“It’s so hard raising a boy on your own,” she squeaks, dabbing a napkin under her eyes.
“Momma, not this again,” I groan, my guilt evaporating from a renewed rage.
“You don’t know what you’re putting Vicky through, not making it right—”
“I’m not the dad!”
“Then who is? It’s a miracle birth?”
“I don’t know. It’s not my business—”
“You were her boyfriend for a year. Suddenly, she’s got a baby and you tell me you like…men…”
“You think I made up a boyfriend so I could duck out on her—?”
“Did you?”
“Gimme my phone and I’ll show you pictures; my boyfriend’s real.”
“Your dad didn’t want the responsibility of a child either. Not that I blame either of you. It’s a hard, hard thing, being a parent. You’re constantly over a barrel—”
“Mom, STOP. You’re like a broken record!” I growl under my breath and poke at the coagulated remains of ice cream in my bowl. Nothing will ever convince her because she doesn’t want to be convinced. I could put that baby through a paternity test and wag the results under her nose, and she’d think I faked them in Photoshop. This baby thing of hers is just a fancy coat she’s wearing over her total discomfort with who I am. It’s not even the same situation as Dad; Dad didn’t deny I was his. He stuck around eleven years, then blew off to England to be with his ex-girlfriend. He sucks, but to my mom, me coming out is just as unforgivable.
These last few weeks have been torture for both of us. I miss Normal Mom.
“All this fighting’s no good,” she says, mopping her wet cheeks with a third napkin.
“We’re buddies, okay?” I close my hand over hers, anything to quiet this storm. She shuts her eyes and smiles.
Now’s the time, Connor.
A lump rises in my throat as I ask, “Can we just get past this? Can’t I get my phone back, and then the fighting’ll be over?”
“CONNOR,” Mom moans and yanks her hand out from under mine, suddenly disgusted like I sneezed on her. The unexpected obliteration of our truce sends pins and needles of anxiety up my spinal column. She presses prayer hands to her mouth. Prayer hands! Marcia Major, bringing out the big guns. “Please fix your priorities. If I were you, I’d worry less about my phone and more about these grades I’ve been seeing. Retake the SAT. Prep your application essays. You should be sick to your stomach thinking your friends’ll go off to good colleges while you end up at home, watching TV, giggling, or whatever it is you do all day while Vicky goes it alone raising Avery. I’d worry about being twenty-five someday, doing that same thing. Thirty. Forty years old, mouthing off in my kitchen about some boyfriend you think you got—”
“I do got a boyfriend—”
“You do not. If you live in my house, you do not.”
When Mom finishes, I whip my head away with a flourish not seen outside of a telenovela—she doesn’t deserve my eye contact. My neck is boiling, and I can’t summon the breath to yell back at her about how much everything she is saying sucks. I stare out of our enormous picture window onto a country road and the vast farmland where I’m trapped. The only two houses on our street are ours and the Packard Family chicken ranch. The man who runs the farm is also our local reverend…and my mom’s only friend. She refuses to hang out with the other nurses after work. She excludes anybody in her life who might warn her about what an out-of-control zealot she’s turned into.
Above Reverend Packard’s soybean fields, storm clouds mutate into a single, nauseatingly yellow mass. The Packard farmers rotate crops each year—one year corn, one year soybeans. Corn, soy, corn, soy. On corn years, there’s a hint of magical possibility in the air. When I was a kid, I’d imagine blue, scaly creatures and elves hiding between the massive stalks, plotting mischief. But on soy years—this year—the view is low and clear, and Ambrose, Illinois, is exposed for what it really is: grain elevators, churches, and that’s it.
While I gaze, hypnotized, at the road separating our home from the endless soy fields, a black minivan sails past. It’s the only car I’ve noticed since dinner began, but this is the third time I’ve seen it. The black van—its windows also blackened—has been circling our street like a buzzard. Probably lost. Nobody comes to Ambrose on purpose (except for me and my duped mother).
“This came for you,” Mom says, tapping the yellow envelope on the table.
“From Dad,” I say, sneering. “You told me already.”
“No, his present is still stuck in the mail, like I told you already. You remember Ricky Hannigan? You delivered his Meals on Wheels?” Pins and needles swarm into my fingers like fireflies over a marsh. Normally, I’d be grateful for the subject change, but it squeezes my stomach just to hear Mr. Hannigan’s name. Ricky Hannigan was an older client who received hot meals at home from yours truly every weekend since school let out.
But that’s all over.
“I remember Mr. Hannigan,” I say, shaking my head out of a stupor.
“Well, he died.”
“I know he died. Hi, that’s why I haven’t been going on deliveries. You think I want to hang out here all day, getting under your skin?”
“Anyway, it looks like he left you something in his will.” Mom taps the bulging envelope again. “Isn’t that kind? The Reverend brought it by. He wanted to give it to you himself, but you were busy in the shower for a long time.”
My cheeks burst into flames that my mom would inform the frigging Reverend about how long I’d been in the shower. So what if I was in there for a while, imagining Ario next to me, our bodies pressed tightly in the rushing water? I have no phone, no friends, and nothing to do all day but look forward to a pathetic shower wank—dreaming of Ario’s perfectly furry chest…his curly hair…his feet up in the air…
“Thanks,” I say, plopping the envelope beside the sweating ice cream carton. Ricky’s package is feather light—is it cash? A check? Rare stamps? Ricky Hannigan lived in a shitbox home and every spare cent went to his medical care, so I shouldn’t get too excited. Still…he didn’t have to leave me anything. I’m kind of embarrassed he did; I barely knew him.
“You’re not gonna open it?”
“I’ll wait ’til I’m alone.” I turn to her, hands folded, and don’t dare to blink. She’s not getting one iota of whatever is in here. It’s all going toward Connor Major’s New Phone Piss-Off Fund. “Mr. Hannigan was a nice guy, but he was private. He wouldn’t want me opening this in front of anybody.”