I cry for a while, finally cave and call his sometime girlfriend. The Blair-witch-project is as helpful as a UTI and not nearly good enough for my brother, even if he is a total maroon.
Next on the list is Terek’s best friend Shake. He hasn’t seen my brother but wants to know what’s wrong. I tell him it’s nothing, no big deal, because I don’t want to share problems that are the equivalent of beach sand, getting into every crack and crevice. Shake doesn’t buy it and says he’s on his way. I think, yes, yes, yes, please come over and fix this, but hear myself say, “False alarm. Terek just pulled in the driveway.”
The driveway is empty. The basement is flooded. I had to shut the water off. The smell in the house proves my siblings are following the no flushing rule, but I don’t know what to do next. I sit on the floor in the living room, back against the couch and binge on my stash of chocolate. I debate calling mom. What can she do anyway? Tell me to hire a plumber we can’t afford? Instead, I google water heaters while tears roll down my cheeks. Tully pets my hair, and the twins clean up the orange juice.
“Call that Taz dude.” It’s Ten’s suggestion. Blonde curls dangle in his eyes as he pokes at his brother’s belly with a hockey stick. His Toy Story T-shirt is too small, stained pink and reads I Have A Woody. “He fixed the lawnmower, right?”
Can I do that? After Taz gave me less attention than toe fungus all week? He probably won’t answer. Or will hang up on me. And then I’ll feel worse. Is it possible to feel worse?
“Call him,” Hem urges, then cross-checks his twin hard enough to knock him down. His pink T-shirt reads I Have A Buzz. My brothers wore those shirts to school.
I scroll through my contacts but can’t make the call. It’s the same as waving the white flag, screaming mayday as I throw myself off the cliff of defeat. If I fail as the family caretaker, my mom will need to come home, won’t be there to help my dad, and he’ll never get better. It will be all my fault. Crazy thoughts, but my brain is riding that merry-go-round and deep breathing exercises aren’t fixing the water problem.
Tully climbs up on the couch, wraps sticky hands around my neck from behind and squishes her cheek against mine. “Call Tummy,” she tells me.
“I can’t.”
Baby Sis doesn’t ask why. She says, “Can I?”
Hmmm. I hold up my phone and she hits send before I can change my mind. Even pressed to her ear, I hear it ring. And ring. And ring. He knows it’s me. He’s ignoring it. Then her eyes light up and she squeals, “Tummy!” at the perfect volume for cracking mirrors.
I don’t know if Taz says anything, but Tully’s wheels come right off. “Tia’s crying cuz I need fish hole cookies and Ten pooped and Hem says it smells like turd tacos and prolly still tastes better than the fish ticks we had last night, but we’re not posed to flush cuz the water stove melted all over the basement floor.”
TMI Baby Sis. I take the phone in time to hear Taz say “What?”
The smokey, scratchy voice is his secret weapon. Might as well drag a hairbrush down my spine. There’s the thump of drums in the background and somebody’s laughing. I say, “Taz,” and a sob gets away from me. I bite my bottom lip and breathe through my nose. If I open my mouth, I will saturate everything within a ten mile radius. I might drown us all and silently beg Taz to throw me a lifeline.
At least four seconds go by before he finally tells me, “On my way.”
He hangs up, and I remember he doesn’t have a car. Or sensible shoes. And I ran over his motorcycle. I wonder if he’s literally running to my rescue right now. I suck. With my puffy eyes, red nose and blotchy skin, I’m such a scraggly hag-monster, he’s going to take one look at me and turn right back around.
Tully pours me a glass of water and spills most of it on herself. She tries to feed the dogs, but can’t manage the heavy bag and dumps kibble all over the floor. Ten and Hem help her clean up, feed the cat and walk the dogs. All three of them are my favorite siblings.
I wipe my tears on my shirt, head outside and wait on the front step. Tully pulls weeds from the cracks in the sidewalk, tosses them around and roars. I think she is a dinosaur with multiple personalities.
The twins take off down the street on their boards. They are grounded, but the rules are kinda murky so I let them go and repeatedly check the time on my phone. I can’t forget to pick Mora and Theo up from practice or be late again. Studies have proven that the last kid left waiting is twice as likely to flunk out of college. Or so I imagine. After my meltdown in the kitchen, I can’t afford to risk it.
I shiver. It’s too chilly to sit comfortably outside, and the cement under my butt is cold. Baby Sis isn’t wearing a coat. Neither are the twins. I grind my fists into my eyes and hope my five younger sibs, two dogs and Satan’s cat are more durable than our houseplants. The problem with molding little brothers and sisters into good people is the need to set an example.
Twenty minutes later, a van the color of dried out Silly Putty rumbles into my driveway, looking like the reason faces end up on milk cartons. When Taz climbs out of the passenger side, my favorite blonde spidermonkey races up to him, tackles his legs and begs until her bottom gets settled on his hip. I wonder how he’d react if I did that.
I stand up more slowly, brush off my butt and take a long moment to drink him in. Taz is wearing a hat. It’s just a basic gray knitted beanie with his hair sticking out the frayed edges. He’s paired worn jeans hanging low on his narrow hips with a faded black T-shirt. His solemn face is the perfect shape to cradle in my palms and his mouth couldn’t be more tempting if his lips were dipped in chocolate. Let’s just say this is a very good look for him.
Now I’m blushing to match my kool-aid-stained shirt as he walks up to me.
“Tell me,” he says. A boy of few words.
“Can you fix a hot water heater?”
He nods and I want to throw my arms around him. Instead, I stick my hands in my back pockets, roll onto the sides of my sneakers and glance over at the sound of the van’s door opening. A mammoth human being unfolds from the driver’s seat. He’s a terrifying slab of muscle with shoulders ten miles wide, biceps the size of cantaloupes and endless tatts.
As he reaches into the back of the van, I’m certain he’s coming out with a machine gun in each hand, mere seconds away from pillaging and plundering and mass destruction. I’m on the verge of running and screaming “Save yourselves!” when he straightens with a toddler in his arms. The little fella is on the young side of two-years old, with an overabundance of wild dark curls, bright blue eyes and so adorable he should be a collector’s item. As the Giant seats him on his hulking shoulders, the little guy bounces and in a baby voice says, “Down daddy! Down.”
Daddy? The moving mountain can’t be over eighteen. Hmmm.
The Giant walks up beside Taz and blots out the sun. He’s constructed of heavy duty parts, probably designed by some super secret, extra badass branch of the military as a prototype weapon and bench presses Volkswagens for fun. He’s got angry slashes for eyebrows, a sexy mouth and eyes the color of warm butterscotch. They sweep me from top to bottom, and I catch myself preening. He then bumps Taz and in a deep rumbly voice says, “Now I see what Mutt was talking about. You’re toast, dude.” When he smiles, the change in his ferocious face is startling. He has beautiful teeth. I recognize an orthodontics buddy when I see one.
There are two scrumpdelicious male specimens right on my doorstep, so I resort to a weird, awkward wave. Sometimes it’s like I’m new to this planet. I’m spared further embarrassment when my brothers roll up on their boards, catch sight of the Giant and nearly faceplant. Ten blurts, “Whoa,” and Hem adds, “Dude.”
“Who’s that?” Tully wants to know, pointing at our guests.
Next time I get a free minute, I need to search for the West family manners. I know we used to have them around here somewhere.
“Shae,” the Giant tells us. “And this is …”
“Prick!” the toddler shouts and the twins bust u
p laughing. He bounces on his daddy’s shoulders and a grin carves dimples into his cheeks. Oh my God, I think I should take him. What’s one more, right?
“This is Patrick,” Shae tells us. “We call him Trick. He can’t quite say it yet.”
I smile extra big. Taz has a friend.
CHAPTER 41
TAZ:
Good thing I brought my pet gorilla along. After we get the old water heater disconnected, my mammoth buddy wrestles the rusted husk out of the way. It’s wrecked. Shae explains this while Tia tries hard not to cry. I wish I could big man it but can’t exactly shoplift a water heater.
She forks over a wad of crinkled cash. Shae and I drive to the hardware store, buy a new tank, and he humps the box down the basement stairs, bitchin’ about how heavy it is like a total pussy while I pretend to help. Tia follows as far as the bottom step, twirls a set of keys around her finger and fidgets.
“I need to pick up my brother and sister from practice real quick,” she tells us.
So?
Shae stops ripping the box apart to stare at her. “Another brother and sister?”
“I actually have three more. And I’ll be back in like twenty minutes. The twins promised to watch little Patrick, and I threatened them with shaved heads and no hockey, so they should be OK upstairs, if that’s alright with you guys? They’re busy playing action figures. Or I could take them with me?”
Ah. That’s why we need to know her plans. I forgot, little kids in this house get watched.
Tia blinks at me with eyes bigger and bluer than the whole solar system. Shae cues me with a look. It would be the right time for me to say something. The words get lost between brain and mouth, so I stare at my toes. He finally answers, “Leave ‘em. We’re good here.”
She nods a couple of times, then bounces on the balls of her feet. “I can’t thank you guys enough for helping me out. So, you know, if there’s anything you need or I can do ...”
If she could install a new water heater, that would be super.
Shae elbows me in my ribs. Still sore BTW, and since King Kong doesn’t know his own strength, I nearly puke up a lung. But I get the hint and say, “Um.”
They both seem to think there’s gonna be more, but that’s what I’ve got. I slug my fists into the front pockets of my jeans and lose the battle over my fingers. Probably looks like I’m playing with myself. Terrific.
“OK, well, I’ll be back.” Tia spins and hurries up the stairs.
Shea and I enjoy the view of her R-rated ass the whole way, and then he shoves me. “Smooth dude.”
I ignore him. He’s a fucken bulldozer, and I’m not in the mood. What the everloving hell am I doing here? How does this girl keep reeling me back in?
Shea and I get to work on the water heater. He Googles how-to directions on his phone, parks his ass on the arm of the couch and holds up the screen so I can read it. While I crawl around on the wet floor, he taps his big ass feet like he’s in the middle of a drum solo and proves himself less helpful than a canoe in the goddamn desert.
“Mutt said he tracked down your bike.”
And there’s the match for my short fuse. “Friggen Mutt,” I bitch. “He got my bike back from whoever nabbed it off the side of the road but won’t fix it. He said not until I get my shit together. Can you believe that?”
“Serious?”
“Dead,” I tell him. “Dead fucken serious. Fucken Mutt.”
“I mean you, dickstick. You expect him to put you back on that bike after the crap you’ve been pulling? Buy some goddamn training wheels or something. You’ve crashed twice in as many weeks.”
“Not my fault.”
“Keep the lies coming. I’ve got all day.” He shakes his head and gets his right hand involved in the air drumming, tapping against his thigh. Thank christ he has perfect rhythm cuz he never quits.
“You don’t know shit,” I mutter.
“You’re finally right about something. I don’t know shit, because you don’t tell me a friggin thing. Like who the hell pounded on you? Give me the names so I can set them straight. For chrissake, Gibby, when are you gonna quit tossing your nuts into the fire?”
“Me? What about Mutt? He’s ...”
“You two idiots should worry about me. If either one of you screws things up for the band, I’ll be forced to kill you.”
“I’m OK.” Before he can call me on the lie, I say, “How about using those big mitts for something besides jacking off? Maybe give me a hand?”
“I bet you look in the mirror everyday and tell yourself size doesn’t matter.” He wiggles his fingers, his palms wider than a pair of crash cymbals.
I drop down to all fours and try to figure out what the fuck I’m doing. Believe it or not, I’ve never installed a water heater. Even though Shae definitely knows more than me, he’s got this aggravating idea that accomplishing worthless shit will somehow make me less of a worthless shit. He’s being a dick.
“So this is where you left Pauline.” He glances over at my case propped against the saggy couch and clicks his tongue.
Yes, I am the tool who names his guitar. She’s about the only thing I’ve ever been able to count on, ever kept and a sense of peace settles into me when I hold her. I don’t just stash my girl any old place, but Shae’s reading way too much into it.
I concentrate on the water hookups.
“Ah, young Gibby. I see you’re getting all nervous and sweaty. You know, if you’re starting to feel that first tingle in your balls, it’s normal and nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Blow me.”
“You’re adorable. Have you started your period yet? Do we need to have the birds, bees and buttholes talk?”
I flick him off.
He laughs. “You pussy. Jump on that dude, before some dick-weasel gets ahead of you in line.”
“Can’t do that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Fuck, Shae. Look at me. Look at her.”
“She seems to like your ugly ass. Take off the dress. Grow a pair already.”
“It can’t happen,” I snarl. My hands spaz, and I can’t hang onto the goddamn wrench. It clatters to the floor.
“Sure it can. Do you need me to draw you a picture?”
I squeeze my fingers in tight, hold on for a second and stretch them back out.
“She’s got six brothers and sisters,” he keeps at me. “Do you really think this girl can’t handle your weird shit?”
“She shouldn’t have to.”
“Mutt said you’re talking to some counsellor?” Shae is a fixer. He thinks he’s helping, but I’m a plane shot down over enemy territory, so far into the death spiral, there’s nothing left but the crash and burn.
“Let it go, Shae.”
“Something about an evaluation and you ending up at the Yellow House again? You can’t be that stupid. You know what happens if you mess up.”
Yup. So I’m doing what it takes, and it might be more than I can survive. Feeling myself start to buzz, I concentrate on the quick steady tap of Shae’s shoe against the floor.
“You gotta talk to somebody, Gib. Tell me. Tell Mutt. Here’s an idea. Talk to the counsellor. Whatever’s eating at you, spit it the hell out.”
“You don’t fucken … she … she …” Anger and shame swells against my ribs and pulls them apart like the bars of a cage, letting the beast get free. It howls in my brain and drives me to my feet. Shit, shit, shit, shit. I rock from foot to foot, breath chugging, and I’m no better than a friggin tweaker.
“Gibby. Hey. Hey!” Shae grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a rough shake. “Take it easy. You got this.”
No. Not even close, but I’m trying to get by with faking it, so I tell him, “I’m good,” and pull away a little too quickly. I stagger sideways. My fingers fold into my palms as if rigor mortis is setting in. “I’m OK.”
“Instead of lying to me, just tell me to piss off.”
“Piss off.”
“Nice.” H
e laughs but he’s watching me.
And when I try to joke, my voice is all wrong. “No worries, Dad.”
“You and Mut are hilarious with that dad shit.” He crouches down, throws a wrench and a pair of pliers back into the toolbox, then looks up at me. “Tell me what’s going on with the counsellor.”
“No.”
“Gibby,” he tries the tone he uses on Trick.
“No.”
He doesn’t like it. I can tell cuz when he’s pissed, his muscles swell like birthday balloons. Me and Mutt sometimes take turns trying to make him pop. His control is beyond my understanding.
“Alright,” he says. “We can come back to that later. How about you tell me why you’re willing to pass up a chance at that little blonde hottie.”
I say nothing. I think about punching him in the face. Might as well slam my fist into a cement wall. So I force myself to start picking up tools, garbage and shit from the job, acting normal or as close to it as this mutant can get, when I really just want to compress into a corner and buzz.
Goddamn Shae. He loves to poke at me. I shoulda brought Mutt instead. We’d be getting high right now. More likely, I’d be stuck down here square dancing with the water heater, and he’d be upstairs putting the moves on Princess Barbie. I need to keep Mutt away from her.
“For fuck’s sake Gibby, for once in your goddamn life, be selfish. Don’t stop and analyze the hell out of it. Just enjoy something.”
He acts like this is about reaching for the last donut in the box. He doesn’t get it. I have never thought or worried about anyone but myself. Not once in my whole goddamn life. I am the definition of selfish. Not grabbing for Princess Barbie is me trying not to be a douche.
“Answer me one question,” he pushes. “Do you want Blondie? What’s her name? Tia?”
I open my mouth to defend, deflect, deny, but Shae cuts me off. “It’s a yes or no question, Gibb. Just answer it.”
Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1) Page 18