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My son has never asked for deodorant before. I suspect those teenage teammates of his gave him the idea. It’s kind of a good thing, I guess, that the boy is keen on maintaining his hygiene.
I rummage into the creased paper bag I got from the chemist, careful not to show Raffi its content—because there’s more than just kids’ antiperspirant in there. “Here.”
“Cool.” He rolls it on his armpits as if it’d been part of his post-practice regime forever. It just shows how fast kids learn, especially from other kids.
“Come, let’s go home.”
It’s not exactly home, but our uptown Airbnb condo is comfortable enough to be our home away from home, and this time we’re not sharing it with anyone. Privacy is easy to sacrifice when you’re strapped for cash, but boy, I’ll never take it for granted again.
Raffi keeps smelling his armpits as we drive.
“Do you like the smell?”
“Not bad.” He reads the deodorant label. “Gummy burst? No wonder I smell like watermelon.”
Watermelon is always better than old socks, which, admittedly, is how he smells sometimes. Chuckling, I mess up his sweat-laden hair.
“Mooom!” he protests. Probably he’s going to ask for hair gel soon.
I pull into our garage, looking left and right, ahead and behind. I usually stay close to Raffi even after we’ve entered the building, along the stairs and hallway to our apartment on the fourth floor.
“When are we going back to California?” Raffi stomps his way up the last flight of stairs with his head down.
“Soon, baby.” I unlock the door with Raffi shielded behind me, my hand inside my bag, ready to pull out my gun. But the boy slides past me, entering without care.
He shakes his head behind the basketball spinning on his finger. I know he thinks our getting in and out routine is silly, but I can’t take any chances.
“I mean, playing at the club is nice, but it’s not the same.” He bounces the ball on the floor and starts dribbling.
“Raffi, don’t do that. Neighbors will complain.”
He grumbles, throwing himself on the couch. “I miss our house in L.A. I know it’s Uncle Don’s but, you know—it was a house.”
“I know.” Guilt piles up in my chest, and I can’t even look him in the eye.
“I understand we have to stay safe, away from him. But…I’m bored.”
We can’t be on the run forever. I was hoping that by this time, I would’ve had a clear view of how to beat Don. But no option seems to be feasible.
“I’m sorry, baby.” I join him on the couch, telling him what has just hatched in my head. “Do you remember New York? Did you like it there?”
“Hmm… don’t really remember. What’s wrong with California?”
“Let me think about it. Go and have a show—” I leave him mid-sentence and run to the only bathroom in the apartment.
Holding the eruption of my stomach in my mouth, I barely make it.
There goes my lunch.
“Mom, are you okay?” asks Raffi from outside the door.
“Yes, baby. Go and watch tv.”
When I come out, Raffi is there waiting for me by the door. He peruses me with concern. “Would you like me to make you some tea?”
“It’s okay. I can make it.”
“No, no, Mom. Sit down. I’ll make it for you.”
