Crenshaw

39

That night I sat on my mattress, staring at what was left of my bedroom. My old bed, shaped like a red race car, the one I’d outgrown ages ago, was in pieces. A sticker on the headboard said $25 OR BEST OFFER. Dents in the carpeting hinted at what used to be there. A cube where my nightstand should have been. A rectangle where my dresser once stood.

My mom and dad came in after Robin was asleep. “How you doing, bud?” my dad asked. “Definitely roomier, huh?”

“It’s like camping out,” I said.

“Without the mosquitoes,” said my mom. She handed me a plastic mug of water. I kept it by my bed in case I got thirsty in the middle of the night. She’d been doing that for as long as I could remember. The mug, which had a faded picture of Thomas the Tank Engine on it, was probably nearly as old as I was.

My dad touched the mattress with his cane. “Next bed, let’s make it more serious.”

“Not a race car.” My mom nodded.

“Maybe a Volvo,” said my dad.

“How about just a bed bed?” I asked.

“Absolutely.” My mom leaned over and combed her fingers through my hair. “A bed bed.”

“We’ll probably make some bucks at the sale,” my dad said. “So there’s that.”

“They’re just things,” my mom said quietly. “We can always get new things.”

“It’s okay. I like all the space,” I said. “I think Aretha does, too. And Robin can practice batting without knocking anything over.”

Both my parents smiled. For a few moments, neither spoke.

“All right, we’re outta here,” my mom finally said.

As he turned to leave, my dad said, “You know, you’re such a big help, Jackson. You never complain, and you’re always ready to pitch in. We really appreciate that.”

My mom blew me a kiss. “He’s pretty amazing,” she agreed. She winked at my dad. “Let’s keep him around.”

They closed the door. I had one lamp left. Its light carved a yellow frown on my carpet.

I closed my eyes. I imagined our things spread out on the lawn tomorrow. My mom was right, of course. They were just things. Bits of plastic and wood and cardboard and steel. Bunches of atoms.

I knew all too well that there were people in the world who didn’t have Monopoly games or race car beds. I had a roof over my head. I had food most of the time. I had clothes and blankets and a dog and a family.

Still, I felt twisted inside. Like I’d swallowed a knotted-up rope.

It wasn’t about losing my stuff.

Well, okay. Maybe that was a little part of it.

It wasn’t about feeling different from other kids.

Well, okay. Maybe that was part of it too.

What bothered me most, though, was that I couldn’t fix anything. I couldn’t control anything. It was like driving a bumper car without a steering wheel. I kept getting slammed, and I just had to sit there and hold on tight.

Bam. Were we going to have enough to eat tomorrow? Bam. Were we going to be able to pay the rent? Bam. Would I go to the same school in the fall?

Bam. Would it happen again?

I took deep breaths. In, out. In, out. My fists clenched and unclenched. I tried not to think about Crenshaw on the TV or the dog cookie I’d stolen.

Then, just the way I’d taken that cookie, without understanding why, without thinking about the consequences, without any reason, I grabbed my mug and hurled it against the wall.

Bam. It splintered into shards of cracked plastic. I liked the noise it made.

I waited for my parents to return, to ask what’s wrong, to yell at me for breaking something, but no one came.

Water trickled down the wall, slowly fading like an old map of a faraway river.