“Please,” I say. For a moment, neither of us speak. “You wanted me to make friends.”

  “Not like this,” she says. “This is bad.”

  I want to have a fit. I want to slam the phone down. Hide in my room. “You locked me up,” I say. “You put me in this place and you go home. You forget…you think you know what it’s like. Mom, I’m sorry. Maybe I fucked up. Maybe this is going to blow up in my face…but…you have to let me do this. You have to let me try.” The line’s quiet. Not dead though. This is part of why I hate phones. I can’t see what’s happening. I can’t even begin to guess at what Mom’s thinking. “Mom.”

  “I want to meet her,” she says.

  “Pudge?”

  “Is that her name?”

  “That’s what we call her.”

  “I want to meet her.”

  “Okay.”

  “Saturday?”

  “Fine.”

  “Saturday then.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  

  Routine grinds on, indifferent and meaningless. Come morning, Staff crashes through the door. Only now, I’m up and dressed. Waiting. Sleep has abandoned me to long, worrisome nights. I have so many questions I don’t know how to ask. Or who to ask.

  Pudge meets me in the hall. No longer as expansive or dramatic. Now, she moves with slow care. As if afraid of falling. Her hair lies limp against her skull. She walks me to breakfast. At breakfast, Pudge eats some. She stops and swallows and breathes. I’ve seen this before. I’ve done it. She’s trying not to puke. She’s trying to pretend this is just another meal.

  I wait for her. I owe her. She wouldn’t be sick if it weren’t for me. She’d be shoveling down the food without thought or worry if we hadn’t fucked.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Dahling, I’m grand as a piano,” she says. “If you forget the puking and the inability to shit.” She looks at my face and almost laughs. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I try so hard to be a lady,” she says. “Like Mom wants, but I’m just so tired all of the time.” She cups her face in her hands. “Look at this,” she says, looking at me with fierce eyes. “No make-up. My hair’s a mess. You can’t tell my mom, she’d be so pissed.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  Pudge smiles. “You’re sweet.” She takes my hand. “Full of shit, but sweet.”

  “My mom wants to meet you,” I say.

  Pudge’s face goes whiter. A little panicky. “Your mom? Why?”

  “It’s a mom thing.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I met your mom,” I say.

  “That is different.”

  “Pudge,” I say, “she wants to meet you.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I know.”

  “Shitty titties,” she says.

  “Sorry.”

  She sighs and picks at the meal’s remains.

  “You know,” Pudge says after a bit, “I used to think about having kids.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe it’s a girl thing,” she says. “I always had this suspicion that I would be a good mom…better than my mom, anyway.”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Mom tries. She fails but she tries.”

  “It’s okay.” I hold her hand. “I’m right here.”

  “This is supposed to be a happy thing,” she says. “Right? This is supposed to be a party. But no one…Are we making a mistake?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “What if we are?” she says. “Mom wants me to…she wants me to kill it.”

  “It’s an option,” I say.

  “No.”

  “I don’t like it either,” I say.

  “Someday,” Pudge says. “Someday we’re going to look back on this…what if they…what if it’s genetic? The crazy. What if we’re passing it on?” She closes her eyes and clenches her teeth. I’ve seen this before. I know what it’s like to swallow your fear. I know what it’s like to chew your lips bloody fighting your tears. “I’m scared,” she says.

  “Me too.”

  She looks me in the eye. “Are you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What happens if we fuck it up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tears gather in Pudge’s eyes. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m sick and I’m exhausted. No one tells me…this is not how it’s supposed to be.”

  Staff comes. He kneels in front of us. “Pudge,” he says, “you okay?” She hiccups. I squeeze her fingers. She shakes her head. “Pudge, come with me.” Staff takes her hand, and all together we stand.

  “Happy?” Pudge asks.

  “I’ll be here.” She looks me, her face all swollen. “Right here.” Staff takes her to her room. “Right here.”

  “You know,” Jim says, “things are changing.”

  We’re in his office. Everyone else is in school.

  “I know.”

  “I remember when my wife was pregnant with our first,” he says.

  I know what he’s doing—it’s a poor attempt at convincing me he understands.

  “I remember how powerless I felt,” Jim continues. “No matter what I did, she had to go through it. She was the one puking. She was the one whose hips hurt. All I could do was not add to it. All I could do was take care of the little things…the things that made her life just a hair easier.” He leans back in his chair but his eyes never leave my face. “Do you think you can do that?”

  “I think so.”

  Jim shakes his head and frowns. “You’re a child,” he says. “You’re too young to do this.” He leans forward. His face very focused now. His eyes glitter in the florescent lights. “Someday, you’re going to wake up and you’re going to find your life has slipped by and all you’ve done is make more pain. You’re going to find that all you’ve done is hurt people.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not hurting anyone.”

  “You’re hurting yourself.”

  “Doesn’t count.”

  Jim slams his hand on his desk. The crack echoes from the empty walls. “Of course, you count!” he half shouts. He swallows a mouthful of air. “Of course, you count.” Quietly, I wait. I watch him and he watches me. “I took this job because I wanted to help. I have to believe everyone counts. I have to believe…something.” He looks at me and it’s horrible. “You challenge me, Happy. Nothing’s easy with you.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “You’re going to be a dad. You’re going to have to do things, hard things. Being a parent is hard enough without your special…urges. I’m putting you on something new. Something to help with the impulses.”

  “I don’t want to,” I say.

  He leans forward. “I didn’t ask what you want.”

  Pudge and I sit in the courtyard. Clouds roll in from the Coast Range, gray and black. Still it’s warm and more than a little muggy. Sweat trickles into my eyes. Even my lips taste salty. The cigarette in Pudge’s hand quivers. “They’re taking me off all my meds,” she says.

  “Is that good?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “They’re worried about the baby.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m so tired.” She finishes her cigarette and grinds the filter out in the grass. “Sometimes, I forget.” I frown at her. She flaps her hand. “I forget that this isn’t all there is. I forget that there’s a whole other world out there. I forget that I’ll have to go home someday.” She grabs my hand and pulls me close. “Promise,” she says, “if I go, you go.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise,” she says. Something makes her voice harsh. Husky. “Promise.”

  “I promise,” I say.

  She deflates. “I think I need to lie down.” I help her to her feet. “You are such a sweet boy.” I blush. “Walk me in?” Together, we make our way to the door. Staff lets us in. At her room, Pudge kisses me. “Later?”

  “Later.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  

  Come Saturday, Pudge and I sit together in the Commons. Waiting. Worried. Pudge is plain as paper. Gray sweats and a stained, gray t-shirt. Slippers. Instead of teasing her hair into its usual mess, she’s pulled it back into a tight stub. She smokes slowly. “Mom’s going to shit,” she says.

  “Don’t worry about that,” I say.

  Pudge closes her eyes, as if that’ll change what’s about to happen. “Jim says she’s pretty pissed.”

  “I can take her,” I say.

  Pudge actually smiles. “Doubt it,” she says. “Mom’s pretty mean.”

  “I can be mean.”

  Pudge pats my cheek. “No, you can’t.”

  “This is true.”

  Pudge laughs. A glorious sound, short-lived but brilliant.

  Staff rings the bell. The sound of it sets my spine on fire. I want to puke. From the look on her face, Pudge does too. People head for the Door to the World. Everyone but me.

  “You have to go,” Pudge says.

  “I know.” I don’t move. My feet seem too far away. The room spins. Everything goes black and white.

  “I can’t go with you,” Pudge says.

  “I know.”

  “Go on then.” She kisses me. “See you in the room.” It sounds more like a sentence than an invitation.

  Staff opens the Door to the World. A man comes through. A woman and two kids, ten years old, maybe eleven. Then Mom. She comes in and looks around. It takes her a second to find me. When she does, she stops. I swallow. Fear coats my throat with bile and smoke. Mom blinks. I raise a hand. A foolish gesture. Slowly, Mom comes to me. “Happy,” she says.

  “Mom.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She looks around. People swirl around us. Laughter and conversations wash like a white tide over us. “Where’s Pudge?”

  “Lying down.”

  “Is she…?”

  “Her mom’s coming too,” I say. Mom’s eyes narrow. “We want to get it done with.”

  Mom turns to the door just in time see Ding come through.

  “Happy!” Ding shouts when she sees me. People turn. Ding grins, soaking up the attention. She wears black. Her hair is huge. Everything about her seems to quiver. I swallow again. “Happy, dahling,” Ding says and wraps me in a brutal hug. “You’re an absolute sight.” She smells of talcum and roses. Mom watches the whole thing with wide eyes.

  “Mom,” I say, “this is Ding, Pudge’s mom. Ding, Bet.”

  Ding reaches out and grabs Mom’s hand and pulls her in close. “So,” Ding says, with a thin smile, “you’re the root of all this evil.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Mom says, pulling away.

  “Sweetie,” Ding says, “you’re going to have to smile if you’re going to get through this. It’s the only way.” Ding looks around the crowd. “And where’s my wayward daughter?”

  “Her room,” I say.

  “Let’s go then.” She hooks a hand through my arm. I try to pull away but she holds tight.

  Mom narrows her eyes. “Okay then,” she says.

  The walk to Pudge’s room is too long. I feel all eyes on us. Even the walls seem to watch. We pass open doors. Families talking. People pretending none of this is real. When we get to Pudge’s room, I stop and knock. “Oh, pooh,” Ding says, and pushes straight in.

  Pudge looks at me. Bleached with fear. I unhook Ding’s hand and go sit with Pudge. Her hands tremble. Sweat makes them slick and cool. Ding stands at the foot of the bed. Arms crossed. Mom waits at the door. “Mrs. O’Neill,” Pudge says, holding out a hand.

  “You’re Pudge then,” Mom says, coming to the bed and taking Pudge’s hand.

  Pudge dips her head. “Sorry to meet you like this.”

  “I’ve seen you around,” Mom says.

  “Not a lot of places to hide on C-Ward,” Pudge says.

  “One or two it seems.”

  Pudge flinches. Mom shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says.

  Pudge smiles a thin smile. “Sit,” she says. “Please.”

  The whole thing’s weird. Everyone tries too hard to be nice. They wrap everything in kindness and quiet words. A ball forms in my throat as Ding sits on the bed’s edge and Mom takes the chair from the desk. “Pudge, baby,” Ding says, “you look a fright.”

  “Mom. Please.”

  Ding shakes her head and waves a hand at her. “I taught you better than this,” she says. “You have guests.”

  A quiet comes over us. Pudge looks down. Tears well. “She looks fine,” I say.

  Ding turns to look at me. Cruelty shines bright in her eyes. “I don’t expect you to understand,” she says.

  “I understand enough,” I say.

  The words are harder and sharper than I intended. They hit Ding and she looks at me with something like real anger now. “Sweetie,” she sneers, “this is beyond you. Your part’s done.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Mom says, her voice thin but clear.

  “Let’s talk about what happens next,” Ding says. “We can worry about trivia later.”

  Things get thick for a moment. The air seems insufficient

  “Mom,” I say, “are you okay?” She swallows.

  Ding takes everything in. Calculating. But then she grins and turns back to Pudge. “So,” Ding says. “Seems the two of you managed, somehow, to screw the pooch.” She smiles at her own wordplay. “To put it indelicately.”

  Mom sighs. She reaches into her purse and brings out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Mom,” I say, “you can’t smoke in here.”

  Mom goes still. “Really?” she asks.

  “Oh, light up, sweetie,” Ding says. “We’ve established that rules and good judgement don’t apply to this crowd.”

  “Do you have to do that?” I ask.

  Ding is all false innocence. “Happy,” she says, “you need to relax. Pudge here’s all knocked up. Your tension’s not good for the baby.”

  Mom shakes her head and puts the cigarettes away. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  Pudge shrugs. “Tired. Sick.”

  “I never had morning sickness,” Ding says. “I was fit right to the end.”

  Mom ignores her. “Are they taking care of you?”

  “They try,” Pudge says.

  “And Happy?” Mom asks. “Is he taking care of you?” I open my mouth. Mom holds up a hand. Ding smirks. “I am talking to the girl,” Mom says.

  Pudge smiles. The first real smile I’ve seen in days. “He’s clueless.”

  “Hey,” I protest.

  “But he tries,” Pudge goes on, reaching for me. She laces her fingers through mine. “I can’t do this without him.”

  “So, it’s true love,” Ding says. Mom glares at her. Ding shrugs. “The best thing you two can do is to get that doctor to do something about this before it’s too late.”

  “Mom!” Pudge says.

  “What?” Ding glares at Pudge. “You’re children. The two of you. You have no idea what this means. I mean, Jesus, look around. This is a nuthouse. Where are you going to put the crib? Who’s going to watch the little one when you’re off doing whatever it is you do in here?”

  “We’re going to get out,” I say. That startles them. “We’re going to get jobs. I will anyway.”

  Ding actually laughs. A barking sound. Bitter and cruel.

  “Happy,” Mom says. “You’re fourteen.”

  “So?”

  “No one’s going to hire a fourteen-year-old boy,” she says.

  “Someone will.”

  Mom shakes her head. “It’s not even legal.”

  “See,” Ding says, “it’s all a tragedy and very, very sad, but the best thing you can is to put this thing away before people get really hurt.”

  Pudge lifts her chin and looks her mother in the face. “No.”

  Ding goes completely still. “Excuse me?”

  “No,” Pudge says, slightly less sure. “We’re having a baby. Happy and me. We’ll figure something out.” Under her makeup, Ding goes pale. Her face turns to stone. Her eyes seem ready to pop from their sockets. “Like it or not, Mom, you don’t get to make this decision.”

  Ding nods. She lifts her hand and checks her nails, like none of this matters. “Okay,” she says, standing. “I’m done here. Do what you want. Have the baby. Don’t have the baby. Doesn’t matter. I’m far too young to be a grandmother anyway.”

  And then she’s gone. Pudge stares at the door for a long time before breaking down. Sobs too big to hold break through her. She falls to her side and curls around her belly. Confusion paralyzes me. Indecision pins me in place. Mom, though, knows what to do. She comes and wraps Pudge in her arms. They rock back and forth. Mom whispers in Pudge’s ear. She holds her tight. Pudge buries her face in Mom’s chest. For a long time, things go on. Mom and Pudge rocking while I watch. Useless and ashamed.

  Pudge pulls herself together. Mom digs a tissue out of her purse. Pudge cleans her face.

  “I need a smoke,” Mom says.

  “Me too,” I say.

  We walk down to the Commons and claim our couch.

  “This is probably a bad idea,” Mom says. “They say smoking’s bad for babies.”

  “Please,” Pudge says.

  Mom passes out smokes. Staff chooses not to see. “Do you know when you’re due?”

  Pudge lights her cigarette. “Halloween,” she says.

  “Nice,” Mom says. For a while, we smoke. Mom watches people coming and going. “Is this what it’s always like?”

  “What do you mean?” I say.

  Mom’s gesture takes in the whole ward. “This,” she says. “Everyone choosing not see each other.”

  “For the most part,” I say.

  Mom shakes her head. “Weird.”

 

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