Getting Played

I installed the two-inch tile backsplash myself—on camera. It was painstaking work—but also meditative. Listening to music helped pass the time as well as romance audiobooks—a suggestion from one of my followers.

Finally, the sculpted glass chandelier that hangs over the shiny, white, marble-topped island gives the whole room a real touch of sophistication.

I pick up the empty spray bottle on the counter and pour each ingredient in. “We mix together one cup of hydrogen peroxide, two teaspoons of baking soda, a drop of dish soap and a squeeze of lemon—and voila! We have an effective, lemony-smelling carpet and fabric cleaner that’s safe for babies, pregnant ladies, animals and plants—that you can make yourself for pennies.”

It’s baking soda day. I’ve shown them how to make homemade teeth-whitening trays, toothpaste, insect bite cream, heartburn remedies and now carpet cleaner.

Baking soda is a miraculous substance—you can use it for everything.

I spray the bottled solution into the air. “And that’s it for now. All our recipes are in the comments below this video and I will see you tomorrow when we’ll continue working on decorating the living room. Bye, Lifers!”

I press the end record button and plop my tired self down in a chair—my stomach still feeling moody. Jason walks into the kitchen a little while later. There’s an infinitesimal pause before he sets his bag on one of the white wicker island stools—and I know he’s noticing my pale cheeks and the pink burst-blood vessels in my eyes.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hey, honey. How was school?”

“It was good.”

Jason fills up a glass of water at the sink and passes it to me.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

“How are you and the bump doing? Did you get sick again?”

“Yeah, I did. It’s probably going to be a regular thing for a while so I don’t want you to worry.”

“Okay.”

And then he looks at me—worrying. With those young old-man eyes.

He slips his phone out of his pocket and sends a text. Then he moves to the garbage can, tying up the bag to take it out, without being asked. His phone pings on the counter with a few incoming texts.

I sip my water. “What’s that about?”

My son shrugs. “A few of us were going to go to the football game tonight.”

Jason has friends. It started the first day of school and in the six weeks we’ve lived here, his place in the little band of misfit kids has solidified. They’re a nice group—polite, smart, a little hyper, a little odd. They’ve even taken it upon themselves to decorate the attic with dozens of dangling Blair Witch Project-like talismans, because apparently the house is teeming with ghosts. But they make Jason happy—they make him smile easier and more often than I’ve ever seen, so unless they start talking animal sacrifice or building an altar to Satan, I don’t mind.

“Coach Walker said there’s half an extra credit point in it for us if he actually sees us at the game.”

Ah, the illustrious Coach Walker.

According to my son, Coach Walker sounds like a combination of Captain America, Eddie Vedder, Chris Hemsworth, and Albert Einstein. The day Jason told me he plays in a band, I almost asked him if the name was Amber Sound, just to torture myself.

“What does football have to do with calculus?” I ask.

Jay smirks in that way kids do when they think adults are being ridiculous.

“He says we need to expand our horizons.”

I smile too. “Can’t argue with that.”

Jay’s phone pings again.

“But I’m not gonna go to the game,” he says.

“Why not?”

He lifts one shoulder. “I’d rather stay in tonight. Home. With you.”

Oh boy. When a fourteen-year-old is canceling plans because he’s worried that his pregnant, losing-loser of a mom has zero offline social life and is basically a hermit when she’s working on a project—that’s some Holy Batman level pathetic, right there.

“Jay—”

“It’s fine, Mom. We’ll watch a movie, it’ll be fun.”

My sweet Jaybird can be stubborn—he gets that from me—so there’s no point to arguing. Instead, I change tactics.

“I was actually thinking about going to the football game tonight too.”

Jason’s eyebrows dart hopefully. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean basically the whole town goes, right? It’ll be good to get out. You’ll get your half-point extra credit and the nugget and I will get some fresh air.” I put my hand on my stomach. “Why not?”

~ ~ ~

Football is a big deal around Lakeside. The high school stadium is larger than I expect and immaculate—with rows of fan-packed concrete bleachers, a freshly painted blue and gold snack stand, and a top-of-the-line score board. The October air is damp and crisp but not too cold, so I wear a long-sleeved black thermal top, comfy denim overalls and a knit black beanie with my hair down in curled waves around my shoulders.

Jason and I arrive midway through the first quarter, and as we walk around the outer fence, the whole Lakeside section rises to their feet, cheering, as the band strikes up a soaring victory tune when one of our players dives into the end zone.

Three of Jason’s friends catch up to us about halfway around the field.

“Hi, Jason! Hi Miss, Burrows!”

“Hi, kids.”

“That’s a great hat, Miss Burrows. Did you crochet it yourself?”

Before I can answer, Quinn, a chipper, dark-haired girl, with darting, bright blue eyes, just keeps right on talking.

“I crochet too, especially when I can’t sleep and I almost never sleep. It used to drive my Mom crazy hearing me walk around the house at night so she said I had to stay in my room, but now when I can’t sleep I just crochet and it works really well. I was going to make us all Christmas sweaters if I have the time and—” she looks at Jason “—do you celebrate Christmas?”

It’s amazing that she can get all that out in one breath.

Jason smiles, because he’s used to Quinn’s run-on sentences.

“Yeah, Quinn—we celebrate Christmas.”

“Oh.” She smiles, nodding, and seems to remember to close her mouth. “Cool.”

“Come on, Jay,” Louis says. “Keydon’s on the other side of the field, where he can pick up Wi-Fi, working on this new algorithm that chooses the best plays based on the opposing team’s player’s stats. It’s lit. We’re going to show it to Coach Walker after the game.”

Jason glances at me hesitantly.

“Go ahead, I’ll be fine. I’m going to find a seat and watch the game.”

“All right. Thanks, Mom.”

As the kids walk away, Louis turns back to me. “There are a few seats left at the top, Miss Burrows!”

I wave a thank you and head in that direction.

The crowd cheers again, standing as I make it to Lakeside’s end of the field. The band plays a song and the cheerleaders do a quick track-side routine. The air smells like leaves and wet grass—with a hint of pizza that makes my stomach churn. I’m out of breath by the time I make it to the top of the bleachers, but when I look around, there isn’t anywhere to sit.

Just as I turn to head back down the steps, a whirlwind warm little body collides with my leg, holding on tight. He’s about two years old with baby soft brown hair, big onyx eyes and a devil of a smile.

“Boo!”

Automatically, I cover my face with my hands and quickly peek out—because when an adorable little boy boos you, you boo him back.

“Boo!”

He lets out a delighted belly laugh—until a voice calls out from behind him.

“Will!”

Will’s eyes go wide and he bounces up and down like a monkey who wants out of his cage.

“Up, up, up, up, up!”

I scoop up the little runaway—and his warm, solid baby weight feels beautifully familiar to my arms.

Then I mak

e eye contact with the smiling blond woman coming down the row. She’s about my age, with soft, pretty features.

“I’m guessing he belongs to you,” I tell her.

“Yes, thank you.”

I hand the bouncy boy over. “He would’ve been all the way to the other end if you hadn’t grabbed him. Running is his favorite thing to do.”

“No problem.”

“No!” Will frowns, his little brows squeezing together. “No sit!”

“Yes, sit,” his mother tells him, kissing his chubby fist. “We’re going to watch the game. You don’t want to miss it.”

I look toward the steps as everyone in the bleachers stands up again, cheering over something on the field.

“Were you looking for a place to sit?” She cocks her head toward the announcer’s box. “There’s a spot at the end by us, you’re welcome to join us.”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

I follow her down the row and she sits beside an older couple wearing matching Lakeside High School sweatshirts.