I’m great with kids.
Not even just a little great.
I’m like one of those Supernannies on TV.
We stride through the double sliding door together, and I brace myself for the gust of icy wind. The weather has gotten so much colder this last week. I glance down to check on Rigsby, his pudgy hand sliding in front of his stomach. It’s an insignificant move that I assume helps to keep him warm, like giving yourselfa big old bear hug. It’s what he does next that makes me stop dead in my tracks. Bending at the waist, he juts his chin out like he’s a duck who is about to quack. Only he’s not a duck. I get a front row seat to the projectile vomit that spews from his mouth.
“Whoa.” I slide behind him and grab his shoulders holding him steady. “You okay?” I resist looking down, focusing on him instead. Nope, the smell is enough. I do not need to get an up-close look at it.
“Better now.” His hand clenches at his throat as if it’s holding back an encore. “I got dizzy when you tipped me upside down.”
My gaze travels over his winter coat, soiled all down the front. The good news appears that his coat absorbed everything. There is no mess anywhere else. He’s definitely going to need a clean coat for school tomorrow. I don’t have anything close to his size at my apartment, but there’s a laundromat down the block from The Grove. We could easily stop there and do a quick wash before we eat. “Well, if you are sure that you’re feeling better, let’s get in my car where it’s warm.” I wrap my arm around his shoulders to escort him. “We’ll stop by the laundromat to wash your coat.”
“What about the chicken wings?” It’s a classic rebuttal I’ve learned to expect from Rigsby. I smirk at the top of his tousled hair.
“After we wash your coat.” He drags his feet through fresh powder as if his legs don’t bend at the knees. Somehow, we make it to my car without any more issues. He insists on taking his bag from me before he gets in the back seat. I drop my bag into the trunk. Getting my parenting groove back, I hop in the driver’s seat and get a heavy whiff of puke and gag so hard I have to roll my window down. When that doesn’t do the trick, I tug my shirt over my nose to muffle the stench. "What do you think after we eat, we stay up and watch wrestling?” I ask as I pull out of my spot and steer toward the street.
“Mom says I have to go to bed by eight.” His tone is matter of fact; his jaw locked.
“Right.” A mischievous smile buds on my lips. Jackie can’t expect me to be the funcle by following all her boring rules. “I won’t tell your mom.”
His eyes swell round and huge, finding mine in the rearview mirror, and he doesn’t mouse a word. I turn the classic rock radio station louder than normal. With the arena being out of town, it’s a short drive back to Mapleton. We rock all the way back until I swerve into a parking spot about a block from the laundromat. Popping my door open, I drop a foot to the street and call back, “Alright, bud, let’s get this coat taken care of.”
I hadn’t thought about it before, but I realize my hockey gear has to be equally stinky, and I grab it to make efficient use of my time. We walk to the door, and I open it, stepping back to allow him to pass first.
As I scan the small room, I’m overwhelmed. It’s wall to wall people, and every machine seems to be taken. “Who would have thought it would be so busy?” I point my gaze at Rigsby, but the question is aimed more at myself. My hungry stomach churns. It’s not happy about this delay, but I don’t have a choice but to wait for a machine. I can’t make my nephew walk around with a puke-covered coat at school. I also won’t call his mom for a backup, because she’s hopefully enjoying her evening off.
I spike my hand through my hair, scanning the room one more time for a place for us to wait. An elderly lady in the far corner has removed the last of her clothes from her machine and shuts the door. I grab Rigsby’s hand and propel him forward. “Let’s get this machine.” We weave through the narrow row until we reach it. I drop my hockey bag on the bench across from the machine and unzip it, pulling out my jersey and pants.
Rigsby plops down on the bench as I shuffle items into the machine. When it’s full, I pat my jacket pocket, and…no familiarlump of my wallet. I turn back to the door. “I must have left my wallet in the car,” I mumble. My gaze wafts back to the gear. I hate to leave it out like this. Mapleton’s a safe little town, but I’m not risking my gear getting stolen.
With an impatient sigh, I remove my items from the machine, stuff them back into my bag, and scan the aisle again for something to save my machine so nobody takes it.
Just my luck.
There’s a single cart left. I retrieve it and park it next to my machine. I also leave the door wide open. I’m a little genius like that because now it looks occupied. “Alright, bud.” I place a hand on his shoulder. "I know it’s gross but leave your coat on for another minute. We have to run back to my car to grab my wallet.”
He gives me one of those looks that says, “I’m getting hungrier by the second,” and I add, “We’re doing a quick-wash cycle, and we’ll be out of here in an hour.” When he doesn’t reply, I tack on, “And you can have unlimited root beer.” Finally, he scrambles to his feet, eagerly plodding toward the door.
“Let’s hurry.” I scurry as I swipe my hand over my forehead, wiping the sheen of sweat. I’ve only had this kid in my care for twenty minutes, and I’m already feeling stressed.
three
Kaci Roberts
I tap the brake of my Honda CRV to coast over the smooth asphalt of the Mapleton police parking lot. It’s past sunset, the time of night where only a soft glow of auburn shadows the underbelly of the dark sky. My eyes are peeled as I scan from left to right, hoping once in my unlucky life that Chase could be on time.
It’s Sunday night. I just clocked out of a twelve-hour shift, waitressing at The Grove restaurant. I’m excited to spend some time with Bella tonight before school starts tomorrow, but if Chase doesn’t get here soon, he’s going to cut into my time.
I loathe—with a capital L—these transfers.
I loathe the sight of Chase.
I loathe the sound of his gritty voice.
I loathe that he pulls up in his jacked-up truck, which is completely impractical for having a seven-year-old in tow. I can’t begin to think how much money he’s dumped into that roadhazard, all the while complaining about how he can’t make child support.
I loathe that he blares awful death metal music, and I cringe when he doesn’t turn it down when Bella gets in the truck.
