Mom and
Jo I slam through the front door. Jo must
be home already because the CD player is blasting through the house with the
bass turned up so loud the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink are rattling. Mad
as I am, I catch a whiff of Mom's smelly soap. Her laugh reaches my ears and
I think, Good, they're both here. The bathroom door is closed, but I don't care. I
burst in. “Why did you do this to me?” I scream. Jo says, “Geezus, Nick.
Ever heard of knocking?” She and Mom, who are both in the bathtub naked,
slide down below the bubbles so I can't see them. Like I never have. They
take baths together all the time. I used to bathe with them until I got too
big. Jo raises a bubbly arm. “Is school out already?
What time is it?” “I hate you! I hate both of you.” I slam the door
in their stupid ugly faces. Out in the backyard, I find Lucky 2's chewed-up
football and fling it as far as I can. She scrambles to her feet and hobbles
over to retrieve it. I throw it again. She brings it back. I throw it again.
She brings it back. The next throw I make sure she has to weave around the
wheelbarrow and the soccer net, then clamber over
the rock wall into Mom's strawberry patch. Lucky 2's wheezing and foaming at
the mouth as she drops the football at my feet. Just as I'm about to launch
it again, Jo wrenches it away from me. “Stop torturing her,” she says, flames shooting
from her eyes. “What is wrong with you?” She slams the football to the grass,
where Lucky 2 paws it and collapses with a moan. Mom comes out the back door, her hair soaked and
stringy. She's got a robe on and she pulls the belt tighter. The expression
on her face is half worry, half mad. I kick the leg of the picnic table and mutter, “I
hate you.” Jo grips my arm hard. “Don't you ever say that.
Don't you ever say that to either of us, you hear? We do not hate in this house. Now what's this about? What happened?” I whirl on them. “You're freaks. That's what.
Everybody says so. And you made me a freak too.” My face burns like it did at
school. I was just playing trucks in the dirt with Matthew, minding my own
business, when those big guys showed up at the kindergarten fence. “Hey, Nick,” one of them called to me. “Come over
here. We want to ask you a question.” I ignored them. “Come on, Nick. It's an easy question.” Matthew said, “You know those guys?” “No,” I replied. But I had a bad feeling. “Nick!” Matthew told me, “Just go see what they want so
they'll shut up. I'll come with you.” We both got up and brushed off our
pants. When we were a foot away from the fence, one of
the guys curled his fingers around the chain link, smiled, and said, “So,
Nick, we were wondering…” He couldn’t finish because he was laughing. What
was so funny? Another one went, “We were wondering if you had a dick.” They
all sniggered. I knew he was trying to trick me, so I said,
“No.” The first kid arched his eyebrows and sobered up
fast. “You don't have a dick, Nick?” He turned to his buddies. “Nick doesn't
have a dick.” They were howling now. Matthew whispered in my
ear that a dick meant a penis. I felt stupid and shouted at those guys, “I
mean, yeah, I do.” The serious guy said, “Are you sure? Maybe you
should check.” Matthew grabbed my sleeve and tugged. “Let's go.
They're being nasty.” Over our shoulders, he sniped, “I'm going to tell Mr. H
you guys are perverts.” That made them laugh louder. “Ooh, we're real
scared.” The serious guy smashed his face against the fence, glaring at me.
He snarled, “Especially since the real pervert is your mom, Nick. Or should I
say moms.” My whole body froze. I tried to speak, but
couldn’t. I wanted to say something, yell at them, charge, beat
the fence so they would go away. The guy's eyes bored into mine. “That's right,
Nicky,” he went. “Your moms are freaks. And so are you. Dickless
Nicholas. Hey, that's a good one.” He elbowed his buddy to the left. “Dickless Nicholas.” They both fell to the ground
laughing. The guy cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered across the
playground, “Dickless Nicholas,” indicating me.
They all took up the chant: “Dickless Nicholas. Dickless Nicholas.” I ran into the classroom and hid in the closet. Jo is looking at me funny. “Why did you have to
be this way?” I yell at Mom and Jo. “Why did you have to have me?” Mom's face drains of color, like I stuck a knife
in her belly. I don't care. How does she think I feel? Jo clamps a hand over my shoulder. “What
happened, Nick? Tell us.” I shake loose from her grasp. I want to tell, but
I can't with Mom standing there. She might cry. The phone rings in the house and Jo says, “That
better be the school.” Mom murmurs, “I'll get it.” She heads for the
house. Jo looks at me. “Well?” “What's a pervert?” I ask. Jo's jaw clenches. She lowers herself to the
picnic bench and pulls me close to her. “Did somebody call you that?” “No. They called you that.” Her face hardens. “They called me Dickless
Nicholas.” Jo sucks in her lips, but can't hide her grin.
“Oh, Nick.” She tries to hug me, but I push her away. “Come on,” she says,
“it's kind of funny.” “No, it's not!” I scream at her. “Okay, I'm sorry.” She grabs my wrist and hangs
on. I'm afraid I might burst into tears and I don't
want to. I'm not a baby. “They're just words, Nick. They can't hurt you.” She's wrong. They hurt plenty. On the inside
where you can't see the gash. Where you can’t stitch it up and the scar
doesn’t show. But the hurt doesn't go away because the words keep cutting and
reopening the wound. Pervert. Pervert. “So call them something back,” Jo says. “Like fartface. Or boogerbrain.” I smile a little. “Mucous membrane,” I suggest. Jo makes a face. “You watch too much Discovery
Channel.” She stands and tousles my hair. “I need a drink. How 'bout you?” “Where’s my dad?” I blurt. Those guys made me
wonder again. That makes Jo stop. “You don’t have one,” she
says. “Why?” Jo considers that for a minute. “Why is the world
round?” she asks. “Because it is.” “Right. It is what it is. Now I really need a
drink.” “Make mine a double,” I say. Jo smirks. “Don’t let your mom hear that.” She
bends over to give me a pony ride. I think I’m too big, but I jump on her
back anyway. Mom's hanging up the phone as we gallop into the
kitchen. Jo drops me in the window seat and heads for the fridge. “Mr. Hasselback got Matthew to tell him what happened,” Mom says.
Her eyes meet mine and she looks…sad. Helpless. “They have a pretty good idea
who did it — these fifth graders who've been harassing the little kids
lately. Mr. H wants to talk to his kids, but he's not sure what to tell them.
Or how. He wants to know what we want him to do.” “Tell them the truth,” Jo says. “No!” I cry. Jo shuts the fridge and tosses me a Coke. She
pops the top on her beer. Mom says, “You’ve already had two.” Jo mutters, “But who’s counting?” Mom sighs. Jo glugs. She swipes
her mouth and says, “So, what'd you tell Mr. H?” She leans against the
kitchen counter. “I told him we'd get back to him.” Mom scrapes
out a chair and sits at the table. Jo loops a leg over the chair cattycorner
from her. She drinks her beer, wiggling her eyebrows at me. Mom must've
switched off the CD player before answering the phone because it’s quiet. Too
quiet. She winds a strand of damp hair behind her ear and says softly, “I
told you this would happen.” Jo goes, “And I told you we'd deal with it. Nick”
— she twists to face me — “you have two moms.” “Duh,” I say. She cricks a lip. “You know we're gay, right?” I roll my eyes. “And you know what gay means, right?” Mom cuts in, “He's only five, Jo.” “Five and three-quarters,” I say. “He understands.” Jo tips her beer. She swallows.
“You know your mom and I love each other, right? And we love you. That
doesn't make us perverts. That makes us happy and it makes you lucky to have
so much love in your life.” “Yeah, right,” I mumble. “I’m so lucky.” I study
my shoes. There's a drawing of Lucky 2 on the left sneaker. I did it with
Magic Marker this morning. I'd started to draw my new fish on the other shoe,
but art time ended. “Nick!” I flinch. “What?” Jo widens her eyes at Mom. “Forget it, Jo,” Mom
says. “He's not ready.” “Yes, I am,” I tell her. “I know I don't have a
dad. Kenny DiPoto doesn't have a dad either because
his dad got knifed in jail.” “Geezus,” Jo breathes.
“What kind of neighborhood is this?” Mom's still staring at me. “Go on,” she says.
“What else do you know?” I pick out a chunk of mud from my tread and flick
it on the floor. “Lots of kids don't have dads. Nobody else has two moms.” “See how lucky you are? Double the pleasure,
double the fun.” Jo swigs the rest of her beer. She chucks the empty can over
Mom's head into the trash, then heads to the fridge
for another. I sip my Coke. “Just because nobody else in your class has two
moms doesn't make it bad,” Mom informs me. “Or wrong. It means you're
different. It means you're special.” “Yeah, right,” I mumble again. Dickless Nicholas. That's so special. Jo pops the top on her can and foam oozes out the
drinking hole. She sucks it up fast. “Look,” Jo says, setting her can down hard on the
table and swinging into her chair, “if you want, you can tell the kids you
have a dad. His name is Joe.” “No,” Mom says, louder than she needs to. “We
promised we'd never do that. We wouldn’t lie.” “So what?” Jo says. “We just ignore it? We don’t
talk about it?” Mom’s eyes fuse to Jo’s beer can. “I didn’t say
that.” “He's going to have to learn how to fight, “No fighting.” Mom repeats it to me, “No fighting.” Jo tells her, “I had to fight. Every day of my
life I had to fight.” “Nick isn’t you,” Mom snaps. Her face changes and
she swallows hard. “There are other ways.” “Sure,” Jo says. “Ignore it. Turn the other
cheek. Let everyone use you as a punching bag. Then it kills you from the
inside. They get you coming and going, This talk is scaring me. Mom turns and blinks at me. “I'm sorry, Nick. I'm
sorry we did this to you.” “We didn't do anything to him,” Jo snarls. “We
gave him life and love. A happy home and a loving family. He has everything.
Everything that counts.” “I don't have Xbox,” I say. “Matthew has Xbox.” Jo and Mom pause a beat.
Their eyes meet and they crack up. I think — hope — that means they'll get me
Xbox. Jo reaches out and places her hand over Mom’s on the table. Mom takes a
deep breath. Jo lifts Mom’s hand and kisses it. “What do we want Nick's
teacher to do?” Mom asks. Jo says, “Nick, what do you want to do?” I don't even have to think about it. “Find those
kids and kill them.” Jo shrugs at Mom. “That works for me.” * Nobody got beat up. Not that time, anyway. Jo went to school with me
every day for a week, though, and stood at the fence. I’d see her out the
window during art, story time, snack time. She’d be
posing, posturing like a tough guy. Yeah, Jo’s real tough. What you see on
the outside isn’t always what you get on the inside, especially with girls. I
learned that the hard way. |
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