the same—a burnt-out flatness that I know bothers her. My answers to her questions are short and unimaginative. I don’t want to be sitting there watching the chipped beef go into her mouth but I don’t want to do my homework or go to sleep or watch TV. There’s nothing I want to do.
“I saw
A Chorus Line
this weekend. I really want to take you.”
“You saw it already? With who?”
“My friend Martin and his son.”
Martin. There it was, just like my brother said.
“You said you’d take me.”
“I want to. I just said that.”
“No, you said you’d just seen it.”
“And that I’d like to take you.”
“But you already saw it. And plays are expensive. You’re always telling me that.”
“Daley.”
“I can’t believe you saw it with somebody else’s kid.”
I sit back in the chair and cross my arms over my chest.
My mother laughs. “You’re acting a little bit like a two-year-old right now.”
Before I know it, the chipped beef smashes against the wall. My mother is still holding her fork and knife. Her voice is very very quiet. “Leave this room right now. I do not want to see you until morning. Any privileges you had are gone.”
I stand up and start down the hallway.
“I swear, Daley Amory, you are like a wild animal every time you come home from your father’s,” she says, before I slam my door on her.
6
On the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, Garvey comes home from college. A friend drops him off. I hear him shut a car door and shout something. Then he is there in our apartment for the first time, his long lanky body making everything—the sideboard, the desk, the walls—seem smaller. He is growing a sparse rust-colored beard, nothing like the hair on his head, which is thick and dirty blond. His eyes are small chips of blue in murky water. He smells like the sleeping bags in the shed on Myrtle Street. I breathe him in. I cannot get enough of it. I have missed him so much more than I knew. He has to peel me off of him to introduce himself to Pauline, my babysitter. He makes a point of shaking her hand, even though she’s across the room and has to take off the oven mitt for the macaroni she’s just about to take out of the oven.
“So you’re taking care of the pipsqueak.”
“We take care of each other.” She smiles at me. I hear her accent—
each otha
—more distinctly with Garvey in the room. She comes every day after school until my mother gets home at seven-thirty, and we laugh a lot. At first I didn’t understand why we couldn’t have Nora. She’d moved in with her sister in Lynn and came sometimes to take me out to Friendly’s and didn’t seem to be working at all, but my mother thought I should have someone younger, and less expensive. Pauline is in tenth grade and her boobs are growing so fast they pop the buttons off her shirt. We’re always finding buttons and cracking up. I see my brother taking all this in.
We eat the macaroni on the sofa. Garvey drills Pauline with questions: where does she live, what’s that neighborhood like, doesshe have siblings, did her parents grow up here, has she done much traveling, where would she like to go most? Maybe we’ll all take a trip there, to California, one day, he concludes.
And then Mom comes home and Pauline leaves.
“Wow,” my brother says, smoothing down the back of his hair. “Va va voom.”
“She’s barely fifteen,” my mother says.
“She’s not going to be able to balance on two feet if she grows any bigger.”
“She’ll manage just fine.” My mother hangs up her coat and gives my brother another hug. “Oh, it’s so good to see you,” she says through gritted teeth. She always grits her teeth when she’s feeling affection.
“It’s good to be here. Nice pad, Ma.” He swings his head around. “You got some serious loot from the big house.”
My mother eats the rest of my macaroni standing up. We’re all still standing up. I’m not sure why.
“How’s it going
“I saw
A Chorus Line
this weekend. I really want to take you.”
“You saw it already? With who?”
“My friend Martin and his son.”
Martin. There it was, just like my brother said.
“You said you’d take me.”
“I want to. I just said that.”
“No, you said you’d just seen it.”
“And that I’d like to take you.”
“But you already saw it. And plays are expensive. You’re always telling me that.”
“Daley.”
“I can’t believe you saw it with somebody else’s kid.”
I sit back in the chair and cross my arms over my chest.
My mother laughs. “You’re acting a little bit like a two-year-old right now.”
Before I know it, the chipped beef smashes against the wall. My mother is still holding her fork and knife. Her voice is very very quiet. “Leave this room right now. I do not want to see you until morning. Any privileges you had are gone.”
I stand up and start down the hallway.
“I swear, Daley Amory, you are like a wild animal every time you come home from your father’s,” she says, before I slam my door on her.
6
On the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, Garvey comes home from college. A friend drops him off. I hear him shut a car door and shout something. Then he is there in our apartment for the first time, his long lanky body making everything—the sideboard, the desk, the walls—seem smaller. He is growing a sparse rust-colored beard, nothing like the hair on his head, which is thick and dirty blond. His eyes are small chips of blue in murky water. He smells like the sleeping bags in the shed on Myrtle Street. I breathe him in. I cannot get enough of it. I have missed him so much more than I knew. He has to peel me off of him to introduce himself to Pauline, my babysitter. He makes a point of shaking her hand, even though she’s across the room and has to take off the oven mitt for the macaroni she’s just about to take out of the oven.
“So you’re taking care of the pipsqueak.”
“We take care of each other.” She smiles at me. I hear her accent—
each otha
—more distinctly with Garvey in the room. She comes every day after school until my mother gets home at seven-thirty, and we laugh a lot. At first I didn’t understand why we couldn’t have Nora. She’d moved in with her sister in Lynn and came sometimes to take me out to Friendly’s and didn’t seem to be working at all, but my mother thought I should have someone younger, and less expensive. Pauline is in tenth grade and her boobs are growing so fast they pop the buttons off her shirt. We’re always finding buttons and cracking up. I see my brother taking all this in.
We eat the macaroni on the sofa. Garvey drills Pauline with questions: where does she live, what’s that neighborhood like, doesshe have siblings, did her parents grow up here, has she done much traveling, where would she like to go most? Maybe we’ll all take a trip there, to California, one day, he concludes.
And then Mom comes home and Pauline leaves.
“Wow,” my brother says, smoothing down the back of his hair. “Va va voom.”
“She’s barely fifteen,” my mother says.
“She’s not going to be able to balance on two feet if she grows any bigger.”
“She’ll manage just fine.” My mother hangs up her coat and gives my brother another hug. “Oh, it’s so good to see you,” she says through gritted teeth. She always grits her teeth when she’s feeling affection.
“It’s good to be here. Nice pad, Ma.” He swings his head around. “You got some serious loot from the big house.”
My mother eats the rest of my macaroni standing up. We’re all still standing up. I’m not sure why.
“How’s it going
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