Page 36 of Love & Vendettas
When I head into the living room, I see the twins fighting, and Savannah is trying to break them up by herself. Where the fuck is Mama, I wonder.
Savannah is pulling at Denver, but that strong li’l nigga ain’t letting Aspen go. He has li’l dude in a headlock and is punching him in the ribs with his free hand. Aspen is trying to kick his twin in his babymakers, but he isn’t having any success.
“Help me!” Savannah shouts, pressing her lips together again as she struggles to pull Denver off Aspen with no success.
“Hey!” I shout.
When that doesn’t help, I walk to them and grab them by their shoulders, since they’re not wearing shirts, and jerk them apart.
“Ow,” Denver cries out, rubbing his shoulder.
Aspen has a similar reaction but without words.
“The hell is wrong with y’all? Look at you. You don’ broke Mama’s favorite picture frame.” I point my hand at the broken frame that is now shattered over a picture of our grandmother lying on the floor.
They both start shouting something at the same time, but I can’t understand them.
“Shut up!” I bark.
They do as I say. My twin brothers have always listened to me, but since our dad has been locked up, they do so even more now. I’ve become the father figure to all my siblings. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but something that became necessary.
They found themselves naturally avoiding Mama and coming to me with all their troubles because she either spaced out a lot or started crying. When our dad first got locked up, they went to Mama with every little thing, and eventually, she became overwhelmed and couldn’t handle all the troubles coming our way. She would hide in her room for hours at a time, forgetting to cook, not being bothered with homework, and trivial issues like missing socks or wrinkled clothes that needed an iron.
Those things became Savannah’s and my responsibilities after about four months. She instantly became a little mama at eight, helping me with the laundry and cooking. She soon started doing laundry on her own and ironing. We now take turns cooking.
I was in the streets, hustling to help pay bills. Mama would come in from work, tired after working a twelve-hour shift, and fall asleep. We wouldn’t see her again until she left the next morning, and we never had a chance to spend time with her until the weekends.
“What happened?” I ask my brothers. “You first, Aspen.”
“Why does he get to go first?” Denver pouts.
“Because I’m the oldest, big head.”
“That’s not fair,” Denver pouts.
“That’s not why. Aspen goes first because you went first last time, Denver.”
He sighs and folds his arms over his puny little chest.
“I was winning the game, and Denver got mad and snatched the controller from my hand.”
“Did not!” Denver shouts.
“Did too!” Aspen shouts back.
Denver is known to be a sore loser, so I’m inclined to believe Aspen.
“That happened,” Cheyenne agrees, bobbing her head as she looks up from where she’s now coloring in a coloring book on the floor.
“Shut up,” Denver tells her.
“Aye, man. Chill. That’s your little sister. You don’t talk to her like that. Remember what I taught you. We protect the ladies,” I tell him.
Denver nods and apologizes. “Sorry, Shy.”
“It’s okay,” she replies happily, returning her focus to coloring.
“A’ight. Time out for the game anyway. Aspen, take your bath. Denver, get on your homework. And then the reverse. Savvy, you good with dinner?” I ask Savannah.
