Don't Fail Me Now(10)

“Wanna tell me why?” I watch him chew on a hangnail in the rearview mirror, those dark doe eyes staring out the window, already distracted.

“Ummmm . . . I dunno.”

“Yes you do.” I start to merge back into traffic, but I forget to check my blind spot and almost hit a taxi, the driver of which rolls down his window just so he can call me a blind bitch to my face before speeding away. That makes two near accidents in less than fifteen minutes. I need to get some coffee—or better yet, some sleep—before my luck runs out. I take a detour into a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through, figuring I can kill two birds with one stone. After all, a six-year-old’s secrets can easily be bought for a chocolate-glazed cruller.

“So,” I probe again, slurping down my latte. “What happened at school today?”

“I pushed Jayden,” he says matter-of-factly between bites.

I hope to God Jayden is real, and this isn’t some weird junior version of Fight Club that “Max” is encouraging. “Why would you do that?” I ask.

“He wouldn’t give me a dollar.”

“And why did you ask him to give you a dollar?” With Denny, a story only comes out sentence by sentence, on a need-to-know basis.

“’Cause I won,” he says proudly.

“Won what?”

“Our wrestling match.”

In a flash I know exactly where this is going, but the big sister in me can’t help but hold out a sliver of hope that I’m wrong. “Did this happen in gym class?” I ask.

“No, at recess.”

Uh-oh. “Did Jayden want to wrestle you?”

“I dunno.” I glance in the rearview, hoping to see some trace of shame or guilt, but Denny’s happily chowing down on the last few inches of his pastry.

“Well, was he having fun?”

“No,” Denny laughs. “He kept squealing, it was so funny.”

I let out a deep breath I’ve been holding for two intersections. It’s moments like this when I can see how parenting can really go wrong. Because I know the right thing to do now is to stop the car, sit him down, and explain in no uncertain terms that jumping a classmate at recess, pinning him to the ground, and then demanding money is called “bullying,” not “wrestling,” and that he will be in serious trouble if I ever hear about it happening again. But in the mood I’m in, with the day I’ve had and the limited brain function I’m running on, I just don’t have the energy to do the right thing. So instead I suck down the sugary dregs of my coffee and drive the rest of the way to the junior high in silence.

For some reason, Cass isn’t waiting at our meeting spot when I drive up, even though thanks to our pit stop we’re five minutes late. Despite her relatively newfound tween angst, my sister has always been the most punctual member of our family, so it’s a little jarring not to see her sitting on the shallow steps outside the gray double doors on McCulloh Street, looking bored and sketching in her journal. (If we had the money for iPhones, Cass would probably be on the five billionth level of Candy Crush by now.)

I dig my phone out of my bag and text Here, flipping on my hazards while we wait. I look for Cass in the crowd of rowdy middle-schoolers spilling out of the main entrance about fifty feet away, but her preferred ensemble of extra-large black hoodie, boot-cut jeans, and black Payless Converse knockoffs is basically urban camouflage. Then my phone buzzes, and I relax a little bit, expecting a text back from Cass, but instead I see I have an unheard voicemail that must have come in while I was driving. And without even checking the number, I know exactly whom it’s from.

“Hi, Michy, it’s Mom.” Her voice is deep and raspy, like she’s been crying or puking—probably both. She’ll already be in withdrawal by now. “I miss my babies so much. So much, you don’t even know. And the way things went down . . . it wasn’t right. Don’t be mad at me, baby. I made a mistake, but I’m gonna make it up to you, all of you—” She pauses for a coughing fit. “Listen, I’m at the city detention center, and they set my bond at $4,000. I know it’s steep, but the sooner you can post it, the better for all of us, baby. Ask Sam to help. I know she can be a pain in the ass, but she’s family.” Mom pauses, as if, like me, she’s calculating the unlikely odds that my aunt will decide to morph suddenly from Nurse Ratched into Mother Teresa. “Tell her I’d do it for her,” she says, her voice breaking. “She knows it’s true.” Another pause. “Give my meatball a big kiss from me, okay? I love my babies so much. You know that, right? Okay . . . all right. Bye.”

“I miss Mommy,” Denny says loudly before I’ve even hung up. I whip around, thinking he must have heard the message somehow, but he’s just frowning down at his lap, his lower lip quivering.

“Hey. Hey,” I reach back and squeeze his leg. “Mommy will be home really soon. In just a few days, okay? I promise.” If the bail bondsman will take 10 percent, that means I only have to come up with $400, which means that if I don’t spend any money for the next four days, my Taco Bell paycheck will get me there. And if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s scavenging. (The potential upside of spending years of scraping by with a parent who drinks or smokes most of her disposable income is that it teaches you some slick MacGyver-style survival skills.)