Chelsea places the knife down beside the carrot. Then she takes a deep breath, and I know she’s trying not to stress. “Monsieur Jacques La Rue is the best piano instructor in the city. It took months for Rachel to get him to take Rosaleen as his student. What happened?”
I pop a slice of carrot in my mouth. “What kind of guy makes his students call him Monsieur? He’s probably not even French,” I grumble. “I bet his real name is Joey Lawrence from the Bronx.”
Rosaleen climbs onto the island stool across from her aunt and eagerly tells the tale. “He hit my knuckles with the ruler ’cause I messed up.”
“Exhibit A,” I interrupt. “What kind of sick fuck could hit her?” I motion to Rosaleen’s joyously precious face. “Rory? He’s another story. Her? No way.”
Rosaleen continues. “So Jake went out to his car and came back in with a baseball bat. Monsieur La Rue asked him what he was doing and Jake told him, ‘You hit that kid’s knuckles again, I’m gonna hit you with this.’?”
Chelsea turns to me, her head tilted and jaw slack.
I admit nothing.
“So . . . he fired us,” Rosaleen concludes.
I nudge her with my elbow and offer her a carrot. “We fired him.”
She pops it in her mouth with a smile.
Chelsea watches our exchange and her face softens. “Okay. New piano teacher. I’ll add it to the list.”
Another time, the older kids had dentist appointments that conflicted with Regan and Ronan’s Mommy and Me playtime. Like I’ve said before, I fucking hate doctors—and dentists are just doctors for teeth. So I opted to take the little kids to their class. I mean, they’re babies—how hard could it be?
Children are everywhere, all shapes and sizes, some climbing, some stumbling, some—like Ronan—getting their “tummy time” on the floor as they try to master crawling. And the parents—Jesus, they’re like a frighteningly uptight, Stepford-wife smiling, cooing religious cult armed with cameras. The Mommy and Me playroom is obnoxiously colorful—a rainbow rug, neon slides, blaring padded wedges, and mats that hurt my eyes if I look at them too long. Freakily cheerful music pours from mounted speakers with a forcefully happy teenager in a fuchsia T-shirt running the show.
And don’t get me started on the clowns.
They’re painted on the walls, marionette versions line the shelves, and stuffed ones with eerily wide-spread arms fill the corners, their red-rimmed, white-teethed mouths opened in the creepiest fucking grins I’ve ever seen. Like they’re just waiting for an unsuspecting kid to wander by so they can bite their heads off.
About ten minutes into free play, I watch Regan navigate an obstacle course. Next to me is a loudmouthed father cheering his son on like the kid’s about to reach the end zone in the goddamn Super Bowl. He gestures with his head. “He’s the fastest kid here. I got him running the course in forty-five seconds.”
Good for you, buddy.
“Which one’s yours?”
I point to Regan, where she climbs the slide, her orange jumpsuit sparkling beneath the lights. She chants as she goes, “Hi, hi, hi, hi . . . ,” like the Seven Dwarves marching with their pickaxes.
“Is there something wrong with her?” the son of a bitch asks.
I scowl. “No, there’s nothing fucking wrong with her. She’s . . . focused.” Then, for shits and giggles, I add, “And she could totally do this course in under forty-five seconds.”
Dickhead scoffs. “I doubt that.”
I turn cold eyes on him. “Wanna bet?”
He brushes his brown bangs with an arrogant hand. “Fifty bucks says my boy beats her.”
“You’re on.”
I shake his hand, then I go scoop Regan off the slide and coach her as I carry her back to the obstacle course—like Mickey talking to Rocky Balboa in his corner.
“You got this, Regan. Don’t let him distract you—watch his left hook, keep your eyes straight ahead.”
She squeezes my nose.
So I try to use words she’ll understand. “If you do this, I will hi you forever.”
That gets her smiling.
We line them up and the father counts them down. “On your mark, get set, go!”
And they’re off . . .
Douchebag and I cheer them on, like gamblers at the horse track.
“Go, baby, go!”
“That’s it! Pull away from the pack! Make your move!”
They’re neck and neck . . . until the little boy gets distracted by a massive booger hanging out of his nose. He stops to work on it—and the race is Regan’s.
“Yes! Fuckin’ A!” I yell proudly. I pick her up and hold her high above my head; she laughs and squeals. And somewhere Freddie Mercury sings “We Are the Champions.”
As loser dad passes me the fifty, the teenager busts us. “What is going on? This is a cheerful place—there’s no gambling!”
“Right. Well, we’re gonna head out anyway.”
I grab Ronan in one arm and Regan in the other. On our way out the door, I whisper to her, “Let’s just keep this between us, okay?”