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Hisgrin widens. “Becauseyou want it all for yourself.”
“Don’tjudge me.I’mthe one who does all the work.”
Romanhelps me bake sometimes, but usuallyI’malone in here.Whenthe sun comes through the window just right and the air smells of fresh cookies, this shitty little kitchen turns into my favorite place in the house.Thecozy sunlight catchesCalvinas he gingerly crosses the room and studies my ingredients, poking at each bag and box so he can read the label. “Whatkind are you making?”
“Oatmealchocolate chip,Ithink.”
Helooks over his shoulder again, this time with a deep wistfulness, then lowers his voice. “DoesBecklike those?CouldIgive him one?”
Myheart breaks a little.Theway he andBeckalways look at each other, like they’re both seeing something they’ve never had before, destroys me. “They’rehis favorite.”
IthoughtI’dspend most of my time cleaning up after him, butCalvinis a shockingly proficient baker, even with only one arm.Helines everything up in order, asks a lot of questionsI’venever considered about how the liquids and flours work together, and drops a perfect arrangement of dough onto each baking tray.Insteadof running off to play with the animals, he plops himself cross-legged on the floor with his back against the oven and waits, checking the grimy little window every thirty seconds.Ifeel sorry for him after a while and offer him a beat up old book of dessert recipes the guys got me forChristmas.Hespends the rest of the twenty minutes poring over each page with his lip between his teeth and his leg bouncing impatiently.
Assoon as the timer on my phone goes off, he scrambles to his feet and throws open the oven door. “They’redone, right?”
“Lookinggood.Nowwe have to let them–”BeforeIcan even set the trays down,Calvinhas somehow whisked two melty cookies onto a paper towel and walked away with it balanced in his palm.
NormallyItake the time to scrape the cookies up with a fork and drop them onto a plate to cool, but todayIjust snag one with my fingers and follow the kid, hanging back to give him space.
Beckhasn’t moved for hours, still slouched down with his arms around himself, letting theTVbombard him with colors and sounds.Hedoesn’t lift his head untilCalvinstops a foot away and clears his throat. “Hey.”Straighteningup, he grimaces and stretches out his back. “Whatdo you need?”Underneaththe forced friendliness,Icatch the miserable hint ofplease go away.BasedonCalvin’sexpression, he can hear it too.
Theboy tilts his chin up and holds out his hand. “Wemade you a cookie.”Themolten treat is about to disintegrate in his palm.
Beck’seyes flick to me, then back toCalvin. “Thanks.”Hegingerly accepts the napkin, then stares at it like he’s not sure what to do.WhenCalvinjust waits expectantly, he pulls off a steaming corner and tastes it. “They’regood.Nicework.”Neverhas the man sounded less enthusiastic about food.Avoidingeye contact with the kid, he sets the cookie down and turns back to theTV.
“Dallassaid you’re scared of baking.”
Beckglances at me again, with the ghost of a tired smile. “He’sright.Thedirections are weird, and everything’s made of powder and goop.”
Aftera long, uncertain pause,Calvinsnatches the remote off the arm of the couch and mutes theTV.Idon’t think he even remembersI’min the room as he drops to his knees on the cushion next toBeck. “Idon’t know whatIdid,” he blurts, “butI’mso sorry.It’sbecauseIhung out with those guys, isn’t it?”Hisvoice breaks. “Pleasedon’t hate me anymore.I’lltry to do better.”
Mythroat tightens.Iwant to hug both of them, butIstay whereIam.Fromhere,Ican’t seeBeck’sexpression as he slowly lifts his head.Hisvoice sounds tight and hurt. “Idon’t hate you.Ihate myself.”
Insteadof protesting,Calvinjust sits there with a thoughtful expression, looking much older than twelve.Iguess he knows a thing or two about self-hatred–just likeBeck, just like me.
“Iwant to do better,”Beckventures finally. “There’smore out there for us than climbing fences and stealing shit.ButIdon’t know what it is.Iusually make bad decisions.”
Calvinfrowns like he’s working out the secrets of the universe. “Ifyou tell me the options,” he ventures, “Icould help pick sometimes.Ihad to decideIwas a boy, and that was a really big choice.”
“Sure,”Becksays gently.Hestill sounds tired, but less like despair and more like someone facing a long path with an end they can’t see yet. “Youcan help me figure out something new to try together.”Hiseyes slide over to mine, andfuckhe really means it.Likehe never has before.
Calvinpokes him in the ribs, his eyes on theTV. “Whatare they doing?”
Beckflashes me a wry smile, then grabsCalvin’shead and pulls him down to lean against him. “Makingknives.”
“Youcanmakea knife?Witha hammer?”
“Youbet.”Beckgrabs the remote and turns on the sound. “Checkit out.”He’sprobably thrilled–when he showed me an episode, allIsaid wasdo these people not know you can just drive to the store and buy a knife?
Neitherof them moves for the rest of the afternoon.Ihave better things to do, butIkeep baking more and more cookies soIhave an excuse to stay in the kitchen and listen to them talk.Calvincurls up againstBeck’sshoulder, asking a nonstop stream of muffled questions about tools, techniques, and the properties of metal.Hestumps the man within five minutes, just like he did to me in the kitchen.Akid this smart really needs to be in school, if we could figure out some kind of documentation.
WhenI’mpulling a batch of chai cookies out of the oven and realizingIhave nowhere to put them, the floor creaks behind me.Beckstands a little stiffly in the doorway, his hair a mess, and stares at me likeI’ma lifeline in a storm.
“Hey, love.”Itoss the cookie tray on top of a different cookie tray and hurry over to twine my fingers through his.
Heangles his head toward the living room. “Kiddofell asleep.”
WhenIrest my palm against his cheek, he closes his eyes and leans into it. “Ilove you so much,”Imurmur. “AndI’mso proud of you.You’restill the best manIknow.”
