down the hallway. Beau is the high school quarterback. He just started early morning practices for football season, and he likes to come home to shower before he heads back to school.

  “Sorry, Shay. Do you want me to carry that box to the kitchen for you?” He smiles down on me as he scrunches up his nose. You’d think being the big man on campus would make him cocky, but he’s not. He’s the best big brother.

  “No, thanks. Have a good day.”

  “God, how much of that stuff did you spray? I’m practically tasting it in my mouth,” he says, holding his hand over his mouth.

  I love my brother. He’s so fun to bug, and he has the biggest heart. “Does it taste like a tropical smoothie?” I laugh.

  He groans. “Cute, Shay.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty cute. Just kidding. No, really I’ve been told I’m kind of adorable.”

  “Whoever told you that was just being nice. You’re really ugly.”

  “That’s just mean, Beau!” I yell toward his room as he walks away, laughing.

  I hear his bare feet on the tile behind me as I head down “exhibit row,” otherwise known as our hallway. Our hallway is adorned with all the art we make in school. Every picture is encased in a big white frame and lines the entire wall leading to the great room. I have to admit, as I make eye contact with each one, I’m a pretty good artist. Beau, on the other hand, um, not so much. All his pictures look like blobs of nothing. Oh, except the few he did when he started playing football. Those are much better; they actually look pretty well done. As for my twin siblings, Tristan and Tatum, yeah, theirs still look like blobs of nothing.

  When
I reach the end of “exhibit row,” I get to the last piece of mine Mom framed. It’s a perfectly drawn guitar in pencil with a hint of brown shading, definitely my best piece of art, as it should be. Music is kind of my thing.

  The smell of maple syrup and warm blueberries hits my senses, as I walk downstairs to the kitchen. But, first I walk through our massive great room overlooking the city. Even I can appreciate this space at my age. Mom has the patio doors all open, letting in the morning breeze. Seeing the sparkle of the water as the sun glistens off our pool makes me want to go swimming and take a sick day. That’s not happening, though. I actually like school, and I have a test today in my first period. I’m pretty sure I’m going to ace it. My parents expect me to make good grades, and lucky me, I have no problem achieving them. I guess you could say I’m pretty smart.

  When I reach the kitchen, the chaos begins. Mom is frantic, trying to make sure Beau’s lunch is packed, and Tristan and Tatum, who are five years younger than me, are fighting. At the same time, they stop and ask Mom for something different, making her look like a chicken with her head cut off. She runs to the refrigerator to get Tristan more milk and grabs Tatum a banana, because she put too much syrup on her pancake, and she now refuses to eat it. I sit down next to my perfectly placed plate and start cutting my pancake with my fork. “Mom, have you seen my Converse?” I look up from my plate as my dad walks in, handsomely dressed. He waves at the twins and then goes right up to Mom. I watch as he grabs her face with his big, strong hands and kisses her straight on the mouth.

  “I love you, sweetheart,” he says. Mom gives him one more kiss on his lips. He winks at her.