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I shake off my discomfort and holler to the kids that I’ll be in the car. I realize after the fact I should probably make sure the back door is locked, so I head back into the kitchen and twist the deadbolt.
“Perfect.” I catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the window, then jump at the sight of Ryan's behind me.
“You know what kind of people don’t talk to themselves?”
I spin around on my heel and give the ten-year-old my deepest frown. I was not talking to myself. I was observing aloud.
“The car.” I point in the direction of the driveway. “There’s a backseat with your name on it.” I toss the keys for him to unlock.
He catches it in one hand without breaking eye contact. “Athletes,” he says, then rounds the corner to the front of our two-story farmhouse.
The generous acreage is enough to make the twenty-minute drive into school and town worth it. The scenery alone should help ease the tension I’m sure will join us for the ride.
“Not true. Athletes motivate themselves with positive self-talk! Read it in a book!” I correct, maybe breaking my own no-yelling-in-the-house rule. But desperate times call for desperate measures, which in this case means looking a bit like a hypocrite.
I try to follow all the rules I lay out for the kids, at least the ones I can. The downside is they know this and never hesitate to point it out for their own good.
“No yelling!” Ryan hollers, just as Tina shuffles down with her neon purple backpack over her shoulders. She’s put her strawberry blond hair into a side braid, where it hangs over her right shoulder.
“I read that contact sports are some of the most rewarding.” She clutches the straps of her backpack, giving me an ‘isn’t that interesting?’ look.
“And what is this source of yours?”
“A tweet.”
“Get in the car.” I point toward the driveway again.
“From a sports doctor!”
“Car!” I sing, covering my ears and closing my eyes.
It’s what the two of us do when we’re trying to make a point while being playful about it. I cross my fingers and hope when I open my eyes, she’ll be out of sight and on her way to the car.
My wish is granted when I look around a few seconds later. “Phew,” I whisper under my breath, glad the argument is over for now.
3
JAROMIR
Hallorann Elementary is almost exactly how I remember it. Even down to the meaty smells wafting from the ancient cafeteria. I adjust my oversized sunglasses and hope no one looks at my one chipped tusk too closely. It’s a dead giveaway that tells everyone that, yes, Jaromirisin the house.
I close my fist and put it up to my mouth in an attempt to look like I’m clearing my throat. It’s my classic move when trying to hide the obvious fent to my tusk. A sneeze escapes me in the process, the halls being just as dusty as when a young Jaromir strutted these halls.
“Bless you,” the janitor, a satyr with a bit of a limp, says as he passes. I clear my throat again.
“Thanks, guy,” I say over my shoulder, pulling the fabric of my sleeve over my arm. My tattoos are another thing that stands out, which in most situations is a plus rather than a minus. I rarely have to start conversations because of them. Hot chicks love tattoos. Almost as much as they love Jaromir, me.
“Hey, don’t I know you?” I freeze at the question. How much could this janitor possibly make cleaning up puke and food fights? Would it be worth it to bribe him first?
“I’ll give you a thousand bucks if you say you never saw me.” When I look at the janitor, whose name tag reads Ted, his expression is one of confusion. And maybe a little horror.
“Hey, aren’t you Mona’s boy?” he asks, which is when I realize he didn’t know who I was until I just looked him in the eye.
Stupid, stupid, stupid…
“No,” I blurt. “I mean, yes. And no. I’m her son, but I’m not a boy.” I grab my wallet and gesture for him to take out five fifty-dollar bills. My injury isn’t making me the most graceful briber. The cash I have isn’t a thousand, but maybe it’ll still work. “You can get the rest later, yeah?” I whisper this last part.
“Huh?” Ted asks, and his voice bounces off the empty hall. “You should speak up. My hearing, it’s not so good.” He points to his hairy right ear, and I try not to gag. When was the last time Ted took a cotton swab to that thing? “Took one too many hits to the side of the head back in my younger years,” he explains. “But battle’s battle.”
