“Where’s your desk?” Mom asks me.
“Right here.” I run my hand along the top of my chair.
Jo says, “Clear back here? Didn’t you give your teacher our note about sitting you up front because of your vision problems?”
“Yeah. I like sitting in back.” Which is true, even if it is hard to see.
I feel Jo’s fire. I get a bad feeling. Jo snarls at Mom, “What is this crap?”
It’s time to go — now.
Jo stomps past my desk, but Mom lunges out and catches her arm. “Jo, don’t.”
“Don’t what? Make trouble? You haven’t seen trouble —”
“Please,” Mom pleads.
Please, I plead. Please. I want to clench both their wrists and drag them out of there. I want to go home. Pop popcorn. Roast mini marshmallows over the stove.
Jo pries Mom’s fingers off her arm and marches to the front of the room. Mom shakes her head at me. Stop her, I want to scream. Say something! “Excuse me,” Jo’s voice carries. She fakes a smile at Matthew’s mom, then Mrs. Ivey. They stop cooing over Quinn. “Think we could get a little air-time here?”
Matthew’s mom steps away, covering the baby’s head with her blanket. “Sorry, Jo. Nice to see you again,” she says to Mrs. Ivey. “We appreciate everything you do. We know Matthew’s a handful.” She grimaces at Matthew’s dad.
Jo turns on Mrs. Ivey. “Where’s Nick’s family picture?” she demands.
Mrs. Ivey’s face flushes. “I’m sure it’s up.” Her voice sounds funny, sort of high and strangled.
“I’m sure it’s not,” Jo replies.
Mom clutches my hand and heads for the front. No, I think. No. Let’s just go.
Mrs. Ivey inches backward, away from Jo. Mom extends her other hand. “Hi. I’m Erin Tyler, Nick’s mom,” she says nicely. “We met the first day of school. You probably don’t remember. It was kind of crazy.”
“Of course I remember.” Mrs. Ivey plasters on her fake smile and shakes Mom’s hand.
“Then you remember me too. Nick’s other mom?” Jo doesn’t extend her hand.
Mrs. Ivey’s smile freezes. “Of course.”
Jo says to me, “Nick, did you draw a picture of your family?”
I don’t answer.
“Nick?”
I swallow hard, and nod.
“And did you see it hanging up?”
My chest hurts. I shake my head.
Mom exhales a long breath, and I know it’s meant for Jo. Jo cocks her head at Mrs. Ivey. “Where’s Nick’s picture?”
Mrs. Ivey’s face jiggles. “I . . . I must’ve missed it. Let me look through my desk.” She circles the desk and starts sifting through a stack of papers. “I was in a rush to get everyone’s work up and I wanted to show a sampling of all the things we’ve been doing. You did see his penmanship paper.” She glances up briefly. When Jo doesn’t reply, Mrs. Ivey adds, “This desk is a disaster. I never have figured out how to stay organized.”
Her desk looks extra neat to me. She made all of us clean our desks earlier today.
Jo asks, “How long have you been teaching?”
“Eighteen years,” Mrs. Ivey answers.
Jo goes, “Huh. You’d think you’d have a system by now.”
I feel Mom send a silent signal to Jo: Stop it. I send one too: Let’s leave. Finally, in the bottom drawer, Mrs. Ivey finds my sheet of white construction paper and pulls it out. “For heaven’s sake, I don’t know how it got down there. I must’ve misfiled it.”
Jo takes the picture from Mrs. Ivey. Her eyes soften and a slow smile spreads across her lips. “Nick,” she breathes, “this is . . . Erin, look at this.” She passes my picture to Mom.
Mom’s eyes widen and her lips part. “Oh my God. Nick, did you draw this?”
“No,” Jo answers. “He hired Michelangelo.”
I click my tongue. “No, sir.”
Jo takes the picture back from Mom. “It’s awesome. It’s amazing.”
I feel warm inside. Happy. I know it’s the best picture I ever drew. “That’s Lucky 2 and Savage.” I indicate to Mom.
“Who’s this?” Jo’s index finger circles around the clouds.
“That’s Lucky and all my fish who died. I figured they were still family, even though they’re in heaven.” Completing the cycle of nature, as Jo says.
Mom and Jo look at each other, and Mom’s eyes pool with tears. Jo slips an arm around her shoulders. They continue to admire my drawing. I especially like how I drew Mom and Jo, hugging each other. With me squished between them.
Mom says, “I love this, Nick. Can I have it?”
“Yeah,” I answer. I drew it for them. I hope Mom sticks it on the refrigerator with all my other drawings.
Mom asks Mrs. Ivey, “Can we take this home tonight?”
“Oh yes.”
“Oh no.” Jo whips the paper away. “This is too good. I think it deserves to be up front in the main display case.” She heads for the door. “Why don’t we ask the principal what she thinks?” Stopping in the doorway, Jo turns. “I want Nick to move his desk to the front next to his best friend, Matthew. Since Matthew’s such an angel, maybe his good behavior will rub off on Nick.” Jo slit-eyes Mrs. Ivey, like, You got a problem with that?
Mrs. Ivey’s lips purse. “Whatever you want. You’re his parents.”
Jo exaggerates a thin smile. She adds, “Since Nick seems to forget to bring home his papers, I’ll stop by on Fridays to pick them up. We can discuss his grades.”
Mrs. Ivey opens her mouth to say something, then shuts it. I think she’s counting to herself: One ignoramus, two . . .
Mom and I catch up with Jo at the end of the hallway. Mom snarls, “Dammit, Jo. Why do you have to be such a bitch? We could’ve just transferred Nick to the other third grade class.”
“She’s the bitch,” Jo says. “She’s the biggest homophobe I’ve ever met — besides your parents.”
Mom seethes, “Don’t go there.”
Jo adds, looking at me, “We’re not giving in and we’re not giving up. We’re going to stay and fight. Right, Nick?” She balls a fist and holds it out to me. I give her a weak knuckle knock. I don’t want to fight.
Mom says, “All you’re going to do is give her a reason to hate us. You’ll just justify her homophobia.”
Jo shakes her head. “You’re wrong, Erin. People like that don’t need a reason to hate. It comes naturally. And I don’t give a shit if she hates us, but to take it out on our kid . . .” Jo glances back over her shoulder at my classroom. “I’ll never forgive her. Never.”
Mom says, “That I believe.”
I’m not sure I understood at the time. I understood hate, and still do. But who was right and who was wrong? Whose approach works best? Especially with people like Mrs. Ivey, and the world is full of them, I’m learning. You can’t fight them all. After parents’ night I started getting all A’s on my papers, even when I missed answers. Even when I missed them on purpose. There are lots of different ways of taking it out on people, like making them feel they don’t even exist.
Mom and Jo
It’s Mom and Jo’s twelfth anniversary. They’re going out to celebrate. Mom says Neenee and Poppa can’t keep me overnight, so she asked our neighbor Jessica to come over and sit with me. I don’t need a freakin’ babysitter. Especially not her.
“Nick should be in bed by ten,” Mom tells Jessica. “I left the number of the restaurant by the phone.”
I roll my eyes at Jo. She doesn’t see because she’s gazing at Mom. She’s lost in Mom. Mom is beautiful. She’s dressed in a short black skirt with a sequined top and shawl. She has on high, spiky heels, and her long hair is coiled on top of her head.
Jo is wearing baggy black chinos and an ironed white shirt. Mom checks her watch. “We should go. The reservations are for seven.”
“I’ll tell you where I’d like to go,” Jo whisper-purrs. She spreads her hands on Mom’s hips and twists her a little. Mom smiles,
but steps out of Jo’s embrace, glancing sideways at Jessica. Jessica looks bored. Or ugly. Because she is.
“Okay, off to Fairyland, Tinker Bell.” Jo jangles her keys and wrenches open the front door. “Don’t wait up,” she says to me or Jessica or both of us. Her eyes brush Mom again and a faraway longing lodges in them. I long for them to leave so they can get back soon.
Mom bends down to kiss my cheek, but I lurch away. I don’t want her slimy lipstick all over me.
When they’re gone, the first thing Jessica does is check me out. I’m already staring at her. “What?” she says.
“Nothing,” I mutter, and drop my eyes. She makes me sick. She’s every eighth-grade girl, every girl who goes to the middle school, dressed in low-rider jeans with a canvas grommeted belt, a short shirt, and platforms.
When I leave for school and she’s sitting on her stoop reading, sometimes she waves at me. I don’t wave back. She’s always with her friends, and whenever I pass, they huddle together and giggle. I know what they’re laughing about.
“Give me a tour,” she says.
“Of what?” I go. It’s a house.
She gives me that stupid look.
“This is the living room.” I point. “That’s the kitchen.”
She peers around the corner. Shouldering her beaded bag, she wanders into the kitchen. I think she’ll head straight for the refrigerator, but she doesn’t. She clomps toward the back. “What’s in there?” she asks.
“You can’t go in there.”
Her eyes are fixed on the door. As if hypnotized, she’s drawn to it.
“You’re not allowed in there.” I scurry to catch her. She’s quick. “Don’t go in.” I lunge for her as she opens Mom and Jo’s bedroom door.
“Stay out,” I say. We have a rule. If the bedroom door is closed, privacy prevails. That goes for me and Mom and Jo. We respect each other’s space. Jessica flips on the light and invades Mom and Jo’s private space.
“Who sleeps here?” she asks, entering the room.
“None of your business.”
She stalls halfway in, scoping out the area. It’s cramped with the four-poster bed and the chest of drawers and the ironing board.
“Is this their room? Is this where they . . . do it?”
I click my tongue in disgust.
She swivels her head to look at me. “Have you ever seen them?”
“What do you mean?” I say. I see them every day.
Her head cocks at an odd angle. “You know. Have you seen them . . . have sex?”
“Shut up.”
She twists back around and surveys the room again. What does she see? It’s a normal bedroom. She spends a lot of time looking at the bed, scanning it. That’s enough.
“Get out,” I say. I hover on the threshold. I won’t intrude.
Jessica opens her purse and pulls out a cell phone. She punches in a number and holds the cell to her ear. Turning slightly, she eyes me up and down. I hope she feels my fire. “You’re not allowed in here,” I repeat.
“Caitlin. Guess where I am.” Jessica spins away and speaks into her cell. “I’m in their bedroom.” She takes a step closer to the bed. “No, I’m not in the bed.” The bed is unmade. The sheets and blanket are rumpled.
She reaches out and touches the bedpost. At the moment I decide to defy The Rule, she pivots and clunks in the other direction, toward the dresser. She studies the photos on top. Mom and Jo’s wedding picture. My baby picture. A couple of strips of candid shots of the three of us taken at a photo booth in the mall.
“How much?” Jessica’s eyes widen. “Would I have to get between the sheets?” She circles slowly back to the bed. “Oh my God, what if it makes me . . . ” She glances over and catches my eye. “You know.” Her face gets pink. She listens to her friend and giggles.
I charge across the floor and grab her arm. It’s fat and mushy. I need both hands to get a grip. I yank her out of the room with more force than I know I have.
“Hey!” she cries. “Let go.”
I slam Mom and Jo’s bedroom door shut behind her. I impale myself against it, feet and arms spread apart. My chest is heaving and I’m shaking. I’m so angry I want to punch her.
“No,” Jessica says under her breath. “The kid. Nick. He’s . . .” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t hang up either. In fact, the whole time she’s here, she’s on the phone. I crank up the TV in the living room full blast, but she doesn’t care. She sprawls on the sofa with her shoes on and plays with her hair.
“Okay, I’ll call later,” I hear her say. In my peripheral vision, I see her sit up. I see her hesitate. “What’s it like?”
I don’t know why I turn and look. She’s staring at me.
“What?” I say.
She has to raise her voice to be heard. “You know, having gay parents?”
I start to ignore her, but her expression is serious. I shrug. “It’s okay. It’s normal.”
“Yeah, right,” she goes.
“It is.” To me.
“But . . . what do they do?” She leans forward.
I don’t have to answer because her phone rings and she’s back at it. Her voice changes when she’s talking to her friends. She changes.
Ten o’clock comes and goes.
Ten forty-five.
At eleven fifteen, I start to worry. Where are Mom and Jo? They’re never out this late. So far Jessica’s called five people, and two have called her back. She has to know I can hear, even when she’s speaking into her chest and muffling giggles. She’s used the word “dyke” fifteen times.
She disgusts me. Everyone who says it disgusts me. I decide to wait for Mom and Jo in my room, where the company is better.
Lucky 2 lumbers in after me and jumps on my bed. One belly rub and she’s out. Her snores lull me to sleep.
A sound wakes me suddenly. The front door. I jerk to attention. Mom and Jo are home.
I hear Jo ask, “How much do we owe you?”
As I roll out of bed and stagger toward the door, Jessica goes, “Thirty dollars.”
“Holy crap,” Jo says. “That’s highway robbery.”
Mom says, “Jo —”
Jessica’s purse hits the floor. “Wait,” she goes. “Uh, let me figure again.”
“Here,” Mom says. “Thank you for staying so late. Did Nick go to bed on time?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jessica says, “I made sure.”
She’s such a liar. Mom better not give her a tip.
Jo says, “I’ll walk you home.”
Jessica yelps, “No! That’s all right. I’ll just run.” She sounds scared of Jo. She should be. When I tell Mom and Jo what Jessica said . . . No, I won’t tell. It happens all the time now, the slurs, the stares, the laughing behind our backs. I never tell.
The door closes, and I feel the house restore to normal. I climb back into bed, expecting Mom and Jo to tiptoe in for a night check. Minutes pass. I hear low music on the CD player and the floor creaking. I get up again to investigate.
My door is cracked and I peer through the narrow opening. The lights are off in the house. Mom and Jo are shoeless and they’re dancing. They’re dancing so close they’re a single silhouette. Mom is caressing Jo’s head to hers. They’re cheek to cheek.
Jo says something, and Mom laughs. I think they’ve both been drinking. They kiss. The kiss goes on and on.
I don’t need to see this.
I crawl back into bed and snuggle up against Lucky 2. Sure, Mom and Jo fight sometimes. They make up. That’s what they do. It’s times like this I know we’ll always be together.
Who cares what people say? I love my moms.
Jo
September 21st. My eleventh birthday. Normally I’d be psyched, but a bunch of people from my new school are coming over for a party, and I’m dreading it. Jo made me invite them. I had no idea what she was planning until I woke up and checked out the backyard. Balloons and streamers. Party games. Pin the tail on the freakin’ donkey, for
chrissakes. I’m eleven, not seven.
I want to call everyone and tell them I have the flu, that I’m puking my guts out so they won’t show up. It’s too late. They start arriving.
I hardly know these people. After we moved to our new house in the city, it was tough starting over. Making friends; figuring out where I fit in. But everyone was pretty cool. A couple of the kids have lesbian moms, which is one reason we moved. So I wouldn’t feel like such a freak. The other reason was because of this fight I got into with Josh Lever. I guess I cracked a couple of his ribs. If the playground aide hadn’t pulled me off him, I’d have crushed every bone in his body. He’d been calling me “queer” and “fag” all year, which was nothing new. Ever since kindergarten and “Dickless Nicholas,’ I’d pretty much learned to live with the bashing. Calling my moms “dykes” and “homos” and “lesbos” was one thing, but Josh crossed the line when he said they were going to burn in hell.
Jo’s right; sometimes you have to fight. The kickboxing lessons Jo and I took at the Y came in handy, as Josh found out. Ms. Gault told Jo and Mom that Josh’s father was considering pressing charges. She advised us to switch schools.
Kerri and Reiko, Mom’s friends from college, are here with their son, Takashi. He’s in the other combined fifth-sixth class. Everyone calls him Taco. He’s a jerk, but Kerri made my cake, so I had to invite him.
About an hour into it, everyone’s laughing and having a good time. They’re shouting out directions to the blindfolded person with the donkey tail, making them crash into the barbecue pit or trip over Lucky 2. I guess the party’s going okay. It’d be better if Jo was here. As soon as Neenee showed up, Jo bailed.
Matt jabs me on the arm and says, “Can I try out your Muy Thais?”
“Sure,” I tell him. I pull my new boxing gloves out of the box and hand them over. I’m glad Matthew came. I haven’t seen him since the beginning of summer, and wouldn’t have even recognized him if Jo hadn’t razzed him about his bleached spikes and pierced earring. She said to me, “He’s a pretty boy. A little faggy with the earring. Is he your new girlfriend?” I slugged her. Next to Matt I feel like a total geek, with my wire-rimmed glasses and shoulder-length hair.