Page 8 of My Own Kind of Person

Eight.

Houses and apartments had mold or weird landlords, and I broke down in classes and begged Mom to pick me up, and she worked until she crashed and zoned out, and we moved again and again. We moved ten times in ten years, all around Long Island. I don’t know if we weren’t good at taking care of ourselves, or if the world wasn’t good at taking care of us, but once I told a school counselor I hoped there was a heaven so one day Mom would get to relax.

Nine.

No matter what happens, though, if we can make each other laugh, we’ll be okay. That’s why I want to be a comedian. Everyone’s life is hard. The world is weird. I want to help us forget the stress for a minute and feel good.

Ten.

I jump up. “I didn’t tell you what happened last night!”

Mom slowly turns. “What happened?”

I didn’t lose my virginity!

“A woman came up to me after the show and said I reminded her of her son.”

“Aw.” She gets fake-tough. “Didja tell her you don’t need another mother?”

“I shook my fist and said, ‘Stay away, nice lady. I already got a mom.’ ”

She laughs, but only once. “That’s very sweet, though. I’m glad she got to see my amazing little boy.”

“You just gave me my new stage name.” I do casual jazz hands. “The Amazing Little Boy.”

She laughs again and goes to the kitchen to put her mug in the sink. Physical movement is a good sign. But my relief that she’s okay is replaced by frustration with myself for almost dragging her into my dark mood. I worry that’s what I’m really like if I don’t keep myself in line: a black hole that sucks other people into its nothingness. And makes Mom’s life harder than it already is. And on her first day at a real job she’s excited about.

This is the longest we’ve ever stayed in the same house. It’s also the nicest house we’ve had since being next to Tony. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want everything to change again.

“I’m feeling great about my next set!” I shout. “I’m already getting new ideas!”

“Does this mean I’ll actually get to come to one of your shows soon?”

“Soon!” My heart races as I look around the living room, trying to think of how to make it better for her. I fluff the pillows on the couch. I tidy up our shoes near the door. I push the crumbs off the coffee table into my hand and put them in my back pocket.

Mom rushes in, checks her phone, and does a silent scream. Sometimes she does things that are just like me. I don’t know which of us learned it from the other one.

“It is time,” she says in a robot voice. She touches her thumb and pointer to my cheek and makes a kissing sound. “Love you.”

“Wub woo.”

“My beautiful child.” She shuffles to the front door and turns. “What would I do without you?”

I want to cry.

I bat my eyes. “Who, me?”

She smiles. “I love you, sweetheart.”

I block the words before they enter my ears, I don’t know why.

I watch her get in the car and drive away. I do love her. And if keeping her happy—if keeping us here—means keeping myself cute and silly, that is exactly what I’ll do. I like being cute and silly. It makes me happy to make her happy.

So why am I still standing in the living room zoning out?

Chapter 4

The only thing worse than feeling bad would be allowing anyone else to notice, so when school starts a few days later I swallow Sad Sean to the bottom of my belly and put on my public-facing self.