Just like a nigga, she says.
Isn’t it, says Mitsuko.
* * *
In the parking lot outside, a pair of women in hijabs are yelling. Everything they say is punctuated with a gasp. Everything is horrible. They’re both close to tears, but then they fall on top of each other, laughing until they’re breathless.
7.
At the daycare, Ahmad pushes Ethan to the ground. When he sees his brother struggling, Xu wrestles them both in the sand. I spot it all from the window, and Ximena sees them, too, and I wait for her to intervene, but it turns out that she doesn’t.
By the time I’m outside, Barry’s already on it. He grabs Xu by the waistband and Ahmad by the elbow.
I sit Ethan down. Ask him what happened. He says he was ambushed, and when I ask why, he cocks his head like how couldn’t I know.
* * *
When I step inside to check on Ahmad, Barry’s stationed him at a coloring table in our tiny little computer room.
He won’t say why he did it, says Barry.
We know why he did it, I say. He does it every day.
Sure, says Barry, but there’s always a reason. Headache. Stomachache. Something at home.
If you asked him then he’d tell you.
He only fucking talks to you, says Barry.
* * *
In the computer room, I hand Ahmad a juice box. He blinks before he takes it. Then I sit on the carpet beside him, and I start to say something, and he looks like he appreciates it when I finally don’t.
We watch Silvia and Margaret watch us from the window. They duck their heads under the sill, resurfacing seconds later.
* * *
Whenever there’s an altercation, it’s our policy to chat with the parents. The twins’ father shows up in basketball shorts and a Texans hoodie. Once we’ve finished telling him what happened, he frowns.
I’ll talk to them, he says. Could’ve been worse, right?
Um, I say.
Xu threw dirt in another boy’s eyes, says Barry.
Sure, says their father, and is the other kid alive? He couldn’t just walk it off?
* * *
Ahmad’s brother arrives a little later, sweaty and flushed. His name is Omar. He is, I think, some sort of physical therapist. I tell him what happened, and he folds his palms over his face.
So you’re saying he started it, says Omar.
Everyone asks that, says Barry.
Ahmad was involved, I say, but we don’t give blame.
Maybe you should, says Omar.
Maybe. But we don’t.
Then why the fuck are my parents paying you guys?
I don’t say anything to that. Barry only winces. Then Omar’s shoulders drop.
Sorry, he says.
It’s fine, I say.
It isn’t. Really.
Things have been rough, says Omar. Ahmad’s living with me. Our folks are going through some things.
Totally understand, I say.
Omar’s lighter than his brother. He’s built like a baker. Standing next to each other, they look nothing alike—except for their noses, which are indistinguishable.
Does this mean I can’t come back, says Ahmad.
Omar and I both say, No.
Nothing’s wrong, I say.
Nothing, says Omar, glancing at me.
Ahmad looks between us. He obviously doesn’t believe it. But he accepts what we’ve told him, for now, jogging outside.
* * *
I tell Omar I get it. And he thanks me, extending his hand, smiling real wide. When I watch them walk out, I half expect him to box Ahmad on the head, but he doesn’t do anything like that. He rubs Ahmad’s hair, shepherding him toward the car.
* * *
Eventually, I ask Ximena why she didn’t stop the fight. She looks at me for a long time before she finally answers.
I was going to, she says, but how often do you get to learn that lesson? That sometimes you just lose?
Better here than later, she says, when it actually matters.
* * *
• • •
Once, I asked Mike if he wanted kids. We were at a pub in the Heights, watching two drunk whiteboys fall all over each other. One of them would stand from his barstool, and the other guy would catch him. Then the other guy would stand, and they’d repeat the performance again.
Mike had already finished his beer, but he managed to spit some up anyways.
* * *
It was around this time that we had the monogamy conversation. Mike’s the one who brought it up.
I didn’t refuse him outright, but I never affirmed him either.
I’m just saying we should think about opening things up, said Mike.
There’s nothing to think about, I said.
I wouldn’t care what you did, said Mike, as long as you came back home.
You aren’t in a relationship with yourself, I said.
Just consider it, said Mike. Really. All I’m saying is that it’s a big world out there.
World? I said. What the fuck? What world? We live in one place.
You know what I’m saying.
And the thing is, I did know. I knew. And I’d thought about it. But I was less worried, at the time, about what Mike would do than how I’d handle it: If I opened the door, even just a crack, would I still have a reason to step back inside?
* * *
We didn’t actually decide anything, between the two of us. But a nondecision is a choice in itself.
* * *
• • •
Growing up, my sister was the disciplinarian. Our father was always working or drinking up all the booze downtown. Our mother compensated by staying out on the town herself, racking up credit on handbags.
So Lydia gave me my first cigarette, shaking her head when I inhaled and choked.
And Lydia told me how, and who, to plug for beer by the pharmacy.
And Lydia taught me how to drive, and she paid for my first speeding ticket.
And Lydia handed me my first joint, allowing me to sit in the smoke with whichever acquaintances she’d assembled.