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They sit up straight at that, a big smile overtaking their face, and they nod really big and fast.
I grin. “Cool. Well, nice to meet you, Squirt.”
The screen door swings open behind me, and I turn my head to find Mom staring down at us.
“This is Squirt,” I tell her, which has the kid giggling. Mom’s eyes are red, telling me she was crying, but her face softens with a smile at my words. She nods, and glances behind me, before sinking to her knees, joining us. “Hi, Squirt.”
The kid says nothing, but they’re smiling shyly from behind one of the turtle’s feet.
“Is it true?” I ask, turning back toward Mom, feeling the kid stare at me.
Mom doesn’t ask what I mean. She doesn’t have to. She looks between Squirt and me, inhaling deeply, and nods.
“Yes,” she says slowly. “This is your little brother.”
A brother…
I have a little brother.
The kid hides his face in the stuffy, burrowing down again.
“Dad…” I say quietly, slowly turning to meet Mom’s gaze once more. “He didn’t stop to say hi.”
Her mouth tightens and she gives a little shake of her head. “No, he did not.”
I go to ask why when a soft, little voice utters, “Daddy said you’re nice.”
We both turn to face Squirt.
“That you’ll watch me ’til they can come back for me.” His voice stutters a bit. “Mommy’s sick. Had to go away.”
Something sinks in me with his words, a bad feeling stirring up old, yucky, itchy-inside feelings. Squirt’s started rocking again, and fuzzy images of empty bottles and piles of a white sugar-like substance being pushed into little rows with the edge of a knife flash across my memory.
The smell of metal… sweet and sharp and wrong.
Does Squirt know that smell too?
He better not.
He's only five.
Just like I was…
Anger, fast and sudden, has me clenching my jaw and fists. Makes me wish Dad didn’t just drive off. I want to hit something. Someone…
Him.
“We’ll get this all sorted, okay?” Mom says, her voice thick, like she’s trying to choke back more tears. Makes me all the more angry. “Let’s go inside and I’ll fix you boys some breakfast.” She helps us both up, and grabs the duffle bag. “Do you like Captain Crunch, T-Tra?—”
“Squirt!” I rush out loudly, just as Mom’s voice hitches, stuttering over a name I haven’t heard her say in years. Not since she was screaming it from the other side of a trailer.
The same name Dad must’ve decided to give to his second-born son.
It’s not right.
It’s wrong.
I share a long look with my brother, who once again is hiding behind his turtle, peeking up at me over the floppy foot. “He doesn’t like his name,” I tell Mom firmly, not breaking our gazes. “It’s Squirt.”
