We stop at the mini-mart for a Red Bull. Kerri can’t have any other kind of energy drink. It has to be Red Bull.
Mom tries to catch my eye over the seat back. My earphones are on, but only to create white noise. All I want to do is sleep.
She reaches a hand over.
Don’t touch me, I think. I struggle to right myself in the backseat. I get about two-thirds of the way up, then my head is too heavy on my neck and I slump over again. I don’t know why Mom is dragging me to this stupid competition. Who cares about Kerri? Who cares what she drinks or thinks or does or wants in life? Nobody asks me what I want.
Mom’s quick. She yanks off my earphones. “Nick, please. This is an important day for Kerri, and we need to be there for her.”
Do we, Mom? Do we need to be there for her?
I don’t say it. Even if I could, my lips are numb. My tongue is numb. My face and head and throat — all numb.
“Come on.” Mom whaps my knee. “It’ll be fun.”
Fun.
She smiles somberly. “I know this hasn’t been the greatest summer for you.”
The speed of the days rivals the sedimentation rate of sewer sludge. I twist my head to gaze out the window. For all I see that registers, or matters, we might as well be moles in an underground labyrinth.
“. . . all the change,” Mom’s voice filters through my brain — also numb. “I’m going to take some time off next month so we can do something together. As a family.”
Did she say that? Did she actually say “family”?
Kerri returns, popping the pull tab on her Red Bull. “God, I’m a wreck.” She slugs down half the can and refastens her seat belt. “I’m going to crash halfway through this.”
“No, you’re not.” Mom runs an open hand down the back of Kerri’s head. “You’re going to be great. You’re going to kick ass. Right, Nick?” She eyes me over the seat and smiles. There’s threat in that smile.
What’s she threatening me with? There isn’t anything left for you to take from me, Mom.
Kerri swivels her head around and fakes biting her fingernails, like she’s all nervous. I bore into Middle Earth.
Kerri takes Mom’s hand and fake chews her nails too. Mom laughs. They linger, hands together, as if posing for a wedding photo. Not a picture I’ll be adding to my memory book. Mom kisses Kerri then twists on the ignition. A bag of barbecue chips lands in my lap. Kerri says, “Breakfast of champions.”
I don’t give her the satisfaction. No nod of acknowledgment that it’s what I usually eat for breakfast. She’s been spying on me. I’m not hungry. Taste buds — numb. Stomach numb.
We get to wherever we’re going, and Mom parks. There’s a mob of people out on the lawn. Streamers and balloons, tables and chairs. A band or string quartet or something is playing.
Kerri opens another Red Bull and gulps it down. Mom says, “Do you know where you have to go?”
Kerri burps. “To the john to pee. Or throw up.”
Mom straightens Kerri’s collar and touches her neck. “You’ll win. Embrace your inner food critic.”
Kerri laughs.
I want to hurl.
Vaguely, I remember why we’re here. It’s a cooking contest. “Blah, blah top chefs from around the country competing for a spot in an international cook-off.”
Whoop de doo.
“It’s important to Kerri. Only elite chefs are invited to compete,” Mom’s words echo.
Whoop de double doo, Mom.
“You’re not taking that.” Mom snatches the earphones from my numb ears and tosses them back into the car. She remotes the door lock. She and Kerri hold hands and head for the main building, while I lag behind.
It’s hot. Humid for July. Too many people milling around, their talking and laughing absorbed by my brain. I’m already bored. I crave home — house — bed.
“Nick, hurry up.” Mom clenches my limp, sweaty hand and yanks my chain. She reels me in close to her and links our arms, smooshing us together. It’s weird how our arms are touching and I can feel her cool skin on my hot skin and see her hand clenched around mine, yet I feel as though we’re disconnected. Distant. At opposite ends of this campus, this field, this ocean of space. Even at home — house — when we pass from the kitchen to the living room she’s gauzy to me. A cloudy film. I used to look at her and see myself reflected, in her eyes, the shape of our ears, the color of our hair. I don’t see me anymore. I see Kerri.
“Okay, I’m going to set up and go over my menu again with Gayle and Paul. God, Nick. I wish you were my sous chef today.” Kerri fakes a pout.
Yeah, I’d have been real happy to help. Thicken the soup with arsenic.
Kerri kisses Mom again and rushes off to the kitchens. I watch her go. I wonder, Do I want her dead?
No. Just gone.
Mom says, “Let’s find out where she’ll be stationed and get a good seat.”
Whatever.
When we sit, Mom turns to me and says, “I know all this change is a lot for you to handle. Change is always hard.”
I don’t answer. I stare ahead.
“Kerri and I want to build a life together. With you, of course. We’re going to make a new family, the three of us.” Mom takes my limp hand and pulls it into her lap. “You’re the most important thing in the world to me, Nick. I love you. You know that. I need you to be happy.” She raises my hand and presses it to her lips.
Need? Did she say need? I twist my head slowly to face her. “What about Jo?”
Mom closes her eyes. She expels a long sigh and drops my hand. I relieve her of it.
I’ve got news for you, Mom, I want to say. I don’t need your new version of family. “Why can’t I see her?”
“Nick —”
“Why can’t I talk to her? Why do you hate her so much?”
Mom frowns. “I don’t hate her. I just don’t trust her. I’m angry with her for showing up unannounced and never calling. I panic when I don’t know where you are. . . .”
Or if I’ll ever come home, I finish for her. “I’ll call you every hour. I promise to remember.”
“I worry when you’re with her. What if she’s drinking again?”
“She’s not.”
“Or gets fired.”
“She won’t.”
“Or keeps guns in the house. You know how I feel about guns.”
I look at Mom.
She stares ahead now. She purses her lips.
“We won’t go shooting,” I say. “I’ll set the timer on my cell —”
“Shh,” Mom goes. “They’re starting.”
The contest is a maze of white-aproned bodies bustling between counters and appliances, flaming woks, grills. There’s a cacophony of voices, buzzers, blenders, mixers, people hollering and barking instructions. The guy next to Mom strikes up a conversation with her. He’s about her age. He could be my father.
Yeah right. I can only imagine that concept of family.
I double over and let my arms dangle. My eyelids droop and I zone.
Depart.
Deport.
Desist.
“Sit up, Nick.” Mom jerks on my arm. “Kerri’s plating.”
Who?
Oh. Her.
Dishes clack and ping and all at once a hush settles over the audience as the judges taste. They chew and score.
I yawn. “Can I go to the bathroom?” I ask Mom.
“Not now.”
“I have to take a dump.”
She exhales an irritated breath. “Be quiet about it. And hurry up.”
The men’s bathroom is at the end of a telescoping corridor. There are classrooms on either side, all the way down. This must be a school or something. It is, I remember. A cooking school. Johnson and Wales. Kerri teaches here part-time in the mornings. At the john, I take my time. I really only have to pee. I pause to gaze at myself in the mirror over the sink, but I don’t see anyone. No living life form.
On the way back my attention is drawn to an object at the other end of the hall. There are two of them. Pay phones.
Mom discontinued our regular phone service when we got our cells. Even if we still had a phone at home, even if she hadn’t confiscated my cell, I was forbidden.
It’s a miracle I have money. Prisoners of war don’t need money.
I lift the receiver and punch in her number. It rings once and she answers out of breath, like she ran.
“It’s me.”
“Nicky! Hey.” She blows out a breath. “Hey.” Her voice sounds funny. High and . . . watery. “How the hell are you, buddy?”
Long lost friends. “Fine.” My throat catches. We’re more than friends.
She doesn’t speak for a minute. Neither do I. We’re sharing space, time. “Fine, huh?” she says. “Yeah. Me too.”
I want to bawl. I want to press my face to the number pad and bawl. Cradling the phone to one ear, I cover the other to block out the world.
“What are you doing?” Jo asks. “Where are you?”
“Here,” I choke it out. Nowhere. “Some stupid cooking contest.”
“You’re in a cooking contest? Whoa. What are you making? Your famous chicken à la mode?”
I smile on the inside. “I’m not in it. Kerri is.”
Jo doesn’t reply.
I say, “Come and get me.”
“Nick —”
“At the cooking school.” I don’t know the address. I wasn’t paying attention on the drive over. “It’s Johnson and Wales. You can look it up —”
The phone rips from my ear and slams down on the metal holder. Mom is in my face. “How dare you?”
“How dare you?” I shout. I cry, “How dare you?” I stumble back from Mom. “I hate you.”
Her eyes grow wide and she reaches for me, but I slap her hand away. Tears spring to my eyes and I’m sobbing and gasping for air, screaming inside, How dare you, how dare you, How. Dare. You.
I sprawl across the backseat with my face flat to the cushion. It stinks like rotten foam. Mom doesn’t talk to me. Kerri didn’t win. She didn’t even place. She cries on the way home. I don’t feel sorry for her. I can’t feel anything beyond this hurt and ache that hacks through the numbness and forces me to feel.