I take a glimpse at Izzy, who's still kneeling on his seat in my direction, face straining, teeth pinching his bottom lip, his little fingers wrapping over his thumbs. I tell him, “I'm not angry.” He exhales but snot slops out of his pointy nose and slimes over his upper lip.
“Sorry,” he says and smears his forearm across his mouth, then with his other palm rubs the mucus invisible into his skin.
I tell him, “But you messed up. You have an opportunity to do well here, but now you may get suspended. Second grade, Izzy. And even if you don't, they can't let you back into the same cla**. Where are you going to go? You have nowhere to go.” He lifts his head up to me again, eyes ripped wide, then they cringe, and he shoves his face into his knees to muffle himself.
Look at him. He's already alone most of the time. Alone at school, alone at home before you get there to cook. All alone.
“Don't worry,” I say to him, smiling in case he gazes up, but he just sobs into his lap. “Izzy, don't worry. I'll figure it out.” I tousle his hair and he peeps up at me, bottom eyelids red and shiny. I rest his head onto my right thigh, pet his shoulder, and say, “I'll figure it out. But never do it again.”
Sniffle. “I'm so sorry.”
“You swear you didn't have anything in your hand? You weren't going to do anything else?”
“No! His friends probably lied to the teacher.”
The one thing that makes sense right now.
“Fine, but never again. Grandpa never fought, did he?” I ask him. His head snuggles into my thigh as he shakes no. “Exactly. Cool with everyone.” I stroke his arm. “Forgave everyone. Loved everyone. Especially us.”
Izzy wipes his nose. “Then where is he?”
My rib cage twists into itself, making me wince. Running my fingertips along his eyebrows so my hand blocks him from noticing my eyes turning pink, I say, “Shh, shh. Enough.” The tips skate over his forehead, scrunch the skin together, then smooth it out, ma**aging him like when he needs to sleep, but misses him too much. “I'm here, aren't I?” He breathes out and squeezes my thigh. Eyes shut, he whimpers, probably thinking of wood and leather – Grandpa's smell. “Shh.”
I comb my fingers through Izzy's thick hair; it doesn't reach much higher than the top of them, and I say, “Can't wait for your hair to grow out again.”
He shakes no. “I want a buzz cut. Can you do it?” he asks.
“But why? It's—“
“I want one. They look tough.”
“It'll make you look like a coconut.” But he doesn't laugh. “You're already tough, though,” I say.
“I'm tired of them calling me ‘Princess Isabella.'”
I stare down at him, his face now blush instead of blood-vessel red, but tears still dripping off his nose onto my jeans. The way his nose slopes, the way his cheeks dimple and eyes twinkle, the way his eyelashes blow kisses, the kids don't lie when they say he looks feminine. He's beautiful. My ladybug.
I say, “They just don't know how cool you are.” He scoffs. “Seriously. You're seven and you know how to pull the car out of first gear. I was twelve when I finally got it right. And you know bu*terfly tricks! That's so bada**.”
He mumbles, “The knife isn't even sharp.”
“Well, duh. I'm not a bad parent, am I? Besides, Grandpa made me start with a practice one, too. Saved me from many bloody knuckles.”
“Can you just buzz me today?”
Navigating through Spyder's neighborhood, I flick my finger against the top of the wheel. “Sure. But that means I'll have to change our plans.”
Off my thigh, head co*ked, eyes narrow, he asks, “What do you mean?”
“We'll go straight to the trailer and chop it all off instead.”
“Instead of what?”
“Well, it's Friday. And we've been talking about it for a while, so why don't we just go. Let's finally take you.”
His pupils jump between my right eye and my left. “You don't have to clean the motel?” he asks.
“Finally off.”
“But the highway?”
“I'll drive extra slow,” I say, but still Izzy's face works. He stares down at his jeans and scrunches them with his tiny hands. Then he peers up at me and squeezes his bottom lip between his teeth. His face works. Now he lifts himself up and checks around us, palms rubbing up and down along his thighs. Going urrr in his throat.
He finally sighs and says, “I don't want to go anymore.”
“We'll take a bus,” I say, and I smirk when he peeks sideways at me.
Since Grandpa vanished a year ago, Izzy has come to believe certain lies and understand certain truths. I don't work at the motel—haven't whipped a white sheet over a mattress in three months, since they showed up. They appear everywhere.
Two stopped me in the lobby. “You work here kid?”
“Wow, you serious?” I asked them. “I'm not even that tan.”
One cleared his throat but the other just crossed his arms and towered over me. “What're you doing here then?”
“Leaving. He wouldn't give me a room,” I said and thumbed back to Zip, the hillbilly that only hired me because I was cheaper than his cousin. Decent guy, though. Didn't mind if I did our laundry there.
Zip, fretting behind the counter, said, “Sure wouldn't, Officer. Informed this lad he has to be twenty-one to rent.”
From underneath sungla**es, one of them raised an eyebrow. “What you want a room for?” he asked me.
I replied, “Girl's mom is a b**h to sneak around.” His composure cracked and he waved me off smiling. I left hating everything.
So Izzy believes the certain lie of the motel, but he understands the truth of what'll happen if I get pulled over, not to him but to me. That truth has a parking spot in his brain. So when I drive, his attention's anchored on my speedometer. Seven-years-old and checking the lights on a car.
Izzy asks, “But where will we stay?”
“There'll be plenty of places that take cash.”
“I don't have a bathing suit.”
“We'll buy one on the way. Don't even have to go home because of all the clothes in the trunk.” I sigh. “Izzy, I'm the adult, I'm the one that worries. You're the kid, you're the one that has to enjoy things for the both of us. You have to be beautiful because I have to be boring. And you've never been out of Charlotte. That's ridiculous. But the point is I'm the adult, so if I say it's fine, it is.” I look at him serious. “Let's build the d**h Star out of wet sand.” His grin rises and his eyes smile like the morning. I love when they twinkle. “Unless, you want your buzz cut now instead.”
Izzy lurches off the seat and squeezes me, so I kiss his head, his soft fur bristling my lips, and I hold him tight. He is my fireplace.
But over his head, Spyder's house stalks into view, and whatever warmth Izzy gave me drains into a shiver.