“Jesse,” his mother chided him from down the hall. “Not so much noise. I’m on the phone.”
Jesse didn’t answer back; he knew his mother didn’t expect him to. His entrance, her response, was as much a part of his after-school ritual as say, grabbing Twinkies for a snack.
Jesse’s mother worked on the phone. Sales stuff. Lucky she had the job, she’d told him many times. Lucky she could work from home, so he didn’t have to do the dreaded after-school program, where they fed you, like, granola bars and not even the good chewy kind, but the hard crunchy kind no self-respecting kid liked, but parents bought ’cause they were cheaper by the box.
In the kitchen, Jesse climbed onto the countertop, opened the top cabinet, and grabbed a blue plastic cup. Cup down, he leapt from the countertop onto the floor—another satisfying thump. This time, the floor thumped back.
Mrs. Flowers, the gazillion-year-old lady who lived beneath them. She didn’t like it when Jesse bounced around. “Sounds like you’re raising an elephant!” she’d complained to his mother many times. His mother would then laugh uncomfortably. “Boys will be boys,” she’d say, while shooting Jesse a look that meant he’d better straighten up his act, or else.
Jesse sighed, tried to use his quiet feet as he padded to the fridge and tugged hard on the door. This was the deal: He could eat Twinkies, but only if he drank a glass of milk.
Good deal. Jesse poured himself a glass of milk, then sucked the cream filling out of his Twinkies.
First after-school ritual completed, he went into the family room. He wasn’t allowed TV or video games after school. TV rots the brain, his mother always said, and Jesse would need his one day if he wanted to have a better life. Plus, TV and video games made noise, which wasn’t good for his mother’s job.
So, another deal. He was allowed on the computer, which sat on the kitchen table in the corner of the family room. The table sat four, but since there was only him and his mom, that left two open spots. The computer occupied one. He was supposed to put his homework and school papers in the second spot. After dinner, his mother would review his school papers, then it was homework time. He’d do his, his mother would do hers.
She was in school, too. Nursing. One more year to go, then she could have a better job, she told him. One with more money and benefits, and maybe they could move to a better apartment in a building with a playground, where boys could run around and be boys, without ancient Mrs. Flowers pounding her ceiling with a broom handle.
Jesse took a seat. Booted up the laptop. It was old, a gift from his mother’s last boyfriend, who’d been okay. He’d liked the Red Sox, would play catch in the park, and had bought Jesse his first stuffed bear (holding a ball and bat), which he’d registered on the AthleteAnimalz site. Homerun Bear, his bear was called, and Jesse liked that. He wanted to be a baseball player, too, some day. Be just like Big Papi.
That boyfriend had lasted a whole year. Then apparently, he’d met someone else and Jesse’s mother had cried and Jesse had stopped liking Mitchell, had started hating him instead. One night Jesse had even taken scissors to Homerun Bear and done his best to destroy him. In the morning, however, he’d felt bad. It wasn’t really the bear’s fault, after all. And Jesse didn’t have that many toys, given the “bad economy” as his mother always said.
Jesse had used silver duct tape to fix Homerun Bear as best he could. Attaching each limb, then the bat, then the ball, then the ears. He thought it made his bear look pretty cool. Zombie Bear, he called him now. A homerun hitter, raised from the dead.