At breakfast, Mom can’t even look at me. She knows. And she also knows that whoever I’ve been with isn’t Jasmine. I know for a fact that she never had in mind for me to be with someone like Daniella. Daniella and I actually talked some last night before I had to get out the door, and it was almost sweet. We just hashed out school, cracked on Mrs. Hulsey. Daniella pulled up a video I hadn’t seen before of some pint-sized kid in Detroit—maybe he was ten—just cutting grown men off at the knees in a rap contest. It was like if I could just turn myself off from thinking about Daniella a certain way, things could actually be cool with her. But I can’t turn that off.
“Rough night,” Mom says. She’s putting the finishing touches on an omelet.
“What?” I say, recoiling. I can tell without her saying anything that she knows every last thing—but the one silver lining in that is that we don’t talk about it. Hell, I’d rather lose to Hamilton every night for the rest of my life than talk to my mom about sex even once.
“The game,” she says. “Rough game.” She slaps the plate down in front of me and then hollers for Jayson to get himself out here for breakfast.
Jayson and I eat in silence. Mom sips her coffee. She stares out the window at a January morning that’s gray as gravel. The door opens and my dad stumbles in on his crutches, Uncle Kid trailing behind. Another snowstorm is brewing behind them, the early flurries gusting in through the open door. Kid sets a bag down by the door and tries to help my dad, but his hand just gets swatted away—Dad’s pride taking over. Only problem is that effort about sends my dad to the floor. We all gasp, but Kid catches him just before he crashes down.
“Thanks,” Dad says, but the word comes out almost like an insult. He’s so sick of needing help that he’s starting to resent the people giving it to him. He makes it across the room, drops his crutches and sinks into his chair, then roots around angrily for the remote. I was worried about him never walking again, but I wasn’t prepared for this—my dad growing angry and sulking in his chair, like some old man who’s soured on the world.
Kid shakes it off and retrieves the bag he set down by the door. He brings it into the kitchen and starts unloading groceries again—fresh fruit, milk, eggs, three packages of bacon. We all just watch him as he puts them away, natural as if he were in his own apartment.
“Kid,” Mom says. Just one word, but it’s loaded. Any time she says your name with that cool tone you better run for cover. Kid doesn’t even answer, just keeps stocking the fridge. “Sidney!” she snaps.
He doesn’t turn around, just looks over his shoulder like he’s eyeing a cutter on the court. “Yeah?”
“Where are you getting the money for all this?” Mom asks, voicing the question we’ve all been wondering for weeks. After Kid tried to play Hamilton for a job last year, there’s added skepticism. I don’t think he’d do it, but he wouldn’t be the first uncle to try and make some bucks off colleges eyeing his nephew—and if that ever happens, Mom will go nuclear on him.
“I got cash,” he says.
I watch my mom. She closes her eyes for a second. Takes a breath. I’ve seen this. She’s trying to give Kid one more chance to really answer before she unloads on him. She walks over to where Kid’s standing. Jayson glances at me, looking as nervous as if he’s the one getting grilled by Mom.
“We appreciate the help,” she says, “and Lord knows we need it for those doctor bills, even though Tom can start working again once he’s off those crutches. But I need to know where the money’s coming from.” She’s doing her best to keep her temper, but her hands are firmly on her hips, and she’s leaning forward just a little as she speaks. Last chance for Kid.
“Jesus Christ!” he snaps. He slams a bag of oranges down on the counter and storms for the door. “This damn family! You try to help and all you get is a bunch of conflict. You people are impossible.” He tries to zip up his coat, but he’s in such a hurry that it gets stuck. He struggles with it for a second before making an angry, guttural sound, then barging through the door and whipping it closed so hard the house shakes.
My mom’s still standing in the kitchen. Her hands are on her hips, but now she’s leaning back, as if knocked off balance by Kid’s tirade. Jayson catches my eye again and raises his eyebrows like he’s impressed by Kid’s tactics—blow up at Mom and beat her to the punch. Jayson’s probably filing that strategy away for future use, but I ought to tell him it probably won’t work as well for him as it did for Kid.
I figure that’s about enough for me. I get up and head to my room, but Dad—who didn’t even look up from the tube the whole time Mom and Kid were at it—clears his throat. “Derrick, come here,” he says.
I stop at the corner of the hallway, but he curls his finger to beckon me, like I’m a toddler about to get scolded. I do as I’m told, and when I get close he reaches out with his left hand and snares my wrist. He pulls on my arm so I have to lean down toward him. “Look, son,” he says, “I’m not proud of having to get helped around all the time. But—” He trails off.
“I understand, Dad,” I say.
His eyes dart back and forth like he’s looking for the right thing to say. He takes up the remote and snaps off the television with an angry, stabbing motion. He stares at me. His eyes start to water behind his glasses. Scared that I’m going to see him cry, I start to pull away but he squeezes tight as a vise. “It’ll get better,” he says. Then he starts searching for words again.
“Okay,” I say. Right now, I’d say anything to be free of his grip. Somewhere inside, I sense he’s got an important point, that if I’d try as hard to listen as he is trying to tell me, I’d get it. Or maybe instead of listening I’m supposed to talk now, fill up the silence that he’s running against. Dad sees that I just want to get away, so he gives me another squeeze on the wrist and then lets go.
“Just do me two favors,” he says.
“Anything.”
“Tell Jayson to get over here to help me work on my exercises and hand me that phone.” He points to the cordless over on the couch. “I need to call my brother to smooth things out.”
Jayson, listening in, doesn’t need to be told a thing. He pops up from his chair and comes over to Dad, then squats down to hold Dad’s good leg still. I hand the phone to Dad, but when he dials, the front door opens again, and there stands Kid holding his phone. He didn’t even make it off the porch.
He looks at Dad, who breaks into a broad grin. “I was just calling you to apologize, Sidney,” Dad says. “But what the hell were you still doing out there?”
Kid stares down at the floor and shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Ah. I got about halfway to my car before I realized that I’d left my keys on the counter.” We all turn to look at the kitchen, where Mom walks to the counter and picks up Kid’s keys. She holds them up like some piece of incriminating evidence and just shakes her head real slow, like she can’t believe her lot in life is to be surrounded by the four fools in her living room.
“I’m sorry, Kaylene,” Kid offers to my mom, but he doesn’t have the stones to look at her.
She huffs. “Have you eaten breakfast?” she asks.
“No.” He still won’t look up.
“Well, you brought all this food. Least I can do is make you some eggs.”
With that, a tenuous peace is restored. I stay in the living room and read for class. Kid sits at the table while Mom whips up some food. Dad and Jayson work on Dad’s exercises. Nobody says a word. But there we are, all together, sticking it out the way families do.