CHAPTER 17
I’m too angry to talk to Ms. Rochambeau during the ride to Bryce and Aurora’s bus stop. Of all issues to pick, did it really have to be this one? Where’s our innocent discussion about the effectiveness of speed limits? Where are the pie-eating contests?
Since my mom doesn’t work today because of Hector’s nine-month checkup at the doctor, Bryce and Aurora are getting off at the bus stop near the entrance to the trailer park, and I have Ms. Rochambeau stop there.
“Right here?” she says, looking around. “I see … ” She trails off, and before she can hide it I see the pity on her face. And those are the trailers with nice potted plants and decorative walkway lights that she’s looking at. I get out of the car as quickly as I can, and mumble “thanks” as I go—but she doesn’t drive away.
She’s still sitting there parked on the side of the road when Bryce and Aurora’s bus pulls up. She’s not looking down at her phone either, she’s watching. Maybe it’s not in a judgy way, but why wouldn’t it be?
I can feel her eyes on us as Bryce and then Aurora start spilling down the bus steps. Suddenly all I can see is their gray-tinged clothes that smell like Frank’s cigarette smoke and their ratty hair that never got combed in the morning. If the other kids at their school haven’t yet decided that they must either be dumb as a rock or a monster, then it’s just a matter of time.
As soon as Bryce hits the ground, he starts kicking at ice chunks. Kick. An ice chunk goes spinning into the bus’s wheel. Kick. An ice chunk sails into the street. Kick.
“Come on, Bryce. You need to be on the sidewalk.”
I help Aurora jump down the last step off the bus, and she suctions herself onto me.
Future octopus.
Bryce is still on the edge of the road, kicking whatever he can kick.
“Bryce! Come on!”
Kick. Kick. Kick.
Ms. Rochambeau is still watching us.
“Let’s go home and get you a snack.”
“NO!”
“You’ve got to get out of the street.”
“NO!”
“Okay. I get it. You had a bad day, but—”
“Stupid!”
I pry Aurora off my leg, but since we don’t have Hector with us that means she instantly wants to be picked up. I hoist her up onto my hip and start walking away from the trailer park. “We’re going to the Cumberland Farms,” I call back to Bryce. “You better come, too, if you want some Easy Cheese.”
I walk on without looking back. At least at first. When I peek half a minute later, Bryce is shuffling along behind us.
Only then does Ms. Rochambeau finally drive away. Guess she’s seen enough. Except that when she passes us, she does something I’m not expecting.
She gives me a thumbs-up.
A thumbs-up.
Which actually feels even better than Easy Cheese tastes.
At Cumberland Farms, I slip the Easy Cheese can into my coat pocket when Aurora and Bryce are distracted by the frosted donuts near the hot dogs. Then I pick up a roll of toilet paper, because we’re almost out, and I pay the cashier for that. I don’t want Bryce and Aurora to think you’re not supposed to pay for things—unless you really can’t.
On the walk home from the Cumberland Farms, Bryce is more like his normal self. He insists on holding Aurora’s hand and helping her around a patch of black ice. He doesn’t do it in a bossy way either. The anticipation of Easy Cheese creates its own miracles.
When we get home to the trailer, Lenny is closed off in his bedroom instead of at work, and Frank says something about him being sick. So, I herd my screaming monkeys into our bedroom for our Easy Cheese picnic to keep them from waking him up if he’s sleeping, and we have a happy, whispering time making an Easy Cheese A for Aurora and an Easy Cheese B for Bryce and an Easy Cheese H for Hector and an Easy Cheese Z for Zoey. And an Easy Cheese E for Easy Cheese. But it doesn’t last. Bryce wants to make an S for Stupid, and then things get worse from there. They yell at each other. They yell at me. They yell at the bedroom lamp because they don’t like its shape.
Because they couldn’t be upset about something rational like Frank’s constant smoking or the fact that the three of us have to share a room together.
No, it’s the shape of the bedroom lamp that’s the real evil in the world.
We get to have hamburgers for dinner, though, because at least there’s plenty of ground beef.
When they’re finally asleep—thankfully Frank’s angry news program works even better than a story tonight—I carry them one at a time from the couch into their bed. I stare at their faces next to each other on the pillow, so quiet and peaceful, before any of Bryce’s nightmares have had time to grab hold. And then I find myself digging down through a pile of stuff on the floor until my hand closes around their comb. I perch on the side of their bed, and even though it risks waking them up, I can’t help myself: I start combing their hair. I comb all the hair I can reach, and then I shimmy some more of Aurora’s out from where it was smushed against the pillow and comb that, too.
Even though their hair will be back to being all ratty in the morning.
Even though it won’t be enough to stop other kids from saying things about them.
Still, I comb.
When I finally head back out to the main room, Frank has fallen asleep. I turn off the TV, and as soon as the sound cuts out, I hear something else: voices through the wall. It’s my mom and Lenny arguing again. They’ve been in there together since dinner, so she could supposedly take care of Lenny.
The voices don’t sound like anyone is sick, though.
A moment later I’m climbing back up onto the washing machine, and putting my unblinking octopus eye against the hole.
Lenny is pacing again. “You’re the one who’s got to answer for all of this. What was I supposed to think when I got into the car to drive to work and it’s almost on empty? How far can you drive in the two hours between my jobs?”
My mom is already crying. “I had to go to the pharmacy. And then to the grocery store. And then there were problems with our EBT card, and I had to hurry back home to get some paperwork for them, so it’d go through. And I didn’t think to look at the gas tank because I just thought it was real important to buy … ”
Ground beef.
“Yeah, you didn’t think, did you? You never do! And now we’re out two hundred and seventy dollars a week because of you.”
Wait. Two hundred and seventy dollars a week? Did Lenny lose his job?
My mom is shaking her head. “I don’t see how the gas has anything to do with—”
“I had just had to drive to work on fumes! My girlfriend couldn’t even do a simple thing like not use up all the gas in the car—and I’m somehow supposed to ‘stay calm’ after that when I’ve got a patient yelling at me that the trash smells? Who wouldn’t snap back?”
My mom swallows. “But you didn’t have to get so upset. You know you can’t yell at a patient like that because then—”
“What? Is Little Miss Clueless going to tell me what I should have said instead?”
I cringe as I watch my mom, Little Miss Clueless, shake her head as she turns to face the wall. Her mouth is stretched out like it’s all she can do to hold back a mountain of sobbing.
Little Miss Clueless.
And then I realize: Lenny is saying that on purpose. He knows what he’s doing.
He’s discrediting his opponent.
“Cry me a river, why don’t you?” he sneers. “You just want to manipulate this whole thing so it looks like it wasn’t your fault. Well, sorry! A million tears don’t change anything. They don’t change reality.”
Whose reality?
“What are we going to do?” my mom murmurs to the wall. “I was just about to start saving up for the down payment on a new washing machine, but … ”
“You should have thought of that when you used up all the gas in the car.”
“I just thought … I just thought … ”
“What? What did you think?”
“I just thought you said I should get more ground beef!”
“How dare you try to turn this around on me,” snaps Lenny. “When did I say that you should use up all the gas in the car just to buy stupid ground beef?”
My mom turns away from the wall to look at Lenny. Like maybe he’s kidding. Like maybe she’s not going crazy. She opens her mouth, but then she closes it again.
Because what’s the point? She’s Little Miss Clueless.
I press my hand against my octopus tattoo. No. She isn’t.