Grown(10)

But our home was a tiny aquarium, and we, a school of fish, bumped into each other at every turn, muddling the water with tension, Mom and Grandma biting hunks out of each other like starving piranhas.

Fish die quick in a tank, Daddy said. We needed room, to flourish, to grow, to go to college, to dive deep and go where they never could.

We, meaning my four siblings and me.

We couldn’t afford to live on our own, but drowning in Grandma’s swelling quirks made Mom and Daddy map out a plan. Daddy took extra shifts for the cable company, and Mom went to nursing school. Three years, they saved for this house that smells like wet moss, its dampness leaving our skin chilled, the billowy high trees blocking all traces of the sun. No soft waves or sweeping winds, just a chorus of bugs and angrily chirping birds. We’re now a school of fish surrounded by white fishermen.

Daddy is always tired—that’s if I see him, which is rare. He joined an electrical union, takes double shifts repairing cable wires, all to pay the mortgage and private-school tuition. He doesn’t bring up going to the beach anymore or how we were fish. Mom became our personal driver. When they’re both at work, I’m the only parent for miles. Yes, we have more room to swim but without a car, we float in a suburban aquarium, rather than an ocean.

In the mornings, before I make breakfast for the Littles, I hold a seashell to my ear and listen to the sounds of home.





Chapter 11


Shop Talk




In the narrow bathroom, I straddle the toilet seat, a smock buttoned around my neck, watching hair rain down around me, a buzzing near my left ear. I flinch.

“Hold still, now,” Daddy says, gripping my head. “Almost done.”

Daddy bought a new clipper kit when I decided to shave my head. Before, he only used a razor on his beard but decided his daughter deserved the finer things. Plus, it saves us eighteen dollars and weekly trips to the barbershop.

“Hey, watch the neck,” I say with a wince.

“I’ve got this. Chill. Damn, kid. Your mom’s hair don’t grow like this. Must be from my side of the family.”

“You say that about everything.” I snicker. “Singing, swimming, height, weight, feet . . . all from your side of the family.”

He laughs. “Well, that’s the truth, Ruth!”

“Really? Dad jokes? You’ve been in the ’burbs too long. We gotta get you back to Queens.”

“You know all this extra hair . . . is gonna cost you.”

“How much?”

“Fifty dollars. Same as last week.”

I smirk. “You can add it to my tab.”

“Daddy!” a voice shrieks.

We turn to the open bathroom door, into the immediate kitchen, at Destiny in her booster seat, her mouth full of mashed potatoes.

Daddy turns off the clippers. “Yes, baby girl.”

“Mo’ fish stick?”

“Finish what’s on your plate first. Eyes bigger than your stomach.”

Pearl hops up from the table, running by, her mini locs flopping.

“Aye,” he calls. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She shrugs. “I’m done.”

“You ain’t done if your plate still on the table. Ain’t no maid service around these parts.”

“It’s your turn to do the dishes anyway,” Phoenix adds from, well, somewhere close.

“Is not!”

“How about you both do them,” Daddy says.

Pearl and Phoenix groan together the way only twins can before they start clearing the table.

“Daddy, I need more juice,” Destiny says, waving her empty cup at him.

With Mom working late and Daddy having a rare Friday off, I’m sure he’s not used to hearing his name so much. He rubs his head.

“Lawd,” he grumbles. “Shea, can you pour your sister some juice, please?”

Shea nods, busy FaceTiming with a friend from school, gossiping about some boy.

“Is this what y’all do in high school now? FaceTime with each other even though you see each other all day?” He chuckles, clicking on the clippers. “Don’t remember you ever doing that.”

I stare at him in the mirror, his eyes focused as he lines me up.

“Daddy,” I say with a measured voice. “Can I have a car? Please?”

Daddy’s head snaps up, returning my stare.

“I’ve done the research,” I continue before he can fix his mouth to say no. “We can lease a car for two hundred and twenty-eight dollars a month. I’ll be able to help with the Littles. Take Shea and me to school.”

Daddy sighs and shuts off the clippers. The walls of the bathroom shrink.

“It’s just not something we can swing right now. With tuition, Will and Willow dues, summer camp next year . . . we’re stretched thin. Plus, the union might be striking soon. Which would mean . . . a lot of changes around here.”

I’ve heard Mommy and Daddy talk about it. A union strike would mean no pay, and strikes can go on for months, maybe years. Shea and I would have to drop out of Parkwood. Worst case, we could lose the house.

“But I wanna get a job.”

Daddy’s lips press together. “You have your entire life to work. For now, we just want you to be a normal teenager.”