I stomp into the house like I’m a little kid pretending to be a dinosaur. STOMP STOMP STOMP! I picture myself with massive legs and big dinosaur feet. I imagine the ground rumbling and the figurines lining the mantelpiece trembling.
I’m trembling, too.
When the other team made the last out of the game (after Amelia Underwood hit a triple to knock three runs in and Cara Dunbar got a home run), we all rushed onto the field to celebrate our victory.
“Six to three, baby!” Claudia made a “V for victory” sign with her arms as I gave Coach Robertson a high five.
“Good work, girls!” he exclaimed. “Victory dinner at Papa Luigi’s? They have a special on Friday nights!”
My stomach rumbled thinking about Papa Luigi’s famous pepperoni pizza, but I knew I had to ask Dad first before I agreed to anything. He’d mentioned something about “family game night” earlier in the week, which, as groan-tastic as that had sounded, seemed even worse now that I was mad at Mom.
If I bailed without telling Dad, though, I’d be the one he got mad at. (And mad parents have grounding powers. Kids … not so much.)
When I turned toward the stands, I expected to see Dad on his feet, cheering along with the rest of the crowd. I expected to see him halfway through the ridiculous victory dance he and Mom do when our team wins, the one where they bump their hips against each other, do a little twirl, and wave their hands in the air.
(I pretend to be embarrassed about it, but it really makes me feel warm inside.)
Except there was no one there to dance at all.
Dad was gone.
When I ran over to the stands, Claudia’s mom told me that Dad had an emergency and she was going to drive me home.
“Do you know what’s wrong?” My voice quavered, and I reached back to tighten my ponytail, as if by doing so, I was tightening my hold on my runaway life. “What kind of emergency?”
“I’m not sure.” Mrs. Munichiello shook her head, then grabbed the huge tote bag that she lugged along everywhere, the one that shows she’s an “always has it together” mom, the one she fills with snacks and water bottles and wipes and whatever random toy Jamie decides is his favorite that day. Today it was a bright yellow dump truck he was driving along the bleachers.
“Your dad should be home by the time we get there. I’m sure everything’s fine.”
Mrs. Munichiello’s voice didn’t sound fine, though. Her eyes didn’t look fine, either. They had that narrow, squinty look, the one Dad has when he’s trying to hide something from me.
The one he wore for weeks before my parents first told me about Mom and her “problem.”
Was something really wrong with Mom today? A pit of fear opened up in my stomach, deeper than the ones I used to dig as a kid when I’d grab a plastic shovel and make plans to tunnel to the center of the earth. This pit felt like it was bottomless, like it couldn’t be filled by anything except a return to the way things were last year.
I keep doing dinosaur stomps all the way to the kitchen, a mixture of anger and fear swirling together inside me and propelling me forward. I stop as I near the doorway, though. Because when I hear Mom’s and Dad’s voices, so soft and whispery, the anger part drains out of me.
That’s one thing the history books never tell you—that dinosaurs get scared, too.
And, yeah, there may not have been a meteor approaching, threatening the extinction of my entire species, but when I see Mom and Dad sitting calmly at the kitchen table, Dad literally twiddling his thumbs, the entire situation sure feels catastrophic.
They’re not yelling, like they have been for the past few weeks. The last few months, even. The sight of them side by side is so normal that I get angry again.
Because my parents aren’t allowed to act normally. Not today. Not when Mom broke a promise and Dad totally abandoned me.
“You forgot about my game.” The words drop from my mouth like they’re rotten food I’ve tasted and spit out.
Mom’s eyes quickly meet mine. Her face looks tired, and there are bags under her eyes even though I know she got plenty of sleep last night. She went to bed before me. “I know…” Her voice trails off.
I laugh bitterly, the sound surprising even me. I don’t do anything bitterly. Any one of my friends would tell you that I’m a nice person. I volunteer to pass out papers in class. Last Christmas, while the adults in my family exchanged presents, I offered to watch my cousin Billy, who’s basically a crawling poop factory.
“You forgot,” I say again. I turn to Dad. “And you left. You missed seeing us win.”
“I’m sorry, Veronica.” Dad bites his lip, but he doesn’t say anything else. I look between Mom and Dad, then back again. I was expecting them to make up a bunch of excuses about how they had to do important “adult stuff,” or say that I’m overreacting.
Not silence.
I feel like dinosaur stomping so hard the walls will rumble.
“Do you even have anything to say for yourselves?” I feel like I’m the adult and they’re the kids, like they threw handfuls of flour all over the kitchen and I’m staring at a mess I’ll have to clean up all by myself.
STOMP STOMP STOMP.
More silence.
“You don’t have an excuse?” I look at Mom again. “Did you ‘lose track of time’ with the other lawyers at the bar again? Did you forget to eat lunch, which made you ‘extra tipsy’?” I flash air quotes again and again because I’ve heard it all before. Mom’s been making excuses about her drinking for months now.
This is why I can’t drive you to Claudia’s house …
This is why I passed out on the couch in the middle of the afternoon …
This is why I didn’t come home until two in the morning …
She always has a reason. Always has an excuse.
Until now.
Mom and Dad look at each other, then Mom opens her mouth. She closes it again, then lets out a soft sigh. “Honey, we need to talk. Something happened today.”
My breath catches in my throat. “We need to talk,” with all its drawn-out pauses and awkward silences, is never good news.
Good news is different. Good news gets blurted out excitedly, like when Mom and Dad took me to Disney World in third grade and Dad couldn’t keep the secret for more than two hours.
Good news is shared smiles and dancing in place, not kitchens that feel like the curtains have been drawn tightly, expelling every bit of sunshine and light from the room.
“Your mom, uh…” Dad shifts back and forth in his seat. He’s in the chair that creaks whenever someone moves, and that noise is all I can hear.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
It sounds like the footsteps I used to imagine hearing outside my room when I was a kid, when the wind moaned and the house settled. In my head, those creaks always meant that someone—something—bad was coming. It must mean the same thing today.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
“For goodness’ sake, Dan, stop!” Mom shoots out her hand and blocks Dad from moving anymore. She rubs her forehead. “I can’t stand that noise!”
“I can’t stand this.” I put my hands on my hips. “I’m going upstairs.”
I turn around, ready to lug my gross-smelling softball bag from the hallway and slam my door behind me, but Mom grabs my arm. “Honey, wait.”
“No!” I whirl around and pull away from her. “I don’t need to listen to what you’re going to say! I don’t need to hear some apology for today or some promise you’ll give me about the future.” I blink back the tears that are forming in my eyes. Mom has seen me cry about a million times before, but I don’t want her to see it today.
Right now I want to be the strong one.
“You have to hear this.” Dad’s voice is sharp, and I stop in my tracks, then slowly turn around.
“I don’t have to hear anything.” I know I’m being rude, but I can’t help it. Why are parents always the ones in charge? They shouldn’t be the authority of everything, especially when they behave badly sometimes, too.
Before I can stop myself, my mind flashes backward.
Mom stumbling in the house in the middle of dinner, apologizing for not being home in time to cook the birthday lasagna she’d promised, while Dad and I look up from our frozen dinners.
Doors banging and voices yelling from downstairs when I’m trying to go to sleep.
The tight grip of fear on my chest anytime Mom grabs the car keys and says she’s going out for “just a bit.”
“You’ll want to hear this.” Mom reaches out and covers my hand with hers, bringing me back to the table. Her hand is soft, the way it’s always been. Some kids had a security blanket growing up. Until she was seven, Claudia toted around a little stuffed giraffe. She kept it in her backpack every day at school.
Not me. I had my mom. When I was scared or tired, I liked to hold her hand, to stroke the soft map of lines on her palm and feel her squeeze me back.
Her hand feels the same today, even though she’s different.
Even though she’s been different for at least a year now.
Ever since the drinking went from one glass of wine every few nights to way, way more.
Mom’s mouth opens, then closes again, like she’s lost her voice. I peer at her more closely. Is Mom drunk now? No, I don’t think so. I do smell something on her breath, but she’s not slurring her words. Her movements aren’t all jerky, like they get sometimes. She looks tired, though. Super, super tired.
My heart hammers in my chest. Maybe something else is going on. Maybe the whole hand-holding thing is an act and they’re actually getting a divorce. Are we going to move?
My mind spins out of control as I stare at my parents expectantly.
I don’t know what they’re going to say, but I can feel that my life is about to change.