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7
SUNDAY
“Ms. Lane,can Gus come to my house?”
Choking on a groan, I take my sweet time meeting the oh-so-innocent eyes of my son’s new best friend as he asks me my least favorite question in the world.
They’re tag-teaming me, the little shits. Crowding the other side of my desk, Isaac and August wear matching angelic smiles. At the first whiff of refusal, they pout in perfect synchronicity, clasping their hands beneath their chins. “Please?”
Christ, it’s like they spent recess practicing. If I wasn’t so filled with imminent dread, I’d laugh.
Leaning back in my chair, I cast a wistful glance at the stack of journals—an ongoing writing assignment for my class—I was so peacefully correcting before eyeing the pair uneasily. “I don’t know, boys. It’s a school night.” And I hate play dates. Ihateplay dates with a burning fucking passion. I especially hate play dates when they’re with the kid of the woman who knows how intimately I know our new baseball coach.
It’s not that I don’t like Luna—I’m not sure disliking her is an option she often provides. She’s funny and kinda wild and a little terrifying but she’s nice, to me and to my kid. Any treat or compliment or casual affection her kids get, August does too. She sits with me at every team event. She has, and likely will continue to, come up with several new, creative ways to discreetly flash Kristal the finger.
But it’s still weird. It’s still slightly uncomfortable, given her close relationship with a man who hates my guts. And, at the risk of sounding pathetic, I’m too exhausted today to pretend it doesn’t bother me. Early morning practices suck the life out of me even when I’m not fighting off the stirrings of a cold or the flu or whatever curse Satan reincarnated as a housewife probably cast upon me earlier this week when the Select team rankings were released and my kid placed higher than hers.
When August changes tactics, swapping puppy-dog eyes for the stink-eye, I fear I’m fighting a losing battle.“Please, Mama.”
Who is this boy and what has he done with my kid? August usually hates socializing as much as I do. I can’t count how many times he faked illness or injury to get out of something. When he was little, I used to drag him to every gathering he was invited to but he was always miserable so I stopped. Sure, it worried me, but I couldn’t really blame him; most of the kids back home were just like their parents—freaking heinous—and I wasn’t gonna force him. There were some decent boys on his old Select team, he hung out with them during practices and tournaments, and that’s how he liked it. Spending any prolonged length of time exchanging pleasantries in a stranger’s house makes us both wanna rip our hair out yet here he is, begging for just that.
Narrowing my eyes at him, I silently ask,You really wanna go?
Blond curls bounce as August nods damn near frantically.
Fuck my life.
“I gotta ask your mom first.”
The words are barely out of my mouth before Isaac waves them off. “She won’t mind.”
Fantastic. “Still gotta ask, bud.”
He smiles wide and bright, not even slightly concerned. “Okay, Ms. Lane,” he sings, slipping August an entirely unsubtle high-five before sauntering back to his desk.
When August lingers, I ask, “All good, Goose?”
His head bobs. “Thanks. I know you don’t wanna go.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You hate play dates.”
“Youhate play dates,” I retort. Something catches in my throat when August doesn’t immediately agree. “Don’t you?”
What does my son do?
Shrugs.
He freakingshrugs.
Glancing at the door, I check no other kids are filing into the classroom as recess comes to an end. When I confirm August and Isaac are the only two eager beavers, I roll my chair backwards and gesture August closer. “You don’t?”
Reluctantly shuffling towards me, he hesitates before quietly confessing, “I don’tlovethem. But I don’t hate them either.”
“You never wanted to go to any.” I’m sure I didn’t imagine that; I vividly recall him threatening to call CPS if I dragged him to one more birthday party when he was seven. “What’re you not telling me?”
Eyes on the floor, he cracks my heart in half. “They always talked about you.”
