November 20th: Confrontation with a callous bitch

Ty is asleep on the couch when I get home. He stirs when I walk through the door.

“You okay?” he asks sleepily, peering up at my tear-streaked face.

I nod. “Rough night.”

“She okay?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

I shrug. “I don’t know. I really don’t.” I glance at the VCR clock. “I am so, so glad that tomorrow is Saturday.”

“Tell me about it.” He yawns. “Garrett gets out Sunday. So one more night, here. Is that okay?”

I nod. “Sure.” I stifle a yawn. “Mari will probably make breakfast sometime late tomorrow morning... Just humor her... If the smell of cooking eggs makes you nauseous, let her know, she can do waffles instead.”

“I love eggs,” he says, grinning tiredly and licking his lips.

I roll my eyes. “I was really hoping you wouldn’t.”

But I still smile. Wearily.

* * *

Sure enough, Mari is standing at the stove when I stomp down the stairs at noon. “Scrambled eggs?” She grins at me.

I pretend to gag, although with the smell quickly overwhelming me it’s not too hard to pretend. “Do you...”

She nods toward the microwave. “Your coffee and Brat Cakes are in there.”

Brat Cakes are revolting breakfast items consisting of a biscuit sandwich stuffed with a pancake, a pat of butter, two pieces of bacon, and a couple of Fruit Loops. Manuel and I invented them when we were in elementary school. Noone else understands their appeal. Mamá and Mari doubted their nutritional value and would refuse to make the pancakes for them. Since we were too young to work the stove ourselves, we just whined for ages like the little brats that we were until Mari would finally throw her hands up and agree to make “the little brats’ cakes”, which was of course misunderstood as “Brat Cakes”. And so our disgusting handiwork was named.

Ty wrinkles his nose as I scarf one down. “Did I just see a piece of sugary fruit cereal imbedded in your pancake?”

I snort, my mouth full, and nod. “It’s good,” I say after I swallow. “You should try one.”

He shakes his head. “And you say eggs make you nauseous.”

Manuel stumbles down the stairs a few minutes later and claims his own helping of Brat Cakes, then sits down across from Ty. “You’re actually eating those?” he asks, skeptically pointing at Ty’s eggs.

Ty laughs. “I could say the same to you.”

Manny takes a huge bite out of his biscuit. “These are actually good,” he mumbles.

“You’re outnumbered, Tyler,” Mari informs him from the sink, where she’s scrubbing the burnt-on cooking spray from the frying pan. “Just go with it.”

Ty rolls his eyes and laughs. “I guess I have no choice.”

And for a second, we forget. For a second, we laugh – for real.

I think these cumulative seconds are keeping me alive.

* * *

I’m not sure there’s anything more uncomfortable than watching Ms. Creevy watch me. Her eyes are focused on my hands, which are resting on my knees, my palms sweating all over my jeans.

I clear my throat.

Alice glances at me, creasing the edge of her skirt with her thumb and forefinger as if she’s never done anything more interesting.

Ms. Creevy raises her eyebrows. I turn my gaze to the floor. Beige carpeting has never appeared so fascinating.

“Mom...” Alice beings. Then her mouth snaps shut.

Her mother coughs pointedly and smiles at her daughter. I’ve never seen a smile look so cold.

There is something unbearably harsh about Ms. Creevy that makes me feel like I’m walking on eggshells. It’s amazing, to hear Alice talk about her, because I can’t imagine that she’d ever take any shit from anyone. She’s the kind of person who sends her plate back at restaurants if her every demand isn’t met. She wears suits even at home. As if they’re comfortable, or something. She puts my teeth on edge.

“I really need to get back to work, dear.”

Alice stares at her mother, pleadingly, asking for more time. Ms. Creevy shakes her head. Bitch.

I probably shouldn’t be thinking this way about my future mother-in-law.

Alice sighs. “I...” But she doesn’t finish. She closes her mouth, her lower lip trembling.

Her mother rolls her eyes. “I suggest you get yourself together, young lady. I have things to do that take slight precedence over listening to you stutter.”

Alice looks at me, biting her lip. Please.

“Ms. Creevy?”

Her eyes connect with mine.

“Alice is pregnant. I mean... We. We’re pregnant. Alice and me.”

Her mother eyes me warily. “Is she now.”

I nod.

She looks over at Alice. “Is that true?”

Alice nods.

Ms. Creevy turns back to me. “Who do you think you are,” she says slowly, smiling coldly, “to have sex with my daughter?”

I stare at my hands. “I... We...”

“Mom, stop,” Alice protests weakly.

Her mother holds up a hand. “No, I’m really curious, dear. I’ve trusted this boy with you. I’ve let him spend time with you unsupervised. And he thanks me how? By taking you out and having unprotected sex with my daughter?” She shakes her head, her smile growing, her eyes focused on mine. “You have some nerve, Xavier. Taking advantage of --”

“Mom, stop!” Alice shouts, putting her hands over her ears. “Stop it! Stop it stop it stop it! I did it too, okay? I did it too!” Tears race down her cheeks. She squeezes her eyes shut.

Ms. Creevy stares at her for a second, her eyes softening. Then she turns her gaze to me, as hard as ever.

“Get out of my house. And stay away from my daughter.”

I stare at her. “But... I’m the father of her child!”

Ms. Creevy shakes her head and sighs. “Just get out. Please. Just leave us be for awhile.”

I stand up, but my legs are shaking. “I’ll leave, for now... But I’m going to marry your daughter, ma’am. It’s something... I guess you’ll just have to learn to accept.”

She closes her eyes and points at the door. Her hand is trembling. “Get out.”

I nod and look at Alice. She gestures toward the door. Love you, I mouth.

She nods.

And I may do it on quaking legs, but I walk out that door a man.