Boys of West Denton ✓

chapter thirty-one

harris

I barely acknowledge Mom when she walks through the front door, although the pet carrier in her hand piques my interest. I'm wearing my same sweatshirt from last night and flannel PJ bottoms, wrapped up in a blanket on the couch. I feel weird. Wrong. Discombobulated, one might say.

Mom stares at the TV and puts the pet carrier on the ground, her brow furrowed. Then she looks at me. I stare back at her for a second before turning my eyes back to the screen.

"What's wrong?" Mom asks. She's wearing one of her nicer tops, a flowy boho kind of blouse that Grandma and I bought her a few birthdays or Christmases ago. Her hair is down for once, and I'm surprised to see that she doesn't look quite as tired as usual, even though I'm pretty sure she's not wearing makeup. (Although I'm usually bad at guessing that, gotta say.)

I turn to my back so that I'm facing her properly. "What?"

"What's wrong?" she repeats, crossing her arms and leaning against the front door to shut it. Her hand slips behind her and locks it, and then she's right back there, arms crossed.

"Nothing is wrong," I tell her, even though things do not feel right. But I don't know why they don't feel right, so it's not like there's anything I can do about it. "Why would something be wrong?"

"You're watching Finding Nemo," she says, nodding at the TV. "Spill the beans."

I sit up straighter, mimicking her arm folding. "I'm sorry, how is Finding Nemo indicative of something being wrong?"

"Because," she says slowly, "you only watch this freaking movie when you're sad and want an excuse to cry."

"What? No I do not."

She sighs. "Yes, Harris, yes you do. You watch this, or Dumbo, or Brave."

"To be fair, Brave always makes me cry. So if something was reeeaaally wrong and I wanted to cry, I'd be listening to Merida say, 'I love you, mummy.' But I'm not, am I?"

"Fine then," she says, something like disappointment or sadness flashing momentarily in her eyes, "don't tell me."

"What's in the crate?" I ask her, just so we don't have to talk about this anymore.

She looks down at it, her eyebrows raised in surprise, like she somehow forgot it was there. I can see a blanket poking out from between the wired gate. There's definitely something in there.

"A puppy," she says slowly. "His name is Peaches."

"Peaches is not a boy puppy name."

"Um, fuck you, you sexist pig? I'm the mom, and I say Peaches."

I'm sitting up at full attention now. "Well, can I see Peaches?"

Mom rolls her eyes at me, but she grants my request, stooping down and opening the crate door. "Are you awake, bobo?" she whispers. "Awe you sweeping?"

"Ew. Please don't baby talk the dog."

She turns her head to glare at me. She totally gets that expression from Grandma. "Again. I am the mom. Fuck you."

"What if we just call him Bobo instead of Peaches?"

"This is my dog, not yours. And I say Peaches, goddammit."

Then she reaches inside the crate and pulls out a very much awake, golden-furred puppy.

"Oh my god," I say, "why is he so cute?"

He really is. He blinks slowly at us, turning his head to take in the living room, then yawns, his little puppy fat rolling in my mom's hands. "Why on earth did you buy a dog?" I ask. No way this was a good decision. And my mom usually makes only good decisions. "I'm leaving soon. Who's going to take care of it?"