Funny, how things like that work out.
“Take any of the trials?” I ask her, dumping my stuff in the back.
“Oh, yeah, I was up in the stand, didn’t you see—ah!” She gets cut off by JJ picking her up from behind, trying to spin her around. He must have been right behind me coming out of the changing room—naturally, since I’m his ride everywhere. I swear his umbilical cord is attached to me.
“Did you get my good side?” JJ asks her, once he’s finally let her feet touch the pavement.
“Which side is that, again?”
“You’re right, who am I kidding. Every side is a good side.”
I’m sure he’d like to think so.
JJ throws his bag in the back by mine, Claire’s eyes tracking his every move like she’s locked in a trance. It isn’t anything new—she’s had a crush on him since she was four years old. He used to pick every wildflower and weed, stuff them in his pockets, and bring them to her. She’s been smitten ever since.
I drive us all home, planning to drop my stuff off inside and head back out to the bakery. I like to help Mam out there as much as I can. I change in my room, and then stop in Claire’sdoorway as I leave to make sure they know to get themselves supper. She and JJ are on the floor with the kittens, holding them up and inspecting between their legs.
What the fuck?
“Oi. What are you lot doing?”
They both look at me, and JJ holds up the little orange and white one. “We’re just trying to figure out if they’re boys or girls. Ya know, so we can name them.”
The first time Claire and JJ brought home a broken animal—this bird they’d found while riding bikes with Finn, while Da and I had been baking together in the house—Dad had told them that they should always name them. Mam thought it was a terrible idea, since she didn’t want them getting too attached to this bird that was probably going to die, and future animals that were bound to not make it either.
Da’s logic was that if they named them, they would take better care of them.
“You don’t want them to die if you name them,” he’d said, ruffling Claire’s hair while JJ nodded sagely, as if he was the expert on animal rearing.
The bird didn’t die by the way. We released it at the park a few weeks later, letting it fly off into the sun. Whatever the animal equivalent of a green thumb is, Da had it.
“Alright, give ‘em here.” I get down on the floor, my knee not giving much protest. It’s been alright the past couple days, which I hope is a good sign for the future. JJ hands me his kitten, and I flip it around for inspection. “Yeah, this one’s a girl.”
Claire leans closer. “How do you know?”
“You just—look.” I point. “See? No tackle.”
“Ohhhhh,” JJ muses, looking over my other shoulder. We must look terrifying to this poor wee thing. “So if it’s got a little slit—”
“Oh my god, ew, don’t say it like that!”
“Like what?” JJ looks perplexed by Claire’s reaction. “That’s what it is!”
I shake my head, handing the kitten back to JJ. He kisses its head, grinning at it. “Aww. I’m gonna name her Shannon. Like the river.”
“That’s idiotic. Cats hate water. And I want to name them.”
“It’s ironic, is what it is, Claire-Bear. And you don’t get to name them all. They’re my babies, too. I have rights.”
I leave them to their little custody spat, shutting the door on them as they launch into a ridiculous debate on water-based cat names and dictatorship over cat parenting.
8
Do you know the muffin man?
Molly
September, 2007
