“I’m worried,” Mom says so quietly I barely hear her. “The wheels are coming off this family.”
I straighten, turn to look at her and clench my toes so tight they start to cramp inside my sneakers. “Things might not be running smooth or the way you want them to, but I’m handling it. Yes, I went out last night, but I didn’t sneak.” I just made sure she didn’t hear or see me leave. “At this point, I’m not the kid you can parent. I am the parent.”
She sits up to match my posture. “You’re a teenager. A child.”
“No mom. I don’t have the time, energy or luxury of being a kid. I’m not blaming you. I don’t blame anybody. But that’s how it is. And when you come home for a weekend, life doesn’t just magically go back to the way it was. I really wish it could. But you leave and we’re right back in it.”
My mom’s face crinkles up in this mix of sympathy and such deep sadness that I can’t stand to see it. I switch to glaring at my darkened phone screen.
“Oh my sweet T-pot,” she whispers.
“You have no idea what I’m dealing with,” I mumble.
“You misunderstand, sweetie.” She takes my hand. These months without housekeeping have softened hers while I now have new calluses and chipped nails. “I’m not criticizing you. I’m finding fault with myself. I’ve let you take on all the responsibility, knowing you’d build a wall around the whole family, hide inside, fight to the death and never once ask for help. But it’s OK. I promise you, it’s going to be OK.”
I glance up and try not to fidget when she fixes her eyes on me and strips me down to my deepest truths.
“You aren’t alone in this. I should have done a better job of letting you know that. I should have seen the whole family leaning on you. It’s not your job to be everything for everyone.” There’s steel in her voice now. “And you’re right, I don’t really know what’s going on with you. You’ve championed a troubled boy, stepped up for your brothers and sisters, and I’m wondering why you feel you need to do it all on your own. Reaching for help is a sign of trust, not weakness.”
It’s unnerving how perceptive she is. There are suddenly so many words on the tip of my tongue that I don’t know where or how or if I can start.
“When you walk into that hospital room,” she goes on. “Nothing changes. Facing reality, when it’s not the one you want, when you’re stuck with it, isn’t admitting defeat. It’s exactly the opposite.”
She squeezes my hand and waits for me to accept it. My cheeks are wet. I’m shaking, getting brutalized by a million thoughts and I don’t know how Taz has held his silence for so long. I am a hypocrite, constantly chirping in his ear, speak up, speak up, when I’ve done the opposite, and suddenly I can’t take another breath without taking a little of the pressure off.
“Terek’s never home,” I blurt. “The twins keep getting in trouble at school. I can’t get Ingrid to stop peeing the carpet, the water heater flooded the basement, the bills are overdue and Aunt Charlotte ran home five minutes after you left her in charge.”
My mom smiles with the corners of her lips curled downward, cups my face in her palms and touches her forehead to mine. “Go see your daddy. The rest can wait.”
She’s right.
CHAPTER 57
TAZ:
I am no Mary fucken Poppins. Even with Big Brother and I splitting duties, we are outnumbered, both suck and don’t add up to Tia. We need at least five more people.
So far, I’ve played saloon, tea party and dress up until I need to scratch my balls every few minutes, just to make sure they’re still there. I’ve done laundry, cooked, mowed law, cleaned up dog piss, shuttled little asses from one place to another, played street hockey and gotten outsmarted by a pair of ten-year-olds.
In the first fifteen minutes, on day one, the identical spawns from hell hid my phone. So I grabbed an ankle in each hand and dangled them upside down. They told me I’m not allowed to do that, but I got my stuff back. Thing One had my phone down his boxers. The other had the battery. Nasty and with no time to charge it, my phone’s been dead ever since.
After dropping three kids at school this morning, I scraped and painted the Boss Man’s house, dragging ass and running on nothing but frustration and less than four hours of sleep. Now I’m back at the school, playing taxi and here comes Tulip, weighed down by a backpack bigger than she is, just about stepping on her bottom lip. When she admits, with a fat tear rolling down her cheek, that some twerp in her class pulled her hair and called her “Tool-time” all day, I start planning disembowelment. I get lucky when Tulip spots the twerp on the playground, twerping it up with his little buddies.
I take Tulip’s hand, careful not to crush it. I’m worked up.
My last haircut is older than this kid, which doesn’t stop me from walking right up on him and standing too close. His buddies abandon him. When he steps back, I move in again, giving him the crazy eyes and a good look at my mutilated face. He shakes in his Adidas, blubbers apologies and probably needs a change of boxers.
Me and Tulip walk back to the ugliest minivan on the planet. I tell her, “He won’t bother you again.”
I am her champion, and I didn’t even need to punch anybody. Wanna know how we celebrate? On our ride home, Tulip asks a question every thirty seconds.
“Why isn’t it always sunny on Sunday?”
“Why do all colors of M&M’s taste the same?”
“How can Baribe sit on the potty if her knees don’t bend?”
“Why doesn’t she have a hole in her butt?”
She makes sure I’m paying attention by calling my name, or her version of my name, three times between every question. It’s a fifteen minute ride. Do the math. So I finally blurt, “Fuck if I know,” and this is so traumatic we need a strawberry ice cream cone with rainbow sprinkles to get over it. Why is this my job again? Why is my hair sticky? By the time Tia gets back, I’m gonna be more twitchy than a pile of maggots in a puddle of puke.
We park the ugliest minivan on the planet over the spreading oil spot in the driveway. I’m embarrassed to sit behind the wheel, and I don’t even have a valid driver’s license. Yeah, I failed to mention that detail to Mom, the cop’s wife, but she never asked. And I’m getting punished for it. Does no one else hear that high pitched whistle coming from the air vents? And what is that smell? The only good news is I can leave the keys in the ignition and a TAKE ME sign on the dash and no one’s stealing it.
Tulip grabs her backpack and a painting she made in art class, which she claims is a unicorn but looks more like a sparkly pink dick wearing a mustache, and I’m encouraging her to hang it in her room instead of on the refrigerator. The Things don’t need ammunition.
I hesitate in the driveway, catching a toe on a crack in the pavement. I’m distracted by the yelling coming from the house. It seeps around the front door and just about rattles the hinges. I follow Tulip inside and to the kitchen, where Big Brother leans back against the counter, hands laced on top of his head. The Things slouch into chairs at the table, their yellow curls pulled into weird little ponytails. Are they copying me? For chrissake. Why would they do that? Should I tell them the only reason I have long hair is cuz I’m too big of a pussy to let a barber stand behind me?
“I don’t give a flying turd about your excuses or your apologies!” Big Brother’s not just yelling. He’s red-faced and roaring fire. “I had to duck out of work. You know the shit I do to pay for the shit you do? You two little butt burgers are grounded. Forever. No boards. No sticks. No skates. No nothing!”
“Look what I made!” Tulip interrupts, holding up her painting.
Big Brother takes a glance and chokes on his own spit.
“Unicorn!” I call out. When he turns on me, I point at the painting. “Unicorn.”
The twins snicker, and Thing One whispers way too loud, “You wanna ride him, Hem?”
“If I pet him, think he’ll grow bigger?” asks the other.
“Yeah?” Big Brother barks.
“After what you sack puppets put me through today, you’re having a laugh? Hold on. Let me practice my look of amazement. Cuz you two must have a death wish.” His eyes stretch wide and his lips skin back from his teeth. “How’s that?”
“You’re scary today,” says Tulip.
He scoops her up, kinda rough and tosses her in the air so high, her head just about bonks off the ceiling. The rage hits me so fast I blow a dozen blood vessels before I hear her giggle.
“Again!” she demands.
Holy hell. The West family is mood adjustment therapy on steroids, and when did I start caring what happens to these kids? I even feel sorta bad for the twin demons when Big Brother jerks a thumb at them and tells me, “Mrs. Hairy Prick, or whatever the hell their teacher’s name is, called me in for a command performance after Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee over here filled her pencil drawer with goddamn grasshoppers!”
I ease back a step and work hard not to twitch. Loud and angry and me don’t mix well.
“So here’s the deal,” he turns back on his little brothers. “You two are gonna get busy around here. There’s rakes in the garage. Get to it, and don’t even think about stepping back inside until there’s not a leaf anywhere. Hope I forget about you. Oh, and if you hide my phone again, I’ll skin you like a pair of weasels.”
The Things shove their chairs and stomp outside, slamming the door so hard that windows rattle, one dog barks and the other pees a little bit. I’m not cleaning that up.
“Can I watch Rapundle?” Tulip wants to know.
“Yup,” Big Brothers tells her.
“Can I have candy?”
“Mm-hmm.” He rubs his hands over his face, paying no attention when she drags a ten pound bag of M&Ms off to the living room. Both dogs and the cat trail after her. Tulip’s easy prey. Fifty bucks says New Dog pukes M&Ms on the carpet in the next hour.
Big Brother opens the fridge, grabs a pair of Yuenglings and tosses one to me. He did the grocery shopping, so there’s lots of beer and sugary shit and not much else. Digging into the freezer, he unearths a bag of frozen peas and slaps it against the fresh bruise purpling on his jaw.
“Pays the bills,” he says, pointing at his face. The peas rattle in the bag as he bounces in place. The dude is always in motion, always making noise and downright exhausting to be around.
He takes a long sip of beer and when his eyes settle on me, I see it, a familiar look. He hates the world, hates himself, hates everything that crawls, walks, breathes and reminds him he’s still alive. He’d like to light a match just to watch the world burn.
From outside, we hear the Things shout. A glance at the window tells us they’re hooking rakes in tree branches, trying to swing from them and landing on their backs.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Big Brother shakes is his head and says, “Fucking hell. Their teacher, Mrs. Hard Cock or something? Handed me my nut sack today. How’s it my fault she looks just like Jar Jar Binks? How am I supposed to know nobody’s ever told her? And c’mon, so the twins stuck some maxi pads on the classroom windows? That’s pretty damn funny. But she’s all kinds of pissed cuz I didn’t bring her coffee and a muffin. What’s up with that? Do I look like the motherfucken muffin man? Which is what I asked her, and it didn’t go over well.” He starts bumping his hips backward, hitting a squeaky cupboard door and my fingers crawl up and down my thighs in desperation.
“What in humping hell is wrong with those goddamn twins? I know I was a little pissant at ten, but this is a whole new level. This morning, they hid my friggin phone in the toaster.”
So this is where I should clue him in, right? Step up for the twins. Unlike championing Tulip on the playground, I gotta actually talk this time. A throat clear, a shuffle of my feet, and I manage, “They just want your attention.”
He tilts his head and looks so much like his sister, it creeps me out. “But …” he stares out the window for a second. The Things are now sword fighting with the rakes and working hard to lose an eye. “I haven’t been around much. I’m working and shit, and I just …Tia’s covering it. They’re good.”
“No.”
“What?”
“Nobody is good.”
“Hell does that mean?”
It takes me a second to work my vocal cords, and Big Brother is heading toward pissed in a hurry. “Look around.”
“What?”
“Shit’s missing,” I tell him. “She’s selling stuff to pay the bills.”
“What the … “ His head swivels left and right and his face wrinkles up. “I give her money.”
I just shrug.
He bounces his heel off the floor in an even rhythm I can almost tolerate. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
I almost laugh at him. Has he even met his sister? I try the head tilt, hoping to get through the rest of this conversation without speaking.
“I know. Jesus,” he growls and looks away. He’s pushing his tongue against the inside of his lip, chewing on his own thoughts. Maybe it’s easier to get kicked in the teeth every day than have life sneak up behind you, grab you by the throat and choke the ever loving shit out of you. This family wasn’t prepared for what hit them.
He shakes the bag of peas before adjusting it against his jaw. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do. The shit I’ve got going on … with where my head’s at, I figure it’s better I stay away from everybody.”
Are we sharing now? Since my name isn’t Dear Diary, I chug my beer instead of answering.
He walks over to the window, braces his feet and mumbles, “Maybe I should go out there.” Setting his beer on the counter, he yells, “Hey Tully, c’mon. Shut off the TV. We’re gonna play outside.”
Surprise, surprise. He’s not a total tool.
CHAPTER 58
Tia:
After a painful goodbye to mom and dad and an excruciatingly long redeye flight, me and the sibs finally arrive home early Friday morning. A very tired Mora and Theo have already dragged their duffels inside. Terek and I sit in his car in the driveway. He’s got stuff to ask me. I’ve got stuff to ask him. We don’t know how to start.
The sun pounds through the windshield and bakes us. I’m oily all over, grit in my eyes and fur growing on my tongue. My brother’s big hands squeeze and twist the steering wheel while his chin dips against his chest. A bruise the color of grape kool aid stains his jaw. I’d like to hunt down whoever hit him, slice them with a sharp piece of paper and douse them in lemon juice.
“Wanna get coffee?” I try.
“Gotta work.” After seventeen years of borrowing stuff from each other without asking, I know when he’s lying. I decide not to take it personally, knowing this isn’t really about me.
“C’mon,” I draw the word long. “I’ll buy if you’ll lend me the money.”
“You currently owe me more than the national debt.”
“You are my China. Pretty please. I’ll even spring for muffins and let you have one.”
He turns the key, coaxes the engine to life and starts backing out of the driveway just as Mora stomps onto the porch and throws her hands up. If we don’t bring her a muffin, she will hurt us both.
I tug on Terek’s sleeve and comment, “Nice shirt, by the way.”
My big brother’s squeezed into a way too tight pink shirt with Bows Before Bros written across the chest. He flexes a bicep and stitches pop as he grins. “Wait til she figures out I switched her mattress and pillows with mine.”
I cringe even as I smile back. Mora’s going to make him pay dearly, but he’s my favorite right now.
Terek’s car, AKA the Twat, smells like a prom corsage and rattles worse than quarters in a washing machine. When he stomps the gas to catch a yellow light, empty water bottles and pixie stix roll around the footwells. With death metal banging out of tinny speakers, there’s no chance for conversation, so I tap my phone and check battery life. As somebody with a boyfriend, the lack of texts is almost as aggravating as it is worrisome.
Maybe I pushed Taz too hard the other night. Maybe I was too needy or a terrible kisser, and this is proof he doesn’t want me, no one will ever want me, and I might as well buy a pepto bismol-colored track suit, get a perm and adopt six cats. By graduation, tuba-playing Adam Turner and I will be the last of the virgins, as rare as a pair of spotted bengal tigers.
“Silent Wonder being a dick?” My brother tilts his head in my direction and shouts over the music.
“Huh?”
“Only a dude can twist your face into that level of pathetic.”
I tap my phone against my chin. “It’s not that. Just, hmmm, it's been a few days, and with the way we left things, I’m kind of worried about how Taz is handling ...”
He extends his arm and flashes his giant palm so close to my face I notice the calluses from lifting. “Do I need to kick his ass? Yes or no.”
“No.”
“Nough said.”
My brother, mister sensitive. I adjust the volume of the stereo and finally ask, “How’d it go with my favorite rugrats?”
“Rough,” he admits and rubs at the back of his shaggy blonde head. “I don’t know how you manage it.”
That might be the nicest thing he’s ever said to me. I get a little misty.
“Ingrid’s done pissing the floor,” he tells me, and I’m guessing the poor dog learned the hard way. “And Tully’s done letting Brittney boss her around at dance class, but you might want to avoid Brittney’s mom for a while.” His smirk is naughty, and I’m guessing Brittney and her mom also learned the hard way. “Oh and the twin cyborgs are back under control. So you’re welcome.”
I prop my sneakers against the dash and turn defensive because hello, I’d like some more petting for how wonderful I am, not a reminder of how easily I can be replaced and improved upon. “So you single-handedly fixed everything?”
Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1) Page 29
