“Just heading to bed. Night, kids. See you tomorrow, Dad.” Cherry and I exchange glances, one waiting for the other to speak but neither doing so. Pops remains seated, looking so glum it hurts to witness.
“What’s going on?” Cherry asks the second Mom is out of earshot. Pops leans back in his chair, squinting into the dark lounge to make sure she’s not hiding.
“It’s not my place to say, but …” He scratches his chin, then exhales. “Cory, I know you have a pretty tight schedule with school and practice, but do you think you might be able to pick up a few hours work here and there? Maybe something to do with hockey, or in a store or—” Right. So it is money.
“Absolutely I can, if … if I have to, yeah. I’ll start asking around tomorrow.” With a faint smile, he rustles my hair before pushing off the table and saying good night.
Internally panicking and suddenly exhausted I slide down in my chair, waiting for Pops’ shuffled steps to fade and Cherry’s opinion.
“What the hell, Cory! How?—”
As I do what I do, I know she’s going to lick my palm. I know it. Regardless, I raise my hand and slap it over her mouth. “I don’t know, okay,” is all I can get out before her tongue makes its first pass. “You can lick it all you like, but the hand stays until you promise to shut up.”
“Prwomise,” she mumbles, licks again then says something so muffled it’s unrecognizable as English. As tempted as I am to smother her, I yank my hand free. Surprisingly, Cherry sticks to her word, saying nothing verbally, but everything with her eyes that are wider than I’ve ever seen and boring holes into my forehead.
“If Mom can work and help you with Billie, run the household and care for us, I can manage a few hours work on top of hockey.” There’s not a single, tiny, teeny, weenie spec of me that knows how, but I will. I have too. “Lotte and Brady are running some skate and hockey programs over at Green Line Ice, maybe I can see if they need some help.”
“Brady has a boyfriend and a girlfriend. I don’t think he needs the kind of help you want to give him.”
“And I don’t think it’s fair of you to accuse me of wanting every man with a dick, but here we are.” It’s hard to keep a straight face as I say this, because while it’s true, I’m not attracted to all men the same that she’s not, Brady Basse is a delicious piece of ass, and I absolutely would go there should he be single and interested. Since he’s not, Cherry doesn’t need to know how on the money she is. “I’m a hockey player. He’s running a camp. That’s it.”
“Keep your wig on, Bro. I’m just kidding. I think it’s a great idea, the kids will love having you there. You can teach them everything you know, and give them the chance to be taller than someone.”
Again with the gags. Puffing out my cheeks, I exhale slowly, rise to my feet and say, “Fuck you and good night.”
Hairspray, the once loved classic starring Nikki Blonski, John Travolta, Zac Efron, has rapidly morphed from my autistic comfort movie, to the most hated, dreaded, nausea inducing thing in my life.
Apart from gum chewers.
When my Australian Mom died and my American Dad decided to relocate us kids back to Boston,Hairspraywas my first thought. And possibly the first indicator of my sexuality, but that’s a whole other conversation. Poor Dad must have reinforced that Boston and Baltimore weren’t the same place a hundred times, but I refused to listen. As far as I was concerned, I was going to live in the same city as Tracy Turnblad, and I couldn’t wait to catch the bus and singGood Morningto my adopted city.
Like me, Dylan is a big ‘Sprayfan. Watching and dancing to the musical with Dad was one of his favorite things, and since we lost him, there have been days where he would do nothing but sit in Dad’s chair and watch or listen to the soundtrack on repeat. The color, the music … I think all of it provides Dyl with a sense of safety—predictability—when the person who once bought him those things in abundance suddenly disappeared.
Hence why, on the third day Manny has been off ill, possibly vanishing like Dad in Dyl’s mind, we’ve done nothing but listen to that not-so-brand-new beat.
Our morning started well enough. Dylan had a rare full night’s sleep and woke happy and seemingly content. Breakfast was eaten with minimal fuss. We showered, brushed teeth and dressed, then went for our regular walk to the nearby dog park where Dylan met up with three of his neighborhood friends, Maria, Jose and Lyle. I sat with their moms while the four of them laughed and cuddled the pups, before coming home to wait for Manny. That’s when we got the call.
So yeah,Hairsprayis on repeat and loud because Dyl’s been so distressed that he’s snapped both pairs of his headphones; the feel of them over his ears just too much when he is so heightened and hypersensitive.
It breaks my heart seeing him like this … So vulnerable. So voiceless. So trapped in his fear and entirely debilitated. It also demonstrates my absolute ineptitude to support my brother the way he deserves.
It’s almost six p.m. now … I am exhausted, frustrated and overwhelmed, so I leave Dyl in the kitchen and call Maria’s mom, Sue. “I’m sorry,” I whimper, hello barely having passed her lips. “I don’t know what to do. Dyl’s smashed another mirror, his headphones, and he’s crying, Sue. He can’t stop crying. I … I don’t know how to help him.”
“It’s Alexithymia, James. His routine’s fucked, and he’s having trouble regulating his emotions. Have you put on?—”
“Hairspray, yep. It’s been on all day and it’s helped I think, but he’s been picking at his skin and I can’t seem to make him stop.” Through the phone, I hear footsteps, the distinct jingling of keys and then Sue’s muffled voice.
“Maria,” she sing-songs, “you up for a trip to the park with Charlie? Awesome. James, honey, I’m back. Do me a favor, okay? Play the soundtrack on your phone, take as long as you need, we’ll be waiting for you by the swings.”
It takes almost twenty-five minutes for me to get Dylan out the door, another ten to walk the two blocks to the park, Boston’s pink-hued dusk darkening on each step. I hear, rather than see, Maria as we approach the hedge row fence, the effect of her squeals of glee immediately visible in the upturn of Dylan’s lips.
Charlie, the mildly psychotic Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, is the first to greet us after we unlock the gate, her excitable, high-pitched yap infinitely worse than her non-existent bite.
“James, Dylan, over here!” Waving her arms is Sue. “You made it, well done.” There’s no patronization in her praise, just genuine understanding and heartfelt acceptance. “Rough day, huh?”
“Understatement of the decade.” Like a sack of spent shit, I drop onto the damp grass and verbalize the panic that has my insides twisted in a knot. “Remember how Manny’s been away? Well, he has strep, so he’ll be off ‘til Saturday. Faith’s in New York until Friday, so I’ve had to call in sick at the paid placement I’ve only just started. I’ll probably get fired, and if I do we’re fucked. I don’t know how I am going to cope by myself for another three days. I’m not built for this, Sue. I’m the absolute fucking worst person to be left responsible for another human. I can hardly regulate myself, just ask my ex. How the fuck am I supposed to help him?”
I don’t realize I’m flat on my back until I feel the press of Sue’s shoulder against mine. She’s beside me, her graying blonde curls splayed out on the grass like a paint brush. “Yesterday I hid in the pantry and ate a whole jar of peanut butter. The day before that I got into the shower with my socks and glasses on, and that night went to bed at seven when Maria did, and laid in there listening toFolklorefor four hours.”
