Page 51 of Queen of Nothing

“Stand up,” I snap at him.

But he just sings the Scooby Doo theme song, like I haven’t said anything at all, and completely butchers it.

Still pulling down on the leash, he pauses his song to ask, “Where’s Mumma?”

The corners of my mouth pin to my cheeks. “In the city. Like I told you already.” About five times.

His weight tilts me aside. “I want Mumma.”

“I told you,” I start, after a deep inhale through my nose, “she will meet us here, once she is back from the city.”

“I don’t want to go,” he whines. “I don’t want to go. I want Mumma.”

My face tenses at the sound of his grating, pitchy voice. My teeth start to grind, and my fist is too tight on the leash, knuckles turning white.

I take another breath, deep enough to expand my stomach, then narrow my eyes on him—

I give him that stare of mine.

It only works when Serena isn’t around, because in his short life, he’s already figured out that he can pit her against me in parenting. He can hide behind her, call out for her, and she blackballs me.

Every single time.

But now, it’s just me and Sal.

And the patience is withering in me.

I miss when he couldn’t talk.

My stare throws him upright, and he at least walks with me around the corner of a closed shop—and we see the crowds gathering ahead.

The parade hasn’t started yet, but—like us—everyone is getting here early.

An older couple cuts ahead of us, both carrying those sorts of pop-up chairs, and a cooler.

I don’t rush.

I don’t need to watch the parade myself. I can always put Sal up on my shoulders and he can have a view from there.

My focus is on the stalls around Town Hall. The courtyard is full of them.

I make a beeline for the stalls with snacks.

And that perks Sal up.

Maybe pumping a toddler full of sugar isn’t the best idea, but I buy him a candied apple, and it keeps him complacent as I wander the market.

Stall after stall, nothing really stands out.

Between the tables full of old junk, a lot of the same sweets over and over, and a woman who insists on selling a bunch of Beanie Babies for too high a price, insisting they are collectables, my purse goes untouched after the candied apple.

The Founder’s Day celebration is a weekend-long affair, and I’m glad that our apartment is a few blocks out from the town centre, away from the heart of the chaos.

The whole town is out, and those from other neighbouring, smaller towns and settlements and farms.

The parade is about to start.

Town Hall’s clock tower is a mere minute from striking noon.