“He’s—” Except I didn’t know what he was. I’d heard things and accepted them. All I knew for myself was that he was trouble when he thought he could get away with it, and humbled and wary when he thought he wouldn’t. What did I actually know? That his baby cousin was missing. That his home had been shattered, and that he still had to return to it each day. Where was his mother? The sheriff thought he was a spray-paint vandal, but I didn’t know that, not for sure. At last, I said, “He’s not from a good family.”
Joshua started to laugh, choking a bit. He coughed wet crumbs onto the table.
“Oh, stop it,” I said. “What’s the matter with you?” I got up and reached over the counter for a rag near the sink, threw it onto the table near his hand. “Seriously, what is so funny?”
“‘He’s not from a good family,’” Joshua repeated, twisting his voice into a scratchy posh accent. He dragged the rag over the surface in front of him once, missing the mess. “What are we, like the family of the year or something?”
“There’s nothing wrong with our family.”
“Yeah, there is.”
“What’s wrong with our family?”
Joshua spun his chair around once, gesturing to the empty living room. “Where is it?”
“You are my family.”
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Who? We went through the family tree for your project—”
“That wasn’t a tree. It was like a stalk of corn,” he said, drawing a tall line in the air with his finger. “Where are the rest of us? Why is it just you and me?”
I stood up and brushed past his knees to get to the kitchen. I needed to start dinner, do the dishes, keep my hands busy. I couldn’t let my mind follow the trail he was seeding. I’d lose it, I really would. “What’s wrong with it being just you and me? I haven’t minded.”
“Mom, don’t get mushy.”
“Well. I’m just being honest,” I said to the sink. “This is just the way it’s worked out for you and me. We’re alone, but together.”
“But you grew up with other people, didn’t you? You haven’t always been alone but together. It’s not the same for me. It’s not the same.”
I grew up with other people, but he wouldn’t want to know them. “It’s so much better, Joshua.”
I did my own search of the cabinets, then opened the takeout-menu drawer.
“How do I know which is better?” he said. “I never had it the other way.”
“Trust me on this one. The way you grew up—”
“You always say that. Trust me, trust me. Why should I?” He stood up and met me at the door to the kitchen. “You don’t trust me.”
“Of course I trust you. What are you talking about?”
“No,” he barked. “You check up on me all the time, and you go through my backpack and you don’t trust that I can pick my own friends and make my own decisions.” Joshua’s hair hung in his eyes, but he wouldn’t swipe it away.
Standing so close to him, I noticed for the first time. He was taller than I was.
I didn’t say anything. The backpack thing was true, anyway, or at least it had been.
“You keep us here like prisoners.”
Tap, tap.
“Keep your voice down,” I said. If Margaret came up here to point out how badly I parented or ask me to take her somewhere, I might shove a handful of Chinese takeout menus into the old woman’s mouth.
“Why should I listen to you? You—are—a—liar!”
“Joshua. Stop yelling, and calm down.”
“You’re yelling. Why can’t I yell?”
Tap, tap, tap.
I took a breath and concentrated on speaking in a controlled voice. “I am not yelling—”
“Well, why the fuck not?”
“Joshua!”
“I mean it. Why aren’t you screaming mad? We have nobody, and that doesn’t piss you off?” He paused to gulp for air. I hated the gasping, desperate look on his face. I hated the rise in his voice. “Why don’t you ever talk about it? Why don’t we ever talk about anything?”
He stood up and stomped back to the kitchen to fling the box of crackers onto the counter. He hadn’t closed the box, of course—a few crackers skittered across the surface. He made a fist and gave the counter a pound. One of the crackers became a circle of buttered dust.
“Stop that. If you make a mess, you’re going to clean it up.”
“That’s fine for you to say.”
“What are you talking about? Why are you so upset?”
Another fist, another cracker pummeled. Downstairs, Margaret gave a tentative tap, tap. Her arms were probably giving out.
“Why don’t you have any friends?”
“I—” But I stopped. How about that? He was right; my first instinct was to lie. “What does it matter to you if I don’t have any friends? Which—” I remembered laughing with Grace at the Dairy Bar. But Grace wanted only jokes, not questions. And Stephanie didn’t want my help. Then: Sherry’s invitation for that weekend. “As a matter of fact, I do have a friend.”
“Mr. Jeffries? That douchebag? I suppose he comes from a good family.”
“You don’t know a thing about him.”
“I know what they say,” he said.
“Oh, they. We’re listening to them now.”
“Who else is there?”
“What do they say, then?” I said.
“They say he likes little boys, for one thing.”
I was stunned to silence but fought it. “That’s just gossip. Why would you even believe that? How do you know he’s a douchebag? I don’t even know if he’s a douchebag yet.”
“He’s one of the douchebag coaches,” he said. “Steve says—”
“Oh, Steve says. Then sure.” As I came to the kitchen door, he thumped another cracker into dust with twin fists, one, two. “You’re making a mess.”
I eased past him for the broom, laying a hand on his arm as I went, but he shrunk away from my touch.
He said, “You’ve made a huge mess of our lives.”
My hand, stretching for the broom closet, swung around and struck Joshua’s cheek.
“You don’t know,” I said, choked. I could hardly speak through my rage. “What I made of our lives. You have no idea.”
“Look around, Mom. There’s nothing wrong with Steve Ransey. Everybody likes him and the guys he hangs out with.” He used his thumb to mash a shard of cracker into fine silt. “I’m the one who’s always new. I’m the one who doesn’t come from a good family.”
I turned and put my shaking hands on the counter. I had done the one thing I’d never wanted to do. When I looked again, the red outline of my hand showed on Joshua’s cheek. “You’re having trouble—making friends—”
“Had trouble. I had trouble making friends.” He picked up the box from the counter, folded it closed, and returned it to its home in the cabinet above his head. He started brushing the crumbs into a tidy pile. “You’re too late. You weren’t paying attention.”
If he had wanted to hurt me, he had struck the exact spot. Like an expert archer. “When was this?”