by Sara Ney
She spins around, narrowing her eyes as she climbs backward down the ladder. “It’s only a joke when other people find it funny.”
Zeke
“Hello?”
“Ezekiel?”
I scowl into the phone. “Jesus, no one calls me that. Who is this?”
“This is Krystal Jones. Kyle’s mom.”
Well, shit.
I glance down at the kid, who is half asleep in the passenger seat of my truck. We’re on our way home from an arcade to meet his mom. “Oh. Hey Krystal. What’s up?”
“I have a huge favor to ask, and I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t desperate…”
“Lady, if you’re propositioning me—”
“I need you to watch Kyle tonight, just a little longer. One of our second shifters called in sick and I really need the money from this shift but have no one to watch Kyle.”
Uh, what does she think I am, a fucking babysitter?
“Ms. Jones…”
“I just need an answer.” It sounds like she’s in a crowded diner, and I hear her glancing over her shoulder. Hear someone calling her name in the background. “Can you watch him?”
I squint over at her son. He’s half out of it, head against the glass window, mouth falling open from exhaustion. Gross.
He better not drool on my damn seats.
“Uh…”
“Please.”
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
“At my place or what?”
“Yes, if you could. I’m sorry. I don’t even know if I trust you, but I’m desperate. I know it’s against the mentor rules to even be asking you to babysit, but I need to keep my job. I need the hours.”
The desperation in her voice has me squeezing my eyes shut and pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger.
“Fuck,” I draw out.
Krystal inhales a breath. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”
“Ugh. I’ll do it if I have to.” I hate myself, but I’ll do it.
The call disconnects without any further instructions. Kyle peers at me through sleepy, hooded eyes. “Was that my mom?”
“Yup. Sorry dude, you’re coming home with me.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Do I have to?”
“Trust me, Kyle, I’m not thrilled about it either.”
Heading toward my house, I give him another glance. He really does look tired, and for a brief moment, I wonder about his parents and life at home.
“Where’s your dad, kid?”
“Where’s yours?” Jesus, even half asleep the kid is a little smartass.
Still, it’s a fair enough question. “My dad is…let’s see, how do I put this so you understand? My dad is a bag of shit.”
His eyes go wide. “Did he hit your mom?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask Did your dad hit yours? but I hold back—I’m not that insensitive.
Fine, I am. But still, I bit my tongue.
“No, my dad didn’t hit my mom. In fact, they’re still married.”
“Does he buy you stuff?”
“Yes. He buys me stuff.” Stuff I charge on his credit card.
“How can he be a bag of shit if he buys you stuff?”
I snort. “Kid, you have a lot to learn about life. Just because someone buys you stuff doesn’t mean they actually care. Let’s use my parents for example—they give me things so I won’t bother them.” I shoot him a frown. “You know, I’m kind of like you in a way; I was shuffled around when I was young while my parents worked. They worked night and day, starting their business and inventing stuff. Stuff that made them a lot of money. I had tons of babysitters, all that shit, just like you. Sometimes I think they forgot they even had a son.”
“My mom doesn’t forget about me,” Kyle says with pride in his voice.
“No. She doesn’t. She’s working hard to keep a roof over your head. She’s a good mom.”
“Do your parents work a lot?”
“Kind of. They used to work day and night. Now my dad just works and my mom plays.”
Why the fuck am I telling this to an eleven-year-old?
“Where do they go?”
I have no idea. No longer care. “Anywhere they want.”
Any time. Any place. Any cost.
“Even on your birthday?”
“Yeah,” I say gruffly. Quietly now, “Even on my birthday.”
Birthdays. Christmas. Easter. Graduation. Move-in day my freshman year of college.
“But if they travel so much, where were you?”
“Nowhere, really.”
Here.
There.
Wherever they stuck me.
Wherever they weren’t.
Really, the only time I ever saw my parents was when their backsides were leaving while I cried. My mom used to hate when I cried. “It grates on my nerves,” she’d say in an even tone. I think my clingy behavior made it easy for her to climb into the car without a backward glance or a wave goodbye.
No kiss. No hug.
Obviously I didn’t realize when I was little that they were just fucking assholes, didn’t realize it was nothing personal.
All I knew was that it crushed me.
My mother didn’t do affection, even before success hit. She was too hurried for it. Always in motion, always on the go. Always moving a different direction. If I begged to be picked up as a toddler, I remember being shooed away, a burden.
I don’t know why they bothered having me; my mother had no business having kids.
When my parents started making money—serious money—the DVDs they’d play to keep me out of their way became nannies and caregivers. Aunts and uncles and people they paid to watch over me that really didn’t give a shit.
They were only in it for the money, too.
Then it really started rolling in, a windfall they earned when my father sold his first program to Microsoft. Bought stock in multiple dotcoms. Invested in several startups. This was back when I was very young, but I remember standing at the edge of the small kitchen listening to my mother cry with relief and joy. She cried about hard work and sacrifice. The long hours. The endless work days. The scrimping and saving, all on a bet that my father’s ideas would pay off.
And they did, twenty-fold.
But of all the sacrifices they’d made—cheap dinners, shithole rentals with a garage my dad could use as an office, walking everywhere because the car had to be sold to buy computer parts…
None were real sacrifices.
I was.
I was the real sacrifice.
Afterthought, burden—whatever you want to fucking call it, I was left behind after the big payday came.
My mom had always yearned to travel, even long before they had a pot to piss in. Exotic places. Dubai. Morocco. Iceland. China. She wanted pictures by the Taj Mahal and the great pyramids of Egypt.
Dad?
He couldn’t have cared less.
His passion was inventing and creating. Making something out of nothing. Technology out of thin air. His brain? Sharp and insightful.
Not insightful enough, it seems, because when it came to my beautiful mother, he was spineless. When she wanted to hit the road, charter private jets, and see the world?
He carried her purse and pulled her matching, newly minted designer luggage—only the best that her new money would buy.
“Who took care of you?” Kyle persists, his voice breaking into my thoughts.
“Some relatives.” I don’t tell Kyle they were paid to take care of me and only did it for the money. “Sometimes my parents’ friends.”
“That sucks.”
Yeah. It did suck.
I was shuffled off to my grandparents the first time my folks jetted off. It was only going to be a week, so no harm in that, right? One week turned into several, several turned into weeks on end, and soon my grandparents had thrown their hands up and cried defeat. They implored their daughter to take her son along. “Ezekiel cannot miss school,” my mothe
r would say in this prissy, holier than thou voice, using any excuse to leave me at home.
The real reason: who could jet set with a young son desperate for their attention?
My mother has zero fucking maternal instincts.
My grandparents were older, retired, and not looking to raise a freaking kid. They’d done that already with my mom, who lived at home until she was twenty-two and had never been an easy child. My grandparents were tired.
In middle school I’d ended up with my Aunt Susan, her husband Vic, and their son Randall. I wish I could say things got better when I moved in with them, that I’d found a family unit who finally gave a shit, but that wasn’t the case with them either.
Randall was a little dick.
A spiteful little prick if I ever met one.
Two years older than me, all I’d ever wanted to be was his friend. I honestly thought we were going to be like brothers when I moved in. What a fucking idiot I was.
Nobody hit me at their house.
But nobody hugged me either.
When Kyle and I arrive to my house there are no cars in the driveway. Not Oz’s truck, not Jameson’s Honda, not Elliot’s fifteen-year-old Tahoe.
Which means I’m actually going to have to figure this Kyle shit out on my own, without any help.
Unless…
I pull the phone out of my pocket and compose a text.
Zeke: Hey
Violet: Hey
Zeke: Are you still mad about the boob thing at the trampoline park?
Violet: No, I got over it. I realize you have no filter.
Zeke: If it’s any consolation, they’re still really great boobs.
Violet: Let’s not say anything else about my boobs please.
Zeke: I kind of need a favor.
Violet: …
Oh, I see—she’s not going to make this easy, is she?
Zeke: What are you doing right now?
Violet: Reading.
Zeke: What are you reading?
Violet: What do you want, Zeke? I know you’re not just texting to be friendly. Ask me for the favor and get to the point.
My brows shoot up; she’s really being sassy. I like it.
Zeke: Kyle is here. I need help.
Violet: Is everything okay?
Zeke: Well, yeah. I mean he’s watching TV, but his mom has to stay at work and needed me to watch him. So he’s on my couch.
Violet: Have you ever babysat a little kid before?
Zeke: That would be a no.
Violet: Yeah, I figured you’d say that.
Zeke: Yeah, so, he’s here at my place…
Violet: If everything is okay, then what’s the problem?
Freaking A, why can’t she just volunteer to come help me? Why do I have to come out and ask? It’s pretty obvious that’s what I’m texting her for.
Zeke: He’s on the couch. Do I leave him there or what?
Violet: Does he look content? What’s he doing?
Zeke: Watching TV. I don’t know what the hell this show is called but there are two guys running around in superhero capes and blowing shit up, one is Captain Man. It’s fucked up.
Violet: Is he laughing?
Zeke: Yeah.
Violet: Then you should be good :)
Zeke: I’ll pay you.
Violet: Pay me to do what?
Zeke: Pay you to come save me.
Violet: From an eleven-year-old? LOL
Zeke: Yes, exactly. Any moment he’s going to need something. Or realize his mom isn’t coming back until late.
Violet: I guess I could stop by to check on you.
Violet: But only for a few minutes—this is your gig. I’m just coming to make sure you don’t burn down your house with him inside it.
Zeke: Great. How does fifty bucks sound?
Violet: I just rolled my eyes—you don’t have to pay me to stop by. Just tell me your address.
Zeke: 2110 Downer
Violet: Putting on coat. See you in five.
Violet removes her coat, draping it across the back of a chair near the door, and fluffs her white blonde hair. No matter how hard my brain tries not to notice her figure, my eyes can’t help themselves: black leggings, black t-shirt, black Chucks.
She’s slim and petite, fists propped on her hips.
“Where’s the little guy at?”
My lips part, and I want to make a joke about the little guy being inside my pants, but don’t want to be offensive after the whole trampoline park boob thing. Besides, my roommate Oz is the pervert, not me, and the last thing I want is for her to leave.
“In here.” I point toward the living room. “The little shit passed out on me. I wasn’t sure what to do with him.”
“Aww, poor lil’ guy. It only took eight minutes for me to get here!” Her hazel eyes narrow. “You didn’t give him any beer, did you?” she jokes softly, tiptoeing to the couch.
Violet peers down at Kyle, bending at the waist to gaze affectionately as he snores soundly, then looks up at me. “I’m so sorry I said the beer thing. It was a joke.”
“I’m an asshole, not an idiot—I got the joke. You’re very funny.” I shove my hand into my pockets, rooted to the carpet. “So? Do I leave him in here or what?”
Violet looks around, biting down on her lower lip. Her eyes light up. “Why don’t we move him into your bedroom? Then he can get some decent sleep. I don’t think you want him waking up when your roommates come home. He has school tomorrow.”
Good point. “Okay, yeah. I’ll toss him in bed.”
That I can do.
I move to the couch, strategizing my plan for picking him up.
Bend at the knees, scoop up Kyle’s limp, lifeless little body, support it in my arms—I free-weight more than this kid weighs.
Violet skirts around me, silently questioning which room is mine, and I nod with my head to the door at the end of the hall to the right. “That one,” I mouth.
Violet sneaks past, turning the knob to my room and pushing gently on the door. Stands in the threshold, glancing around.
I made the bed this morning, so she rushes forward, pulling down the black bedspread, dragging it low enough for me to set Kyle down, completely dressed.
We stand side by side, staring down at him.
“His shoes,” Violet mouths, pointing to the scuffed-up tennis shoes strapped to the squirt’s feet. She then pantomimes that I should take them off.
Obediently, I kneel at the foot of the bed, untying one raggedy tennis shoe, then the other. Holding them in the palm of my massive hand, I give them a onceover: gray and black with red laces, the rubber at the bottom is peeling back from the plastic base. The laces have broken in a few spots, but were retied instead of replaced.
The toes of both are scuffed to shit.
His mom is right, the kid needs new shoes; these are horrible—no way they have any good arch support left. I disregard them, placing them carefully under my window sill, out of the way so Kyle doesn’t trip if he wakes up and gets out of bed.
Behind me, Violet flips on a small desk lamp, her fascinated eyes roaming the room. She walks slowly to the bookshelf, browsing the stacks of novels about the Great Depression and American history. My collection of Game of Thrones Pop! Art and Star Wars stormtroopers. The Rubik’s Cube I sometimes solve between study breaks. The vintage Firebird and Mustang model cars I put together last winter when everyone else went home to see their families for holiday break; they took me an entire month. I painted each piece by hand, assembling every teeny tiny little part myself.
God, what a pain in the ass that was.
Violet peeks over her shoulder at me, a secret smile tipping her mouth as her index finger skims the shelf.
I inwardly groan; Christ, all the shit on my shelf makes me look like a goddamn nerd.
She stops skimming when she reaches the one picture displayed, the one of me with my parents, taken when I was about six, right around when their business exploded.
We�
��re standing in front of the garage of the red brick starter home my parents were renting and I’m holding the handlebars of a new bike.
It was my first bike and I remember begging my mom to take the picture. A few years ago I unearthed it at my grandparents’ house and stole it, frame and all.
I don’t know why.
How stupid.
Violet leans in for a better look, hands behind her back. She wants to pick it up to study it; I can tell by the way her fingers reach forward then quickly pull back.
When she’s done snooping, she places a forefinger to her lips, gesturing for me to follow her out the door.
“Shhh.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners.
I pull the door closed behind us, leaving it slightly ajar in case the kid should wake up and get scared or whatever.
“Did his mom say how long she has to work?” Violet’s whispering though we’re in no danger of waking Kyle.
“No. She didn’t tell me dick—she was freaking out and hung up before I could ask any questions.”
Violet nods. “Poor thing.”
“I know, right? How did she think I was going to handle him all night? I have no idea what I’m doing, and all I wanted to do tonight was read and sleep. I’m fucking tired.”
I trail behind her tinkling laugh all the way to the kitchen. “I didn’t mean you when I said poor thing, I meant him. Poor thing, getting shuffled around. It’s no fun.”
Oh. She feels sorry for the squirt but not me?
Figures.
Then again, why would she? Violet has no idea I’ve done more uncharacteristic shit in the past three weeks than I’ve done in my entire goddamn life.
Volunteering. Hanging out with kids. Letting her browbeat me into more play dates.
Asking for help, like I did tonight.
“You want something to drink? A water or something?”
Jesus Christ, what am I doing? I don’t want her to stay; I want her gone.
Let’s go ahead and add that to the growing list of shit I normally wouldn’t do: inviting a chick to stay and making her feel welcome by offering to quench her thirst. I know women—they’re worse than mangy stray cats. You give them a taste of something once, and they keep coming back.