Invincible Summer(5)

Gideon, who I have assigned to phone patrol, tugs my sleeve and points to his pocket. My cell phone is vibrating.

“Hello?”

“Can you stop at Candy Kitchen and get me some chocolate turtles?” Mom’s voice reminds me of how she sounds at the beginnings of all her pregnancies when she throws up all the time and she calls Noah me or me Dad or Gideon Claudia—not that he notices.

I turn Gideon around so we’re facing the direction we came from and almost get him killed by a boogie board– wielding preteen. Gideon crosses his arms and frowns at me.

Sorry I sign, hand against chest. To Mom, I say, “Didn’t Dad say no more candy?”

“Dad can have say over candy rights when he’s carrying the baby. And I swear to God, Chase, he’s doing the next one.” “You promised no more babies.”

She exhales. “Oh, you never know.”

Watch. It’s twins, and this is her way of breaking the news to me.

A Jeep pulls into the parking lot, teenagers clinging to its naked frames. They leap out before the car’s even stopped, and their bodies shuck from sticking to the seats. I am so, so jealous. I can totally picture myself, two years from now, driving the shit out of one, or maybe next year or next week, sandwiched in the back with Shannon on one side and Bella on the other, my thigh sticking to hers, laughing and singing along with the radio, the pop songs I don’t know during the year that I learn in just a few days here. . . .

Gideon tugs on me and says he wants to go back to the

store. I shake my head.

I tell Mom, “Claude’s just going to eat it all.”

“Get Claude a bag of what she wants, and tell her she must stay away from the turtles on pain of death.”

“I don’t know what she wants. She’s not with me.” I’m

sick of Gideon practically getting steamrolled by everyone on the sidewalk who assumes he can hear them approaching, so I scoop him up and put him on my back. His empty lunchbox swings against my hip bone.

Mom says, “Where is Claudia?” in that voice that’s supposed to be panicked, but when you have four kids—especially when those four kids are us— you have to get used to their disappearances, and Mom has.

“With Noah.”

Gideon babbles in my ear as we head toward Candy Kitchen. It so, so freaks me out when he speaks. I turn around as much as I can and put my finger over my lips, but he ignores me.

“You left her with Noah?” Mom says.

Gideon sticks his hand in front of my face and fingerspells my name. God knows what he wants, but I sign not now over my shoulder the best I can, but he can’t see the not underneath my chin, so he’s freaking out trying to tell me whatever he thinks I just told him he could tell me. It’s a good thing he somehow keeps a good grip, because between pidgin signing to him and trying not to drop Mom into the sno–cone coated gutter, I have exactly no hands to make sure my little brother doesn’t crack his head open on the pavement. His thighs are practically squeezing me in half.

Mom says, “You can’t leave the kids with Noah!”

“I have Gideon.”

My family’s cure for Noah’s irresponsibility is to pretend that I’m the oldest child.

“Claudia’s eleven,” I say. “She’s not going to get kidnapped.” My mom says, “What was she wearing?”

Okay, so it’s totally not my responsibility what Claudia wears. But she was dressed a little provocatively for anyone who’s not twenty-one. And a whore.

I say, “Do you want me to go check the status of your daughter, or do you want me to get candy?”

After a pause, Mom says, “Candy.”

Of course.

She says, “But I will not take it lightly if I only have three children left when you return!”

“Have a new one,” I say, and hang up. I set Gideon down and make him walk the rest of the way to Candy Kitchen. I want to complain about Mom, but I don’t know the signs.

Plus he’s six years old and, more importantly, one of the brunets. Eventually, he’s going to end up on Mom’s side, and I want to keep him for as long as possible. Which means I can’t let him know that there’s a rift.

Snake he tells me, pointing to the toys at the corner of the store—particularly to a purple snake that could wrap around his neck and strangle him in his sleep.

Snake no I sign back, while I choose a bag of chocolate turtles.

Now Gideon’s playing with all the talking dolls, squeezing their hands so they talk at different times, their hollow voices overlapping while they echo one another, like a badly synchronized Gregorian chant. I close my eyes as I dig money out of my pocket and try to pretend everyone isn’t staring at him. Staring at me, asking me to do something.

“Gideon,” I say. He obviously ignores me and keeps squeezing their hands. Everyone’s still looking at me, so I say, “Okay, I’m sorry my deaf brother has no sense of rhythm.”

They look away like they suddenly noticed he’s disfigured.

I give him Mom’s turtles to put in his lunchbox, which shuts him up for a little while. He shakes it all the way to the little grocery store and feels the chocolate moving around in there. Eat he signs to me.





No no no. Mom.


Mom hate he says, and opens his lunchbox to look at the turtles.