The music blasting from Mom’s home office shuts off. Five o’clock exactly, like always nowadays. She loves her job making custom, handmade wedding invitations for rich people, and before Hope, Mom would work all hours of the day and night. But it turns out babies cost a shitload of money, and despite how well Mom’s business is doing, it’s not enough. So the new arrangement is that during the day, Mom gets to turn her music on and her grandma duties off while I take care of Hope, then Mom takes over when I go to work at five thirty.
In a few days, that schedule’s going to change, and I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do. That’s another topic I haven’t brought up with Mom. She keeps saying we need to talk about our plan for “when school starts up again,” like she’s forgotten that soccer practice starts sooner than that. Like it doesn’t matter anymore or something.
But I can’t not play. Soccer is the one thing I kick ass at. It’s the whole reason I’m going back to school this fall instead of sticking with homeschooling, which I did for the last few months of last year after Hope was born. Fall is soccer season. I need to go to school in order to play on the team. And I need to play on the team because I’m going to UCLA on an athletic scholarship next year. It’s pretty much a done deal. I’ve spoken to their head coach a few times this summer. He called me July 1, the first day he was allowed to according to NCAA rules. He’s seen my game film, tracked my stats, and is sending a recruiter to watch one of my games in person. He wants me on his team. This is what I’ve been working toward my whole life. So Mom’s delusional if she thinks I’m giving it up.
I wipe the tears from Hope’s face and the drool from around her mouth even though she’s still crying, then set her down in her crib. She grasps onto my finger, holding on extra tight, like she’s saying, “Do something, man. This shit’s painful!”
“I’m trying,” I tell her.
I meet Mom in her office, where she’s sitting on the floor, attempting to organize her materials. Stacks of paper and calligraphy pens are scattered among plastic bags filled with real leaves from the trees in our yard. Three hot glue guns are plugged into the wall, and photos of the Happy Couple glide across Mom’s laptop screen.
“Hippie wedding in California?” I guess, nodding at the leaves. The people who hire Mom to make their invitations always want something unique to who they are as a couple. Mom and I started this game years ago—she tells me what materials she’s using, and I try to guess what kind of people the Happy Couple are. I’m usually pretty good.
Mom shakes her head. “Hikers in Boulder.”
Or I was pretty good. Now everything is so turned around that I can barely think.
“That was my next guess,” I say.
Mom smiles. She’s been so great about everything. She’s not even pissed about me making her a thirty-five-year-old grandmother. She says she, better than anyone, gets how these things happen. But this is not your typical “oops, got pregnant in high school, what do we do now?” scenario, like what happened to her. This is the much more rare “oops, I killed the love of my life by getting her pregnant in high school and ruined my life and the lives of all her family and friends in the process” situation.
And I know that deep down, Mom knows our situations are not the same at all. Her eyes are green, like mine, and they used to sparkle. They don’t anymore. It’s not because of the baby—she loves Hope to an almost ridiculous level. It’s because of me. She’s sad for me. Even though the name “Meg” is strictly off-limits in our house, I can almost see the M and E and G floating around in my mom’s eyes like alphabet soup, like she’s been bottling up everything she’s wanted to say for the past six months and is about to overflow. I need to get out of here.
“So, I’m out,” I say quickly, clipping my Whole Foods name tag to my hoodie. “Be home at ten fifteen.”
Mom sighs. “Okay, Ry. Have fun. Love you.”
“Love you too,” I call back as I head to the front door.
She always says that when I leave to go somewhere. Have fun. She’s been saying it for years. Doesn’t matter if I’m going to school or work or soccer practice or a freaking pediatrician’s appointment with Hope. Have fun. Like having fun is the most important thing you can do. Like you can possibly have fun when you’re such a fucking mess.
? ? ?
I’m restocking the organic taco shells in the Mexican and Asian foods aisle, trying to block out the Celine Dion song that’s playing over the PA system, when I notice a kid climbing the shelves at the opposite end of the aisle. His feet are two levels off the ground, and he’s gripping onto a shelf above him, trying to raise himself up another level.
“Hey,” I call. “Don’t do that.”
“It’s okay. I do it all the time,” he says, successfully pulling himself up another foot. He lets go with one hand and stretches toward something on the top shelf.