Mom walks us outside. She smooches Ford’s cheeks, four kisses on each one. She kisses Sam on the lips and hugs him. Then she hugs me again. I don’t say it, but I like my new working mom.
“Rex, you should take some of the leftovers to school tomorrow,” she says.
“Really?” I ask.
She nods. It’s such a great idea. Kids bring sandwiches or pasta or salads. No one ever comes to school with Chinese takeout. It’ll be so cool. It’s a free lunch without the part where I have to say it out loud.
Before we leave, I run over and hug Mom again. This time, I hold on for a long time.
CHRISTMAS TREE
The best part of the holidays is being out of school for two weeks. On the last day before break, nothing really gets done. The teachers are counting the minutes too. Except Mrs. Winstead. She gives us a pop quiz.
She grades my vocabulary quiz like everyone else. I make a 100. I missed one (aplomb, which means being cool when you’re actually stressed-out). But I got the bonus word (lexicon, which is another word for vocabulary).
At lunch, I’m excited. Even though I have to say, “Free lunch,” the cafeteria has turkey and dressing again. Just like Thanksgiving.
When I sit down with Ethan, he asks, “Are you going anywhere?”
“Nope,” I say. “You?”
“Colorado with my family, to some ski resort.”
“Sounds fun,” I say.
“Not really. Traveling with my family is the worst. My dad says flying is too expensive, so we have to drive there. Everyone screams at each other on the car ride. By the time we get there, no one wants to talk to anybody else. We usually spend the first two days in total silence.”
I’m surprised. “Your family fights?”
“Every family fights,” Ethan says.
I don’t say it, but I think, Your family doesn’t fight like my family.
“You’re lucky,” Ethan says. “I’d rather stay home. You get to watch TV, sleep in your own bed. I always get stuck sharing a hotel room with my sisters. So gross.”
“Wanna trade places?”
“So you can sleep next to my sisters?!” Ethan throws a potato chip at me. I try to catch it in my mouth, but it bounces off my cheek.
“No. I just think vacations are fun.” Though the only vacations I go on are to see my abuela or my real dad. I’m not sure if family trips even count.
“Oh, before I forget . . .” Ethan reaches into his backpack. He pulls out a thin rectangle wrapped in red-and-green shiny paper.
“What’s this?”
“Are you an alien or something?” Ethan laughs. “It’s a Christmas present. Or Hanukkah if you’re Jewish. Are you Jewish?”
“I’m not anything,” I say. I tear open the wrapping paper. Inside are a bunch of X-Men comics, including a special double-sized New Mutants issue I wanted. I flip through the pages, staring at the bright colors and the extraordinary art. It takes me a full minute before it dawns on me. “I don’t have anything for you.”
Embarrassed, I avoid Ethan’s eyes.
Ethan shrugs. “That’s OK. I’m glad we sit together at lunch. You’re really cool. You’re my best friend, you know.”
I don’t know what to say. It’s weird to hear Ethan just say what he feels. Before, when I used to call Liam my best friend, Zach made fun of me, said I was gay. But Ethan doesn’t think like that.
I say, “You’re my best friend too.”
Ethan says he doesn’t care about a present, and he’s telling the truth. Still, I feel this big wave of guilt, like I should have thought of him too. I decide, over the break, I’ll make a comic about him. I can write it and draw it, with him as the hero. ’Cause he kind of is—a hero, I mean.
When the final bell of the day rings, I take my time. I always sorta linger in Mrs. McCallister’s art class. Taking an extra five or ten minutes to finish whatever art project I’m working on. Then, all slow, I walk to my locker. No rush. I do this ’cause buses pick up behind the school, and I don’t want anyone to see me walk to Royce Court.
If I walk slow enough, most of the buses are gone by the time I get outside. It only takes me five minutes to walk from the school to my front door. I know it’s silly or stupid or whatever, but I still don’t want anyone to know where I live. I can help Mom and Sam by being nicer at home, but I can still be embarrassed about being poor. I mean, I think every kid is embarrassed about something. This is mine.
When I get home, the apartment smells of Windex and lemon Pledge. Mom wears dishwashing gloves and is scrubbing down our television. I say, “You got our TV back!”
“I got paid today!” Mom says. “I even got us a VCR so we can watch movies!” I get excited. I’ve always wanted to rent movies and watch them at home, like other kids.
Mom keeps spraying and scrubbing. It’s her little ritual. After any of our things come home from the pawnshop, Mom spends an hour cleaning them. She hates germs. Plus, I kinda think she loves to clean. We don’t have a lot of stuff, but she always makes sure everything is spotless. Heck, she even vacuums every single day.
After the cleaning, I plug the TV in and set up the antenna. I hook up the VCR and make sure it works. Mom is scrubbing the toaster when I remember. “Mom, where’s my boombox?”
“About that, honey . . .” Her voice trails off. “There was a mistake at the pawnshop. They accidentally sold your boombox.”
My voice cracks when I say, “What?!”
“We’ll make it up to you, OK?”
“My dad bought that for me.”
“Maybe he can buy you another one,” she says.
I can tell she feels bad. And even though I’m feeling crazy and angry, I take this real deep breath. When she tries to hug me, instead of pulling away, I let her hug me. Then I hug her back.
“It’s OK,” I say.
“What do I always say?” Mom says. “Everything in this life is temporary. So appreciate what you have while you have it.”
I nod. It’s a dumb saying, but I know what she means.
Trying to be a better person is really hard. I don’t know why, but it’s real hard to not get so upset. Maybe that’s just how I’m built.
I mean, the things in our home have always gone away. Sometimes they go for a short while, and sometimes they never come back. Usually it’s Sam’s or Mom’s stuff though. I guess this is the first time something of mine went and didn’t return.
Maybe it’s about my dad too. I only see him once a year. When I go, he takes me to the mall and buys me clothes and new shoes. That’s not ’cause he’s being nice. Him and my stepmom are just embarrassed to be seen in public with me in my normal clothes. The stuff I really want, he never gets me. He says things like, “Aren’t you too old for toys?” or “I doubt you’re going to read that whole book,” or “When I was your age, only girls wore necklaces.” But when I asked for the boombox, he bought it for me, so it kinda means a lot.
Now it’s gone. The one nice thing my dad did for me. I take a deep breath and try to forget about it. After all, he’s the one who left me a long time ago.
Mom disappears in the kitchen and returns with a box. “I got those Ding Dongs you like. The chocolate ones wrapped in foil.”
“You did? Can I have two?”
She laughs. “No. But you can have one now, and one after dinner.”
I don’t know if it’s the sugar or the chocolate or the cream filling, but the miniature cake makes me feel better.
MOM, SAM, FORD, AND I SIT ON THE COUCH WATCHING TV together. Around the holidays, they always play the same movies. Some of them are real dumb, but I love the one with the kid who wants the BB gun. That’s the one we watch. We all laugh, and talk about our favorite parts during the commercials.
The next morning, Sam surprises us and says, “C-come on. We’re g-going for a drive.”
“Where?” Mom asks.
“Y-you’ll s-see.”
The four of us drive to Colleyville. On the way, Sam farts. It makes
the whole car smell like something died. Ford and I scream and gag. “What is wrong with you?!” Mom shouts. She rolls down the window even though it’s freezing out, saying, “Better that we freeze to death than smell your garbage farts.”
We’re all laughing.
I think we’re going to KMart until Sam takes a right, instead of a left, off the highway. We pull into a dirt lot filled with cars and people and Christmas trees. When Sam opens the door, a wave of fresh pine tickles my nose.
“No. Nuh-uh. Absolutely not,” Mom says. She crosses her arms, refusing to get out of the car. “Trees are a waste of money.”
“I d-don’t care,” Sam says. “I’m G-German. G-Germans invented Chr-Christmas trees. This year I w-want one. The whole h-house will sm-smell like p-pine.”
Mom shakes her head. “Who will take care of it? Who will water it and clean up the needles, and make sure Ford doesn’t get electrocuted? Me, that’s who!”
“Sh-shush, woman.” Sam smiles, kissing her on the cheek. “I’ll take c-care of everything.”
We used to have a plastic tree. One you pulled out of a box and put together. But one year it didn’t come back from the pawnshop.
I’ve never had a real live tree before. At first, I don’t see what the big deal is. But after walking around row after row of firs and spruces and pines, I witness other families doing what we’re doing—talking about the trees’ smells and shapes, and if it’ll fit in the car or through the door at home, and if it’s too tall. Suddenly, I realize, we’re acting just like everyone else. No, not acting. We are like everyone else.
It almost feels like I won a big contest.
My body warms, like I just drank a quart of hot cocoa. I get it now. There’s something magical about real trees. Already, I want to do this every year.
I run after Ford and Sam, trying to vote for the tree I like best.
“I still think it’s a waste of money,” Mom repeats. She won’t uncross her arms. Sam is trying to get her to sing along to the holiday music playing from the speakers, but her mood won’t budge. He pokes her, saying, “Ch-cheer up. Where’s your Chr-Christmas spirit?”
“I don’t have any,” she says.
He pokes me. “You w-want a tr-tree, right?”
I nod yes. “They smell amazing. Will our whole apartment really smell like this?”
“Yup,” Sam says.
“Not with your farts,” Mom groans.
Ford and I laugh. Sam points at me and says, “P-p-pull my finger.”
“No way, Jose!” I say.
“No way, Jose!” Ford repeats.
“C-come on! For Santa,” Sam says. “P-pull it.”
I pull it and Sam farts. At the end of the butt trumpet comes a wet sound. Sam’s face goes white.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asks.
Without a word, Sam turns around and crab-walks toward the highway. “Sam, what’s wrong?” Mom calls out after him. We watch as he looks both ways, then runs across the highway and disappears inside the Arby’s. Through the windows, we see him run into the bathroom.
“Do you think he’s OK?” I ask.
“I think he . . . you know . . . had an accident,” Mom says.
“What do you mean?”
She looks around, to make sure no one can hear. “I think he crapped himself.”
Ford and I stare at each other. We burst into laughter. Ford laughs, “Daddy poop in pants! Daddy poop in pants!”
“It’s not funny!” Mom says—but even she can’t hold back a giggle.
Twenty minutes later, Sam returns. “N-n-not a w-w-word,” he says. He buys a tree, ties it up, and secures it to the top of the car. We all get in. Mom laughs first. Then Ford and I do too.
“Daddy poop in pants!” Ford says.
Even Sam starts laughing.
CHRISTMAS MORNING, FORD JUMPS RIGHT ON MY HEAD. “WAKE up. Santa came!” he shouts with glee. “Santa brought presents!”
I’m too old to believe in Santa, but I pretend along for my little brother. “He did? Let’s go see!”
In the living room, there are fourteen presents under the tree. They are wrapped in newspaper and foil. Ford and I pick up each box and give it a tiny shake, trying to guess what’s inside. We don’t open anything though. We wait until Mom and Sam wake up so we don’t get in trouble. Then we have to wait some more. They won’t let us open anything until they’ve had coffee.
I divide the gifts. There’s one for the whole family, two for Mom, two for Sam, eight for Ford, and one for me. I check under the tree again, but that’s it. Just the one.
For a minute, I’m about to get real upset . . .
Then I think of Abuela growing up in Mexico. And the homeless people who ask for change on the side of the road. I think about how we were homeless for one night, and that was awful. But now we have a roof over our head. And Sam and Mom never let us starve, even if we have to do without TV or a toaster for a little while. Mom didn’t sign me up for the Free Lunch Program to punish me. She did it so I could have food.
Maybe Mom wasn’t so wrong when she called me a brat. I mean, she wasn’t totally right either, but still. Things aren’t as black and white as I always thought. Maybe some things are gray, somewhere in between.
I look at my present, and I swallow my anger down. I’m still sad, but I let myself be a little sad. ’Cause I know lots of rich kids who get loads of gifts for the holidays. This Jewish kid in my computer science class was bragging, saying his religion has Hanukkah, and he gets presents every day for, like, a whole week.
I may not have a million presents, but I have one.
And one is better than none.
Who cares? It’s all just stuff, right?
I force a smile. Then I focus on Ford, ’cause he’s smiling ear to ear as he tears through the wrapping paper on his gift.
He opens the biggest one first, the one for the whole family. It’s from Abuela. She sent a giant box full of summer sausages, fancy cheeses, crackers, mints, and stuff. There’s even chocolate-covered pretzels, my favorite.
Mom opens her presents. She gets a bracelet from Sam, and a ceramic bowl that I made in art class.
Sam opens his. Mom got him a carton of menthol cigarettes with a fancy new Zippo lighter. I made him this wooden box in industrial shop class.
When it’s his turn again, Ford rips open his presents, tossing newspaper and foil everywhere. From me, he gets a fire truck with flashing red lights and a working ladder. Mom and Sam get him a giant yellow dump truck. From Santa, he gets building blocks, some clothes, and a book.
When I pick up my one present, I’m not sure what to expect. The box is the size of a shoe, but it’s really light. I give it a shake, and hear the slightest flutter. I have no idea what it could be. Maybe it’s something really amazing. I tear off the paper, then pull the tape off the box’s edges. Inside, it’s a check addressed to me, from my dad. Not Sam, but my real dad. In the “Memo” section, it says, “Buy something fun for yourself!” The check is for fifty dollars.
“It came with the child support,” Mom says. “I thought it’d be more fun to open if it was wrapped up.” She steps over Ford’s pile of presents and grabs my stocking from where it’s tacked into the wall. She pulls a little box out of it and hands it to me.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
I do, and it’s a check from Mom. “It’s for fifty-one bucks.” Mom laughs, “I had to give you more than your dad. And I promise, the check won’t bounce. We actually have money in our account. You can check the math.”
I hug Mom. She hugs me back and plants a big kiss on my forehead. She whispers, “I know it’s not a lot, but money is still tight. I’m proud of you for being so mature and understanding.”
Later, I’m looking at Mom, sitting in Sam’s lap, watching Ford while he plays. Ford is pushing the fire truck saying, “Woo-woo-woo-woo!”
Ford crawls into my lap and hugs me. His little arms around my neck, he says, “Thank you for m
y fire truck.” Only he does that thing where he pronounces tr like an f. I can’t help but laugh.
That’s when Sam says, “Rex, you m-m-missed something. B-back there, b-behind the tr-tree.” Just like in the Christmas Story movie they show on TV.
I get up, and look. Sam says, “No, to the l-left. B-behind the TV c-c-cabinet.”
Mom looks as confused as me. “Sam, what is it?”
Sure enough, tucked behind the cabinet and the wall is a box wrapped in newspaper. I look all over the box. “It doesn’t say who it’s for.”
“It’s f-f-for you,” Sam says. “B-b-but you h-h-have to sh-share with your brother, OK?”
I pull off the newspaper. It’s a brand-new Nintendo system. It’s not even used. It’s new. My legs feel like they’re going to crumble beneath me. I’ve wanted one forever. All the kids at school have one. The game console comes with a controller, a gun, and two games: Super Mario Bros. and Duck Hunt. I can’t help myself. I squeal and run over to Sam and hug him. And I mean it. I run to hug my mom, but she’s as surprised as me.
“Sam—” she starts.
He cuts her off. Calmly, he says, “It’s d-done. I thr-threw away the r-receipt. We l-lost his b-b-boombox. It’s only f-f-fair.”
Mom looks pissed for a second. Sam says, “Let the k-kids have this. We b-both have j-jobs now. We’re g-going to be f-fine.”
For once, Mom lets it go. Mostly. I can still see it in her eyes that she’s annoyed. But she doesn’t say or do anything. Not for the whole day.
As holidays go, this is the best I’ve ever had.
NEW YEAR
As he drives, Sam flicks a menthol cigarette onto his lips, then lights it. He turns the radio dial to a classic-rock station and starts to sing along. It’s funny, I’ve never noticed before, but Sam doesn’t stutter when he sings.
Usually, I hate this kinda music. But I don’t say anything. Sam is driving me to spend New Year’s Eve with Ethan, so I don’t care what he listens to.
The windows are down, and the diesel engine growls and rumbles when we stop at the red lights. My nose burns from the lawn chemicals. The back of the truck is two giant tanks, their sides dotted with hoses and metal boxes of tools. The cab of the truck is littered with empty McDonald’s bags, stepped-on paper cups, and cigarette butts. Sam pushes the stick shift into gear, and the vehicle lurches forward, weed killer sloshing in the giant tanks behind us.
Free Lunch Page 14
