I’m sitting in a living room chair playing with Carter Junior on my lap and I’m staring at the doorknob of the front door because I’m waiting for Mr. Fong to deliver our nightly pizza. But ever since Mom called I’ve been afraid. There’s a good chance that when the doorbell rings it will be my scary dad arriving to stir up trouble. I should have been in a good mood because I talked with my mom and she said she was feeling better and that we’d work everything out, which I think means she’ll come home at the end of her program and we’ll all get back to normal. That put a smile on my face and made me feel pawzzz-i-tive deep inside. But after a long while of sitting in front of the door waiting for the doorbell to ring, I began to remember when only my grandma and I lived together in this house and my mom had run off with my dad.

Grandma used to make me get bathed and dressed up in my Tasmanian devil pajamas and sit by myself in a chair by the window. My dud meds were not working well back then and I was so squirmy and wired that to make me calm down my grandma used to say that if I sat perfectly still in the chair and kept my hands in my lap and didn’t kick the legs of the chair or wiggle or pluck out my hair then my mother would sneak a peek through the window and see that I was not a broken boy and she’d clasp her hands over her heart and walk up the porch steps and knock on the door and come back to her good boy with open arms. How I loved waiting for my mom to find me, and for a little while I sat in that chair as still as a good-boy statue.

But after a while, no matter how hard I tried to lock my feet around the legs of the chair and hook my fingers under the rim of the seat, I’d slowly lose my grip and start to squirm. I’d grit my teeth and hold my breath and try not to wiggle even one finger, but after a while that good boy my mom wanted would start kicking the chair legs and pulling out his hair and slipping out of his seat like Houdini escaping his chains. I couldn’t stop myself. I’d flop down onto the floor and laugh crazily and clap my hands together and arf arf arf like a seal until Grandma would stand over me and say, “Forget it! You blew it! Your mom peeked in the window and saw what kind of bad boy you are. Now she’s never coming back for you. Ever.”

That would just kill me and I’d hang my head and cry and cry and beg for a second chance and my grandma would soften up and say, “Okay, I’ll call your mother and ask for a second chance and we’ll try again tomorrow to sit still.” But then we’d just do it all over the next day and I’d lose control like I always did. I never could sit still, and my mother never did peek in the window. She wasn’t even in town. Sitting in the chair was all a trick my grandma cooked up to try to make me settle down while giving herself a breather so she could smoke her cigarettes and watch TV in peace.

And now here I am again, sitting in a chair in the living room, only this time I’m not facing the window and waiting for my mom to see how good I am. This time I’m facing the door and I’m waiting for my dad to show up like the Big Bad Wolf to blow our house down and spoil things for the perfect little piggy Pigza. So I just sit with Carter Junior curled up on my lap and stare at the door so I can stare at something solid, which makes me feel solid. Usually when I get all worked up and fidgety and out of control it’s for all the wrong reasons, but now I feel wired and on task at the same time, like my face is the engine of a train speeding fearlessly through a tunnel, and it is the most powerful feeling I have ever had.

I was leaning way forward in my chair and Olivia was on the couch tapping her stick on the floor like she was counting down the seconds to a head-on collision.

“Remember all your talk about a black box?” I said without taking my eyes off the door.

“How could I forget?” she grumbled. “It’s always blocking my beautiful black view.”

“Well, you made me see something I had never seen before,” I said.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“This whole house is a black box,” I slowly said. “When I close my eyes all I see is this crazy house in my head. I wish it were full of hopes and dreams, but instead everything bad happens here—in fact we’re like a family-in-a-black-box.”

“Then open your eyes and forget about it,” she advised. “Lord knows, I wish I could.”

“When I open my eyes I just see that front door and I know the next time it opens, my life is going to change,” I said.

“Change how?” she asked.

“I’m going to fix my family,” I said with determination. “I’m going to change things around here.”

“You?” she asked.

“Yeah, me,” I replied. “Me. I’m going to do it. That’s my dream.”

“You are dreaming,” she remarked. “How can you change your family when they won’t change themselves?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “But part of the answer is on the other side of the door.”

“Good luck with that plan,” she replied with skepticism. “Let me say that as an oracle, your dream of fixing this family is a nightmare! Believe me, you Pigzas are as blind to being a family as I am to seeing across this room.”

“I almost fixed them,” I said, staring at the door like it was a target. “I was close last year. I thought we could forgive each other for being so mean and find a way to come together as a happy family. But then everyone spun out of control and went their own crazy way. Dad ran off with his zombie face-lift, and Mom had the baby and got drifty and sad, and I fell into a rut. I used to sit in my closet with the lights off and cry. It was the worst crying too. It was like broken crying for a broken dream. I’d sit on my floor with my eyes glazed over and my chin sagging down and a weird sound like a floppy broken word tumbling around in my mouth, just kind of turning over and over like a flat tire going nowhere. That broken dream knocked the air out of me.”

“And now you are going to try fixing them again?” she asked, sounding doubtful. “Remember when you said I was blind and blind girls couldn’t take vacations?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, you are blinder than I am. I can walk out that door free as a bird but you are completely trapped in this mess.”

“Don’t be angry,” I said. “This really is hard for me even as I’m trying to feel pawzzz-i-tive this time,” I said. “Last time I was too angry to forgive everyone. I just wanted to hurt them. But this time I just need to remember my special gift—if I can feel all the good that’s in them, then I think it will work out.”

“Well, I’ve been waiting for the door on my black box to open all my life,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “And you know what? Even if I open that box, my anger may never go away.”

“I hate to put it this way,” I said, “but your own anger is blinding you to your gifts.”

She frowned at that thought and pointed her stick at the door. “Before that ding-dog dinner bell rings I have a prediction,” she announced.

“Let’s hear it,” I replied.

“Tonight’s pizza,” she said in a spooky oracle voice, “is going to be a special gift.”

“It will be the same as always,” I said with a big smile, because I loved pizza. “We don’t even call in the order. Every night it’s an extra-cheesy, extra-red-sauce pizza. Even if we aren’t home, Mr. Fong leaves it on the front porch. It’s exactly the same, which is how I like it. I don’t like surprises.”

“Well, tonight it is going to be different,” she said. “When you open the pizza box it’s going to be surprisingly different.”

And then the doorbell rang.

“Right on time,” she said. “Answer it. I’m starving.”

I wasn’t. I stared at the door and uncoiled from my chair like a cold snake, and with Carter Junior pressed tightly against one shoulder I reached for the doorknob with my free hand.

“Go on,” she said. “Get the special pizza.”

I took a deep breath. “Ding-dog!” I said to the door. “Round one!”

“Oh, and give me the baby first,” Olivia cried out.

I should have. Instead, I slid the dead bolt to one side and twisted the doorknob. Then I pulled the door toward me.

It was dark out and our porch light was busted, but from the light in the living room I could see he was wearing a red-and-white pizza delivery jumpsuit and holding out an Antonio’s pizza box. He had a baseball cap with the bill pulled down low, but it was my dad—only it looked as if he had an extra-cheesy, extra-red-sauce pizza smeared across his scarred-up face.

“Where is Mr. Fong?” I asked, and eased back a step.

“Muy malo,” he said in a fake Spanish voice.

I turned and glanced at Olivia. “Catch!” I was going to shout, and toss Carter Junior past the open door and into her arms. In my mind throwing the baby didn’t seem dangerous at all. He would float through the air like a pitcher of milk that didn’t spill.

I should have done that. Even if she missed him I still should have tried it. But instead something in me wanted to give Dad one more chance. I could still feel that faint spark of goodness inside him where he kept it hidden—even from himself. So I turned back to face him.

“Dad!” I said, and cradled Carter Junior with both arms and held him out a bit for Dad to see his sweet face. “He looks like you—don’t you think?”

I was also going to say that Carter Junior looked a little bit like everyone in our whole family—even the dogs—when Dad suddenly shouted out, “Pizza delivery!” In an instant the pizza box sprang forward and the front edge popped me across the nose. When I flinched and turned my face to one side he got his quick hands on Carter Junior.

It happened so fast. I was strong but he was stronger. “Let go of Junior!” I think I yelled. He did, but then he grabbed my wrists and tugged me across the porch. When we reached the steps I started to tip forward with Carter Junior in my arms. I twisted my shoulders around, and as I toppled onto my back and sledded down the steps he plucked Carter Junior from my arms like he was picking a melon.

Carter Junior went off like a siren. Dad tucked him under his arm and ran down Plum Street.

By then I had flipped back onto my feet and started chasing after him.

“Stop! Baby thief!” I hollered, then regretted saying that because I didn’t want the cops to get involved because of my promise to Mom.

Dad turned to see how far I was behind him and his hat flew off. The back of his head looked like a thick collar of monkey fur.

I’ve always been a fast runner and I knew I could catch him, but it was how to tackle him without hurting Carter Junior that worried me, so I just stayed right behind him.

“Stop!” I shouted. “It’s me! Joey! Your other son.”

But he didn’t stop. He ran like he was a cartoon caveman character, only moving from the knees down.

I got right behind him and reached out thinking that if I could snag his back pockets and hang on I could slow him down without knocking him over. But when I snatched at him he dodged to one side and my fingers hooked his side pocket and ripped it down the seam. Some coins sprayed out, and I reached after him again as we turned the corner onto Chestnut Street. Dad leaped into the street just when a car pulled out of Quips Pub. The headlights shone on us and the driver hit the brakes. We didn’t slow down. Dad cut across the street and sprinted toward the dark path between two houses. I was still right behind him and Carter Junior was screaming in a way I had never heard a baby scream before. He was so scared, which made me feel scared, but I didn’t have time for that now. I had to be brave for him, and maybe if he could feel my courage he would be brave too.

We passed between the houses and crossed Franklin Street and kept going.

“Stop,” I kept saying. “Stop. You are scaring him!”

Dad didn’t slow down. It was like he had just robbed a bank. I guess he ran so hard because stealing a kid is worse than stealing money.

I followed him into the dark yard between two more houses and neither of us saw the clotheslines. The first one missed the baby and got Dad around the neck and his feet shot forward. He hit the damp ground on his back and as he slid forward on the slick grass he held Carter Junior up in the air to keep him safe. That was my chance. I speeded up and just when I reached out to pluck little Carter Junior back from Dad’s arms I hit the second clothesline. My head snapped back and my feet flew out and I landed flat on my back but I was in luck. Dad went sliding on his bottom and ended up pushing over the side of a kid’s wading pool. There was a big splash. I thought Carter Junior must be dead because he wasn’t howling anymore. I just grazed the side of the pool, and when I dug my heels into the grass and hopped up Dad was on his feet but he was not holding the baby. He was staring in disbelief at his hands as if they had just magically swallowed Carter Junior.

“Where’s the baby?” I yelled.

“I don’t know,” he said breathlessly, and then, when he saw me leaping toward him like a mad flying squirrel, he spun away and ran toward the darkest part of the backyard.

“Wait!” I hollered. “Get back here! Help me find the baby!” But he disappeared into a thick hedge that crackled as branches shivered and snapped, and after more clawing he dropped out into the parking lot on the other side. He picked himself up.

“Your mother’s in the hospital!” he yelled. “That baby needs his father.”

“She’s sick,” I said as I looked wildly around for my little Buddha-Baby, “but she’s getting better.”

“I’ll be back for my boy!” he said, panting like a wolf.

“What about me?” I asked. “When are you coming back for me?”

“When you learn how to listen,” he said harshly. Then he slowly loped away since he knew I couldn’t follow because I had to take care of Carter Junior.

I turned away from the quivering hedge and heard a sound from the kiddie pool. Carter Junior was sitting on his bottom and kicking his chubby legs to the side and spinning in a circle of murky water and dead leaves.

I snatched him up and held him in my arms and kissed him all over his wet head. I knew that if something bad happened to Carter Junior, nobody would blame me—but they’d blame Mom and that wouldn’t be fair because she was busy getting stronger and I was the one who was supposed to protect him. But he was fine.

I carried him back toward Plum Street. When I passed the spot where I had seen the coins fly out of Dad’s ripped pocket I squatted down and picked them up because we could always use the money. And then I spotted something more valuable. It was the macramé key chain I’d made him in second grade and there was just one key on it, and it had to be his apartment key. It was an old brass key, dull and dirty, and even under the streetlight it didn’t shine. I put it into my pocket.

“Come on, Carter Junior,” I whispered hopefully. “We have some thinking to do. But first, let’s get you cleaned up.”

When I got to the house Olivia was pacing back and forth on the front porch. “I’ll kill him,” she hissed, while swinging her stick around like she was fighting all three of the Musketeers at once. “I’ll fix him!” she snapped. “I’ll chop him to bits and feed him to vultures.”

“It could have been worse,” I said. “We still have the baby.”

“You better forget about fixing up the Pigza household,” she said in a scornful voice. “Just fix the locks. He’s a menace!”

“You don’t make this easier,” I said.

“It’s not my job to make you feel happy,” she replied. “Rule number two at my school is that every student is responsible for their own happiness—and that goes double for adults.”

When we went back into the house I took Carter Junior down to the bathroom and sat him in the tub and turned on the warm water and gave him a splash bath and then dried him off and rubbed Vaseline on his raw bottom so he wouldn’t get a rash. I put him in a fresh diaper and took him back out to the living room. When I got there Pablo and Pablita were growling at the door and then growling at me, and then growling at the door again. At first I thought Dad might have snuck back, but then I realized the pizza was still in the box on the porch.

I handed Carter Junior to Olivia. “If you and I were married,” Olivia said to me as she kissed his head, “and this was our baby, I would do anything to protect him.”

“That’s rule number one in the real world,” I said.

“Yeah, but Pigzas don’t live in the real world,” she replied.

That was so true because if we were the real world then the whole world was in trouble.

But the good news is the pizza was fine. It was sort of upside down and scrunched up in the box like an accordion, but because it was Antonio’s extra-cheesy with extra red sauce it tasted the same anyway. I chopped up a couple pieces for the dogs and Carter Junior gummed a piece and Olivia and I ate like we were maniacs because we were so nervous.

When we finished Olivia was smiling.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“My blind-girl oracle prediction was accurate,” she said. “This pizza is really special.”

I had to agree—even though it was the exact same pizza Mr. Fong always delivered.