2
“Move your booty, June Bug. We’re gonna be late.”
Jude giggles from his spot at the tiny kitchen island, which I suppose is technically more like a peninsula, given that it’s attached to the wall.
“You said move your booty to her,” he mumbles with a mouth full of waffle, and I reach over and boop his nose with my finger.
“Eat your waffles, Jude.” He huffs into his plate, so I smile and correct myself. “Eat your waffles, Captain Meatball.” He beams.
“This isn’t waffles, Mom, this is pirate food from the ocean.”
“Yeah? Is it tasty?”
“Yeah, it’s really good and mermaids eat it too.”
“That’s very cool,” I say, my tone full of excited awe. I’m always amazed by the depths of his imagination. It’s endless.
“Can I wear my pirate vest today?”
“Not today. It’s in the wash.”
He groans loudly, and I stifle a laugh at the dramatics. The most expressive four-year-old in the world, I think.
“You can wear it tomorrow, okay?”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Just as I’m putting June’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich into her Wonder Woman lunch box, she rounds the corner and slides onto the stool. I watch as she silently pulls her plate of knock-off Eggo waffles in front of her, then throws me a pathetic, pleading look.
“Don’t even ask it, June.” I shake my head and turn to pour the last of the milk in a glass for her. “You have to go. You’ve only got a few weeks until summer, anyway. So, you’re going. Learn all the things, get a nice big brain, and before you know it, ten years will pass and you’ll be eighteen and graduated and will never have to go back.”
She huffs and shoves a forkful of waffle into her mouth. I glance at her outfit. Jeans and an oversized-green sweatshirt.
“You got a t-shirt on under that?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. She shakes her head and continues eating. “It’s supposed to warm up this afternoon. You sure you don’t want to layer in case you get hot?”
She shakes her head again, and I stifle a sigh. I don’t want to push her. But it’s difficult not to. I smooth my frown into a smile when I feel Jude’s eyes on me.
“Is today Wednesday?”
“Yessir, it is.”
“Can we visit my friend?” he asks, referring to the boy he met next door. I’m not sure what they talked about, but he made an impression on Jude. It’s been nearly three weeks, but he won’t stop bringing him up. The boy with no s’mores.
“Not today, bud. We don’t even know if that boy lives there.”
Boy? Is that right? Something about it feels awkward on my tongue. Like tripping over a lie, or a secret you tell to protect yourself from the truth. He certainly didn’t look that young, not that I could really tell much in the darkness. But since this whole cluster of townhouses is full of college students, it’s a safe assumption that the kid was probably around eighteen. I was worried when I signed this lease that we’d be living in some frat-row nightmare, but the rent was so reasonable and the house was so nice, I took the chance. It also helped that Stanton Property Management, the company that owns all the townhouses, assured me that we could break the lease early if the area wasn’t to our liking.
“Can we knock and see?” Jude continues, and I take a big gulp of my coffee. We’ve been out of creamer since Monday, and we just ran out of milk, so the taste is bitter in my mouth. Overpowering. Almost nauseating. But like most unpleasant things, I’ll get used to it after a few more sips, tolerate it, and then ignore it all together.
“Not today, Jude,” I repeat. “We’re already running behind for school, and you guys go to your dad’s tonight.”
“Will you be very late?” June chimes in, and when I look at her, she’s got her pleading eyes on again.
“You know I work,” I say softly. “But I can be there after, okay?”
“Thanks,” she whispers, then snags her lunch box and walks out of the kitchen.
The kids are supposed to stay the night at Patrick’s every Wednesday, but so far, that’s only happened a few times. June doesn’t want to be there, and I get the impression Patrick doesn’t want them there, either. Cramping his bachelor style or whatever. Sometimes I feel like I should force it, but honestly, I sleep better when they’re with me.
“Let’s go, Captain,” I say to Jude as I put his and June’s dirty plates in the sink. I’ll have to wait until tonight to wash them because we’re running late. Again.
June is already buckled in the back seat when Jude and I walk into the garage. I get Jude strapped into his car seat, then I climb into the front.
“Okay,” I say before pulling out of the garage, “Jude, it’s your turn to be DJ.”
“Stories!” he shouts, like I knew he would. I pull up the story time podcast on my phone and push play, and the dulcet tone of the podcast’s hippie librarian host plays through the speakers of my trusty Camry. Today, she’s reading us a story about a girl named Stephanie and her ponytail. We’ve heard this one before, but I like it. It teaches a good lesson, and I flick my eyes to the rearview mirror to see if June is paying attention.
I let the kids take turns with the radio. Jude always chooses stories, and June always chooses music. Specifically, BTS on repeat. And usually, after I drop them at school, I’ll forget to change the radio back to something I would choose.
At this point, I’m not even sure I know what I would choose.
Silence, probably.
I could scan for the local pop station, but I would probably only recognize the songs by BTS. My brow furrows at the realization.
Do I really not know what I would listen to if given free rein of my own car radio?
Before the kids, what did I like to listen to? When I was young, one of my foster dads would play classic rock and conservative talk radio. By the time I was sixteen, Patrick was driving me everywhere, and he put himself in charge of the music. He always had a country station on, and I never complained, but damn if I can recall a single artist or song.
In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize I never actually liked any of it.
If I did, wouldn’t it have stuck? Been memorable in some way?