I step into the hall right as Rawley’s door swings open. He stands there in plaid pajama pants that I rifled out of the discount bin last spring, a white tank top, his hair pulled back into a tiny bun. Sweat glistens along his collarbone and down his arms, and past the open door I spot two dumbbells on the floor. Hewasworking out. At least part of the time.
“Morning,” I greet him, swiping my palms down the front of my faded robe.
He glances at the laundry room door then to me. “Archie pee the bed again?”
I nod. “Sleep well?”
He shrugs then moves past me toward the bathroom, where he slips inside and starts the shower a moment later. Heading down the hall toward the kitchen, I get there just as the kettle starts whistling, and turn the burner off. As I’m filling a mug with steaming hot water, Archie opens the back door, mud caked on his boots. He makes it two paces inside before I snap.
“Freeze. Take the boots off out back, Arch! C’mon. Look how much mud is on those things, buddy,” I sigh, hastily shoving my hand into the jar of tea bags on the counter. I pull out two and rip them open without looking. Dunking them in the mug, I watch my son step backward out the door and return a moment later, feet bare. He smiles. “Better?”
It’s then that I notice the corners of his mouth are sticky. I put my hand on my hips as my tea steeps. “Archie, I told you not to eat peaches off Mrs. Salinger's tree. She practically counts those things! She gets upset if someone steals a peach.”
He looks down at his bare toes, hanging his head and slouching his shoulders with undeniable guilt. “Sorry, mama. They just taste so good.”
I close the gap between us and stroke my fingers through his soft hair, collecting his chin in my hand. I bring our eyes together. “It’s okay, Arch. Just… tell me when you want peaches, okay? I’ll grab them at the Eat O Rama.”
Just then, Tanner appears, wearing a Bluebell Bruisers football hoodie, basketball shorts, and socks with slides. His hair is an absolute shaggy mess, and I realize I’m behind on both laundryandhaircuts. I sift my hands through Archie’s hair again.
“If I’m home early enough, let's get you guys' hair cut tonight, okay?” I ask, looking down at Archie who shrugs. I could shave his head and he wouldn’t care. He’s not at the “care about my appearance” phase of life yet. I’m envious of him in that regard.
Tanner yawns, filling a bowl full of cereal out of the box that was already on the table. God, this house is a mess. No matter how much I clean or pick up, someone is right behind me with a singular stray sock, a pile of dirty dishes, a piece of garbage that didn’t quite make it to the can—it's always something, I swear. Tanner nods at his little brother. “Arch, grab me the milk,” he says.
While Archie gets Tanner milk, I pull the bags from my mug, realizing I put in one lemon tea and one chai tea. Bringing the mug to my nose, I smell the mixture and dump it into the sink. I’ll get something at the diner—I’m notdrinking tea that smells like my grandmother’s bathroom. Tired and somewhat achy because one thing they don’t tell you about motherhood is that your body almost always just kind of hurts somewhere. I grab a loaf of bread and a few eggs from the fridge, and start making french toast.
Tanner is munching on some sugar abomination loudly, and Archie is banging his hand against the glass of the back door, trying to scare a bird, when just then, the phone rings. With butter sizzling in the pan, I move across the small kitchen to the corded phone on the wall, and answer.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mrs. Colt? This is John, the SAT tutor you hired.”
I glance down the hall toward the bathroom door, which is still closed, steam clouded at the base of the door. My heart races a little, like if he opened the door right now and saw me on the phone, I’d be caught. But the truth is, I have to have this conversation with Rawley this morning. I can’t wait any longer, as much as I don’t want to have it. “Hi, what’s up? We’re still on for this afternoon, right?”
John confirms. “Yep, that’s why I was calling. Just to confirm.”
“Perfect, he’ll be here. And it’s forty for the hour, right?”
“Yep. Forty for the hour. And I just wanted to verify your address. You’re at 514 Popular, right?”
I nod, twisting the cord of the phone around my finger. “Yep.”
“Great,” he says. “I’ll see him then.”
“Great.” I slowly replace the handset and pad across the kitchen to find my butter burned, but that was the last of it so burned french toast will have to do. Cracking eggs into a bowl, I add some cinnamon, dunk the bread, then toss the first slice into the pan.
“Who was that?” Tanner asks, tipping his cereal bowl to slurp the sugary milk.
“That was an SAT tutor I hired for Rawley,” I say nervously, because I know without a doubt that Rawley is going to despise this. Archie slams his hand into the door again and again, and I pinch the bridge of my nose with one hand, flipping the slices of burned bread with the other. “Arch, c’mon, that’s loud. Quit that, please.”
“Does he know?” Tanner asks.
“He who?” Rawley questions as he appears in the kitchen, wet hair pulled back into that same small ponytail. He smells like cologne, and I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with my son being old enough to have a reason to wear cologne.
I chew the inside of my cheek a second before dragging two pieces of crispy french toast onto a plate, passing it to Archie. I put another few slices through the egg mixture and onto the skillet for Rawley. “You. I hired you an SAT tutor and he just called to verify today’s session.”
Rawley’s blue eyes narrow to a point, and though he doesn’t move, his expression prods me. “Rawley, your prep test showed you need improvement. You’ll be in your senior year in a matter of months. We have to get your scores up a bit.” I flip the toast without looking, keeping my eyes on my soulful son.
He’s sharp, all of my boys are, but getting Rawley to focus has always been a challenge. Now that he’s in a band and has a girlfriend, his SAT prep has fallen by the wayside. And I can’t keep telling him to study. It just isn’t working.
