“We’re not done talking about this, though. We can’t be.” There’s commotion at the table, then the looming presence of two teenage boys behind me. Dishes appear at my side as they make room for themselves at the sink. “How am I going to pay you back? I don’t have a job yet,” Rawley asks afterTanner puts his plate in the sink and is finally wise enough to scram.
I sip my coffee, trying to find a sliver of peace this morning. The Bruisers have won the last two games, and Tanner’s been playing great. Archie hasn’t wet the bed in four days. I actually, for once, don’t have a double-shift tonight. Another sip of liquid heaven, and a long exhale. I face my son, who I love, but who is more than on my nerves at the moment. He’s actually inside of my nerves, stomping on them with his boot.
“You’ll get one now. I told you when you started driving the car that you’d need to start working.” I take a sip as my son searches my eyes for an impending “but” or an oncoming “however.” He won’t find one, though.
“Don’t give me that look. You’ve been driving for a few months, I’ve been footing the bill. The bill which includes a tutor you ghosted, I might add.” I take a few more sips while he stands there, calibrating to his new reality. No more hanging around the Turner house and playing music in my garage. Now it’s time for him to get a job.
I never wanted my boys to work so young, but they wanted things I never wanted.
Like Rawley.
His dad’s old car. He wanted that thing, and not because of his father, but because of his girlfriend. And I get that. But cars are expensive. Gas, insurance, oil changes, incidentals— going to his high school girlfriend's house to make out (and that’s ALL) isn’t so important that it’s worth five hundred dollars a month.
And the urgency is his punishment, so I tell him as much. Transparency has always been my friend in parenting.
“You lied to me, Rawley. Day after day. When I asked how it went with the tutor, and you said good, or shrugged it off or whatever your reply was, it wasn’t honest. And that costme a lot of money, son,” I say, holding his blue eyes with mine. To his credit, he doesn’t make excuses and he doesn’t look away. He meets my gaze attentively.
“I’m sorry, I really did feel bad about that. But you just… you set all that up and I didn't want that. I don’t want that.” He seems to deflate a little, and he closes his mouth, apparently out of argument for now.
“You can wash dishes at Goode’s after school. I’ll talk to Donna about it when I get to work today.” I pat his shoulder, then hold my palm to his cheek. “I’m open to talking about your options after school. I would never force you to go to college, okay? But we will have another discussion about the test. Later. Got it?”
He nods, and slips his dish into the sink behind me. “Alright.”
“Today, please come home after school for the tutor.” I give him a soft smile, and pull him into a hug which he returns. “If you skip the tutor again, or lie to me again, you’re not just paying me back, but you’ll be grounded, which means no car, and no Jo Jo.” I smile. “And no phone or laptop.”
I could’ve stripped him of all those things now. Yelled. Shouted. Rubbed his nose in his lie. Punished him for everything. But then what? He’ll only get better at hiding his feelings and keeping secrets. It won’t drive him to tell me more or want to take the test.
Soft parenting, that’s my style, and Troy always hated it.You let them get away with too much. He always said that when I didn’t come absolutely unglued at the seams when Rawley and Tanner left their bikes in the driveway, or left Legos on the floor. It’s like me not being angry made Troy angry or something, and even though he did his fair share of yellingand screaming at me over it, I’m proud to say he didn’t scare it out of me.
“Alright,” he agrees.
The next ten minutes are spent trying to put my hair up and get a little makeup on while Archie runs in and out of my bathroom, testing whatever is left of my thinning patience this morning.
“Swim trunks and a Wrestlemania t-shirt? Arch, no. No swim trunks,” I tell him, eyeing the cracked and faded image of The Rock across his little chest.
“Can I keep the t-shirt?” he asks, driving his hand into my makeup bag as he waits for my decision. I take his hand out and take the compact from him.
I think about the last two shirts he came in here wearing. The first was something that clearly got stuck in the back of the dresser for a few years—a shirt about three sizes too small for him, his entire midriff exposed like some miniature belly dancer.
After that, he came in wearing a camisole.Mycamisole. Bless his little soul, he thought it was simply a “really skinny strapped tank top” and somehow missed the tiny pink rosette on the front.
My sigh this time is deep and long. “The shirt is fine. Just… no swim trunks. Look for shorts.”
Tanner and Rawley appear, backpacks slung over their shoulders, clothes wrinkled but at least acceptably matching. Tanner wears basketball shorts and a hoodie with Crocs (I will never understand those things), while Rawley is only slightly less casual (albeit just as wrinkled) in black jeans and a black t-shirt, his hair scraped into the smallest of messy buns.
They fist bump Archie as he trudges back to his room to get changed. Tanner says goodbye and I promise him thatArchie and I will be at his game on time. It’s his third game, but it will be the first I don’t have to rush to in my uniform. I’m off at four today, with plenty of time to come home and get cleaned up beforehand. Rawley and I exchange a goodbye, with him promising he’ll be at the game with Jo Jo’s family (he goes to the JV game so she can sit with him since she’s a varsity cheerleader), and a handful of moments later, I’m driving Archie to Kindergarten, making a mental note that I need to do laundry.
So much for getting off of work early. And the plan to get to Tanner’s game in something other than a dirty, damp waitress dress? That’s out the window, too. In fact, I feel like I’ll be lucky if I make it before kickoff as it is.
“The timing belt?” I repeat, shaking my head. “How long will that take?”
I broke down on the way to work, after dropping Archie off, thankfully. And after a tow to Wrench Kings in Oakcreek, I’ve learned that my car—one of the two partially defunct cars that Troy left me and his children with when he split—needs a new timing belt. And apparently, a handful of other things that have “been ignored way too long.” I also got to hear from the grouchy, gruff mechanic that I am “lucky something worse didn’t happen sooner.”
I get that this man cares about the innards of cars the waydoctors care about organs and stuff, but I can’t stomach a lecture.
After he rattles off a handful of absolutely crucial things my car needs, along with an absolutely horrifying cost, I agree, because he’s kind of got me. I mean, I need my car. And $2600 in repairs is definitely less than buying or leasing a new car, so I sign on the dotted line, hop into Lorna’s pick up, and head back to the diner.
“Want me to take you and Archie to the game tonight, honey?” she asks, shifting the old blue and white Chevy into 1st gear. She lights up a cigarette, and I have the strongest urge to ask her to put it out, but then again, she’s doing me multiple favors. I discreetly push the smoke away with my hand and shake my head.
