“How come I have four first names?” I ask.
Jo pads back to the kitchen in her grizzly bear slippers. Mom and I got them for her birthday last week and she wears them all the time. “We couldn’t decide on a name for you,” Jo answers. “You almost got named Lucky, since you took on the first try.” She smirks at Mom. Mom shoots Jo a warning look. I think Mom’s afraid I’m going to ask what that means, but I don’t. Jo takes Mom’s coat and kisses her, while I continue to write my name.
Jo says to Mom, “Another shitty day at the office?”
Mom sighs heavily. “I hate this job. All I do is input orders and print invoices. It’s mindless. It’s so boring I could scream.”
“Go ahead.” Jo claps her hands over my ears. Her hands are rough and dry, but warm. She leans over and says upside down in my face, “If the neighbor’s ask, tell them we’re having wild sex parties over here.”
I stick my pencil up Jo’s nose.
Mom slumps into the seat beside me. She rubs her eyes with her knuckles and smears her mascara.
Jo says, “So quit.” She shuffles off to the living room to hang up Mom’s coat.
“Sure,” Mom says under her breath. “Quit. Like I could.” She calls to Jo, “There’s something wrong with the car again. It’s idling rough and it almost died at the light. The brakes feel funny, like they’re not catching. I couldn’t tell for sure. The roads are pure ice.”
Jo shuffles back. “Okay, I’ll look at it tomorrow. You can take Beatrice.”
Mom flips through the mail. “Don’t you need to drive?”
Jo heads for the fridge.
I sense the tension even before I look up. Mom’s staring at Jo’s back. “Don’t tell me.”
Jo grabs a beer and shuts the fridge. “If you insist.”
“You didn’t.”
She pops the top.
“Jo.”
“They gave the promotion to that jerk-off Jerry Vigil. The guy operates a backhoe like he’s driving the Indy 500. He’s an asshole. Pardon my French.” She winks at me.
Mom slaps down the wad of bills. “So you just quit?”
“What did you want me to do? Stay and take that shit? They never promote the girls.” She swigs her beer and licks the foam off her upper lip. “I’d be an Operator One the rest of my life.”
Mom pinches the bridge of her nose, the way she does when she’s got a headache. “That was a good job, Jo,” she says weakly. “Steady, at least. Good money, and we need it.” She gets up and goes to the sink. Cranking on the faucet, she pours herself a glass of water and reaches up to the shelf for the bottle of Excedrin. “That’s the third job you’ve had in the last six months.” She knocks back a couple of pills.
“But who’s counting?” Jo rolls her eyes at me.
“It’s actually the fourth,” I say, “if you count getting fired from CopyMax.”
“Which we do not.” Jo slit-eyes me. She scoops up a handful of Fritos and tosses them into her mouth.
I try to keep a straight face, but it’s hard when I add, “Fired for copying your naked butt and gluing it on your boss’s chair.”
“Hey.” Jo clamps a hand over my mouth. “How’d you know about that?” She spins and holds up both palms to Mom. “I did not show him the picture, I swear.”
I finish the fourth Nicholas Nathaniel Thomas Tyler at the bottom of the page and rip the sheet out of my writing tablet. “I know everything that goes on around here.” I wiggle my eyebrows up at Jo. “I’m Invisible Boy.”
Jo snorts. “If Invisible Boy didn’t eat like Solid Waste King, I wouldn’t have to work at all.”
I say to Mom, “At least Jo didn’t get fired this time.”
Mom expels a weary breath. “What are we having for dinner?”
Jo says, “Fritos.”
It’s a joke, but Mom explodes. “Why do I have to do everything around here? I’m sick of this.”
Jo and I both jump.
Mom storms over to the cupboard and yanks open the door. “I work, I cook, I clean.” She slams the door. “Did either of you even think to feed Lucky 2 and Savage? Did you feed your fish?”
Jo and I look at each other. Did we?
“Which reminds me” — Mom storms to the pantry — “your room stinks to high heaven, Nick. When was the last time you cleaned your tank?”
I shrug. I don’t remember.
Lucky 2 hears Mom open the cupboard and scrabbles to her feet from under the table. The odor reaches me and Jo at the same time. We both go, “Ew,” and plug our noses.
Jo says, in a nasally voice, “I think we should stop feeding Lucky 2 that cheap dog food. A little heavy on the horse meat, if you catch my drift.”
Jo and I fan our faces. I say, “We could put Beano in her water. That’s what Matthew’s mom does for his dad.”
Jo laughs.
Mom doesn’t. “Yeah, we could,” she snipes. “If Lucky 2 had any water.”
I see Lucky 2’s water dish is dry again and wince at Jo.
Mom kicks shut the pantry door. “I’ve had it!” she yells. “You have no respect for me, either one of you. You’re irresponsible. You’re undependable. I have to do everything for everybody and I’m sick of it. Do you hear me?” She’s looking right at me when she adds, “You’re useless.”
The force of her voice — the word — I feel like bursting into tears.
Mom stalks off toward the bedroom and slams the door. The whole house shakes.
“Geez,” Jo says, popping a Frito into her mouth. “Who shoved a burr up her butt?”
I’d laugh, but I’m still reeling from Mom’s anger. Her . . . evaluation of me.
“Okay” — Jo extends an arm — “give me the crash helmet. I’m going in.”
From the middle of the table I shove Jo’s hard hat over. She smooshes it onto her frizzy hair and, as she’s rolling up her sleeves, says, “I suggest you clear out, Nick. This could get ugly.”
I collect my papers and Coke and head to my room. Mom’s right about the stench. I decide to surprise her by cleaning my aquarium. Even though the bathroom separates our bedrooms, I hear Mom’s raised voice: “You know I wanted to go back to school next semester, Jo. I can’t stand feeling trapped in this data entry job. I’m going brain-dead.”
Jo calmly replies, “No one’s making you stay there, Erin.”
“You are!” Mom shouts. “I never know if we’ll have enough money to cover all the bills, let alone save anything for my college.”
“So apply for a scholarship. You’re smart enough. Don’t put this off on me. You’re always doing that —
“Erin, come back here. Don’t walk away from me.
“Erin!”
I try to concentrate on other things, like transferring my fish to a bowl of water. I insert my earplugs from my portable CD player and turn up the volume full blast. As I net the last tetra, a loud clunk on Mom and Jo’s bedroom door makes me cower. I remove one earplug.
Jo yells, “Goddammit. I hate when you do this. If you want to fight, let’s fight.”
I stick it back in. The way Jo showed me, I get the bucket and drain all the water from the tank. I swipe the algae off the glass. I fill the tank back up and carefully ladle in my fish. The house feels calmer now. I climb into bed and cover my head with the pillow. I turn down the volume on my player so I don’t get another earache.
Even with the echoes of Jo’s shouting and stomping around and the music in my ears and the wind howling outside my bedroom window, I feel myself drifting off.
Next thing I know someone’s shaking my shoulder. My eyelids flutter.
“Nick?” Mom is perched on my bed, stroking my hair. “Sweetie? I brought you some dinner. Chicken nuggets and creamed corn — your favorite.”
I sit up, remove the one earplug that didn’t fall out. Mom poises a TV tray over my lap and burrows in under the covers. The smell of chicken makes my mouth water.
“Where’s Jo?” I ask, scraping my eyes.
Mom
hands me my glasses. I forgot to take them off again and they slid down the pillow. Mom answers, “She went out.”
“In the blizzard? She’ll freeze to death.” Jo hates the cold. Plus, if the roads are icy like Mom said . . .
I think about how fast Jo drives and how she weaves in and out of traffic and hotdogs all over the place. A vision of her in Beatrice, crashed in a ditch, frozen and bleeding, makes me shiver and whimper.
“Don’t worry.” Mom slips an arm in under my shoulders and snuggles up to me. “Jo can take care of herself.”
I’m not so sure about that.
“Come on, eat this gourmet meal I brewed up in my cauldron. If you don’t, I’ll turn you into a frog. Ribbit.” She pokes my ribs.
Even though my stomach feels queasy, I pick up a chicken nugget and swirl it in the corn. I offer it to Mom. She declines, so I bite off the end.
Mom hugs my head to her. “I didn’t mean it about you being useless,” she says. “You’re the most precious thing in life to me. I’m sorry. I lost my temper.”
“Did you look in your armpit?”
“What?” Mom wrinkles her nose.
“That’s where Jo always finds hers.”
Mom smiles and shakes her head. I smile too, because I made Mom happy.
“I cleaned my aquarium,” I tell her. So she wouldn’t think I was totally useless.
“Thank you.” She rests her chin on my head. “You’re my pride and joy, Nicholas Nathaniel Thomas Tyler. The day you were born was the happiest day of my life.”
“I know,” I say. Jo told me. The happiest day of both their lives. “Promise we’ll always be together?”
Mom tilts her head down to meet my eyes. “Are you worried about that? Because you shouldn’t worry. Married people fight. It’s normal. It doesn’t mean we don’t love each other, or you. It doesn’t mean anything. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, “but do you promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” She crisscrosses her heart with her finger.
A ribbon of warmth weaves through me. I’m not really worried. Jo’s already promised me a hundred million times. The Three Mouseketeers, she calls us. All for one and one for all. “A promise is a vow, Nick,” she tells me. “It’s a bond of trust between two people.” She says if you can’t trust another person, you have nothing between you. No glue; nothing binding you. She tells me, “You can trust me when I make a promise to you. It sticks.” She presses my hand to her heart and holds it.
I trust her. I trust Mom too. The bond of trust between us is permanent.
Sometimes I wish Mom and I had never had that conversation, or that I didn’t remember it so vividly. The chicken nuggets. The feel of Mom’s chin on my head. So much talk about promises. That’s all it was — talk. But when you’re a little kid you need to hear it. You fear the worst. You want to believe that your life will be good and nothing will change and everything — everyone — goes on forever. It’s not until later that you find out people are liars and forever is a myth and the glue is only as good as the two ends it holds together.
Mom and Jo
I hate my third grade teacher. I’m not supposed to say “hate,” but when it comes to Mrs. Ivey, “hate” is the only word.
The second week of school she made me move my desk out to the hall during math because I was being a disruption. Mom asked, “What were you doing?” I told her, “Joking around with Matthew.” We got our subtraction review done early and didn’t feel like putting our heads on our desks, so we drew this picture of Mrs. Ivey with a big hairy wart on her nose. Jo laughed, but Mom said, “Did Mrs. Ivey see the picture?”
“Yeah. She took it away.”
Mom looked crushed. “You hurt Mrs. Ivey’s feelings, Nick. Did you ever think about that?”
I do think about it. I think about it all night. I decide to be nicer. It’s hard, though. Mrs. Ivey hates me as much as I hate her.
Friday is parents’ night. I don’t give Mom and Jo the flyer because I don’t want them to go. Somehow they find out. They make me get dressed up. Jo wears her jeans without the shredded butt, and Mom puts on her silky flowered dress with sandals. As Neenee would say, “Sunday go-to-meetin’ clothes.”
It’s not Sunday. When we walk in the front door, I see the teachers have been busy. The halls are decorated with art and writing and social studies projects. The principal, Ms. Gault, greets us and says, “Help yourself to punch and cookies.” Not too many parents have shown up. I wish mine hadn’t.
Ms. Gault knows me. On Monday I got sent to the principal’s office. I warned Mrs. Ivey not to put cichlids in the aquarium, that they’d kill the other fish. They’re aggressive and territorial. But she didn’t listen. When I called her a murderer, she clenched both my wrists — hard. My first instinct was to defend myself, the way I was taught. I didn’t mean to kick her. Honestly. I’d never hurt a girl on purpose. It was just . . . reflex.
Ms. Gault lectured me about acting out and inappropriate behavior in school. When she called home, she got Jo.
I thought I’d be in deep shit that night, but Jo only said, “For a price, I’d be willing to forget I ever heard about this.”
“Deal.” If Mom found out, she’d make me quit kickboxing.
The price was shoveling Lucky 2’s dog poop for a month. It was worth it.
Mom and Ms. Gault’s conversation is cut short by the arrival of Matthew and his parents. “Yo, Nick,” he calls to me. I leave my cup and half-eaten cookie on the refreshment table.
Mom and Jo know Matthew’s parents. Sometimes I go to his house after school when Mom has classes and Jo works the dinner shift at Denny’s. Jo keeps telling me she’s going to quit waitressing because it’s not a true test of her talents. But she lost her heavy equipment operator’s license after she got caught driving drunk on the job. She and Mom had a blowout over that. Well, Jo blew. Mom went to bed. Mom didn’t talk to Jo for three whole days. On the fourth day, Mom told me, “Ask Jo to take out the garbage.”
Jo said, “Tell your mom she makes me feel like garbage when she treats me this way.”
I like going to Matthew’s. His mom makes us banana-and-peanut-butter sandwiches, which I tried to teach Jo how to make, but she’s allergic to cooking. The only problem is Matthew’s mom doesn’t allow pets, so Matthew couldn’t keep the fish I gave him. Matthew has a new baby sister, Quinn. I asked Mom if I could have a brother or sister, but she said it was too expensive. I said, “I don’t mean buy one. Have one.” Mom said, “We’ll talk about this later.”
Jo said I should be careful what I ask for. She said babies are sort of like men: They’re fun to play with, but you wouldn’t want to bring one home.
“Hey, look.” Matthew points over my shoulder. “Our pictures are up.”
The main case by the principal’s office has our class drawings on display.
I grab Jo’s sweatshirt and say, “Wait’ll you see this.”
Matthew taps the glass. “There’s my picture. Hey, Dad,” he calls. Matthew whispers in my ear, “Thanks for helping me draw the faces.”
“No problem.” His picture is matted and pinned up in the center, right underneath the title: “My Family.”
Quinn lets out a little whimper, and Mom asks if she can hold the baby. As Matthew’s mom hands her over, Jo asks me, “Where’s your picture, Nick?”
I scan the display. “I don’t know.”
Matthew’s dad says, “Maybe they didn’t have space for all of them in the case.” He glances behind us. “There’s art on all the walls. It’s probably around here somewhere.”
Matthew’s dad and Jo head off toward B wing, where our classroom is located. Matthew catches up, but I lag behind. They’re discussing the game on Sunday. Matthew’s going to be a professional football player when he grows up. That or a marine. I’m going to be an ichthyologist, a fish scientist. Or an artist.
Mom shifts the baby to one arm and takes my hand, or tries to. I don’t need my mom holding my hand.
Not in school.
I hang back. Our family pictures line one wall, and I study each one. Some kids have three or four brothers or sisters, and I think how fun that’d be. I wonder if I’d have to share my bedroom, though, since we only have the two. What if Mom or Jo liked the baby better than me? In lots of kids’ pictures there’s only one parent. Maybe I should be glad I’m the only kid, with my two moms.
We reach my classroom, and Jo turns around. “Did you see your picture?”
“No,” I say.
“Hello, welcome.” Mrs. Ivey bustles to the door to meet us. She shakes hands with Matthew’s mom and dad. Mom gives the baby back to Matthew’s mother and smiles at Mrs. Ivey. “Hi,” Mom says.
Mrs. Ivey pretends Mom isn’t there. It’s the same thing she does to me. I see Jo narrow her eyes, and I get a bad feeling. I want to go home.
Mrs. Ivey chitters away with Matthew’s parents, telling them what a pleasure it is to have Matthew in class, what a good student he is. Which is a lie. Matthew’s always screwing around.
Before I can think how to stop them, Mom and Jo wander into the room. Mom pauses at the cork bulletin board in back, where our penmanship papers are stapled up. “Here you are.” Mom points to my paper.
I beam because I got a B-plus.
Jo says, “Why’d you get a B? What’s wrong with your writing?”
“B-plus,” I correct her.
Jo frowns at Mom. “Do you see anything wrong with his writing?”
Mom studies the page. “Maybe they weren’t supposed to do cursive. None of the other kids are writing in cursive.”
“I’m the only one who knows how,” I inform her.
Mom examines the other papers. “Nick’s letters are a little crooked, I guess.”
“Get real.” Jo huffs. “Look at these. Half these kids can’t even stay in the lines.” She spreads a hand under the page next to mine. “The B is backward and so’s the D. This kid’s, like, totally dyslexic, and she gives her an A-minus.”
I want to warn Jo to lower her voice or we’ll get busted. Mrs. Ivey is glaring at us.