“Cheat?” she pouts. “How?”
“I draw people with their hands behind their backs, or maybe they’re holding something?” I say, showing her on my paper what I mean.
“Maybe he doesn’t have any,” a teen called Leo mumbles around a mouthful ofSkittles. “Like my dad’s cousin Marley. He doesn’t have any. Hands, I mean,” he offers as he crunch-crunches, his tongue purple.
“Shut up!” Cherise, Venus’ twin sister, chimes in. “He has no hands?! What happened?”
“He was just born that way, I guess,” Leo shrugs, like he’s answered that question a million times. He grabs another handful of Skittles, picking out the purple ones and leaving the rest on the table.
“You can’t be born without no hands,” Ahmed shakes his head, brown curls bobbing all over the place. He’s the only one who isn’t drawing, reading a comic instead, a green monster with orange horns on the front.
“Sure, you can,” Leo says solemnly. “Marley’s one of thosetailomidbabies.” I try to swallow my laugh and end up coughing instead.
“Thalidomide,” I wheeze, tears in my eyes. Fuck, these kids are something.
“That’s what I said,” Leo frowns.
“Sure,” I nod, showing Venus how to draw a kid holding a book in his hands.
That’s when Dwayne’s deep voice booms through the common area, and my eyes automatically go to where he has Mitch in a bro hug, slapping his back with his hand.
“Mitch, my man!” Dwayne shakes his head, his entire face overtaken by a wide smile. “Where the hell have you been, man?” Father Reynolds clears his throat at the curse word, andDwayne mumbles what I assume is an apology, still beaming at Mitch like he inventedPop-Tartsor some shit like that.
“Busy, you know,” Mitch reaches out and ruffles Dwayne’s huge mob of black curls. “Straightenin’ out brats like you,” he winks.
“Shut up,” Dwayne laughs, tilting his chin. “I ain’t a kid no more.” It’s true. Dwayne’s huge, towering over both Mitch and Father Reynolds. Only Cal stands taller. He’s a bear, after all. Mitch nods, glancing around the room. As if he’s read his mind, Cal leans in and speaks something to Mitch while pointing in my direction. My cheeks instantly heat, and as soon as I see Mitch moving toward me, I puff out my bird’s chest and shoot my most defiant chin forward.
Coming to a stop next to the table, Mitch peeks over Cherise’s shoulder, taking in the huge sunflower she’s currently filling in with yellow.
“Love your sunflowers,” Mitch hums, and the sound of his familiar voice goes straight to my gut. While he keeps talking, Mitch looks directly at me. “Once drove past an entire field of them. Just rows and rows of sunflowers. Never-ending. One of the most beautiful things I ever saw.” I know. It was. I was right there in his car with him. I must’ve been around nine or ten. We pulled over and just stood there under the burning afternoon sun, glaring at thousands of flowers, mesmerized. And happy. That was the first time I called himDad. It just slipped right out of my mouth in front of those sunflowers. I fucking hate them now. Traitor flowers making me think I could have a life that was never intended for me to begin with.
I’m the first one to break our glaring contest, looking back down at my paper where I’m sketching one of the skater boys from the park. He’s flying through the air, clutching the board, curly hair adorning his face.
“You’re drawing?” Mitch says carefully, nodding at the drawing. I’m seconds away from a smart retort but catch myself. I try to tell myself I don’t want to tell him off in front of the kids, but the truth is, over the past week, my animosity has started dissolving. It’s exhausting to stay mad at someone for over a decade. It truly is. Takes real effort, people. And the way Cal, Theresa, and now Dwayne act when Mitch is around, I have to admit that he appears to be just as I remember him. A good guy. Besides leaving Mom and me, Mitch was always one of the good ones.The best.
“Yeah, it’s been a while,” I say, looking back up, my gaze connecting with his. There’s a hint of wistfulness in the light blue that mirrors the heaviness in my chest.
“You used to do it all the time. Those massive fish with huge teeth.” He wipes at his scruff.
“I don’t remember,” I say.
“Yeah, you used to draw them on the blank pages in all your mom’s cookbooks. Drove her crazy,” he chuckles carefully, pausing. He looks unsure, as though he wants me to give him a sign that this isn’t forbidden territory. I nod, the movement of my chin barely there, but Mitch must catch it because relief sweeps across his face. “So, I went out and bought you a sketchpad. You burned through the first one in a weekend, your pencils on fire.” Yeah, I remember now. I swallow behind the lump building in my throat.
“I think I remember that,” I croak. “Sharks, right?” I search his face, seeing his eyes are bright. Shiny.
“Yep. Stacks and stacks of sketchpads with huge sharks, each one scarier than the next.” His voice trails off and I only just catch the last part. “Kept some, actually.”
“You did?” I blurt, my voice ridiculously loud to my own ears. Mitch nods, looking down at the worn linoleum floor.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, throwing me an indecipherable look that looks like it could tilt over into hurt any second. Shifting on his feet, he looks up again. “Look, Tyler, I know that Cal’s been asking you to come over for dinner again.” He hesitates, licking his bottom lip. “The offer still stands, you know. From the both of us.” The air crackles between us, Mitch standing stoic like he’s afraid to breathe. That I’ll come at him full force, stomping his invitation to death on the puke-green linoleum floor.
“What are you making?” I find myself asking, a raspy edge to my voice. Relief sweeps across Mitch’s face, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Burgers?” I ask, attempting nonchalance.
“Sure. Why not?” he says, burying his large hands in his pants pockets. “Cajun?”
