At Risk Youth

Prolouge

​When Andy turned nine, her mother brought a llama to her birthday party. It was the only birthday party she'd ever had, and the only she ever would. Her mother had been sober for eighty-eight days, sixty-five more than ever before, and they'd been the happiest three months of Andy's life. Daryl, her mother's boyfriend, was a man of the program. He knew the slogans, had worked the steps, and knew the risks of dating a newcomer; especially one that'd made a habit of being a newcomer. But something seemed different about this time—and Barb. The pitying tone with which the old-timers kept telling her, "Keep coming back," had turned to one of hope, even admiration. Andy had never had hope for Barb, let alone admiration, but she was starting to dream. She could picture one day, long in the future, standing from the stage at her high school graduation, waving her diploma triumphantly, and seeing Daryl and her mom beaming back from the audience, hand in hand, years of sobriety radiating off them.

​Andy had never seen her mom in the kitchen except to open a bottle or blearily stab at the microwave to heat up a Hot Pocket and shove it, oozing molten cheese, into Andy's hand for an almost forgotten dinner. Over the last year or two, dinner had become completely forgotten, and Andy had learned to heat her own Hot Pockets.

​She liked Daryl a lot. She had never had steak, never had mashed potatoes except out of a box, but Daryl had a grill, Daryl told her that meat had to be not just cooked, but rested, which didn't make much sense to her then, but it tasted like nothing else. At first, when the meat was presented to her with a smile, medium-rare, her stomach had clenched, but after repeated coaxing, she'd taken a bite, and within seconds had devoured the entire strip.

​"She's got an appetite on her," Daryl had laughed, and Barb had laughed too, but gingerly, as if remembering the particular painful note of pleading a small girl had to hit before her drunk of a mother would bother to heat up a frozen dinner.

​But today in the kitchen there was a blur of activity, her mother and Daryl trading places easily like flying fish crossing paths on the great Pacific, magically producing devilled eggs, guacamole, even a fruit platter. He had brought a fountain that poured fresh chocolate, and Andy thought it was practically the coolest thing she'd ever seen. She took taste tests, as her job was to break up the chocolate, but good as that was, it was better to have an excuse to hang around the kitchen while Barb and Daryl cooked and laughed and swatted playfully at each other, their arms seeming to find each other's waists as if guided by sonar, and even at her age she had seen enough to think, Who are you, and what have you done with my mother?

​Parents struggled to find parking on the dead-end street, Mrs. Robinson from next door waving the unluckiest into her driveway, and followed the hand-painted arrows around the house with its screen door hanging on one rusty hinge and threadbare curtains to the small patch of backyard. Andy stood in the one dress she owned. It was reserved for funerals and picture day. You could look back at every year since the first grade and see her growing, baby teeth going, adult teeth coming in, and still the same blue dress, although it hung higher on her shoulders now, and the hem was too short.
​The first to arrive around back was Angelique, Mrs. Robinson's youngest. She was two years older than Andy, but the proximity and lack of suitable playmates on the block had forged a friendship. The Robinsons' story wasn't unique for Yonkers—black family, three children, different fathers, single mother; they were what the stuffy anchors on the news called at-risk youth, but Andy was jealous of them. There was never shouting from the house next door, except a quick, "You quiet down now, or I'll whoop your ass!" but even that sounded like there was a smile behind it, and she had never seen Mrs. Robinson passed out in the front yard or asleep for two days or carting armfuls of empty bottles out to the trash.

​The parents led their children cautiously around the house and into the yard, hands clasped, the way you would if you passed a pit bull on the street, because even leashed something seems dangerous. Eighty-eight days was an eternity for Andy and her mom, but the other parents didn't forget so quickly. Once they passed the splintered gate, the kids burst from their parents' hands brandishing presents, which Andy had never received before. It made her feel strange to know that all this love was for her. She had never even been to a birthday party since she'd known she'd never have a present to give, and now there were boxes and envelopes being piled on the fold-out table in pretty-colored wrapping, a shiny blue one Lauren Edwards had brought calling her name.

​The party was in full swing, people downing devilled eggs, the kids' teeth stained with melted chocolate, and the parents had settled down into comfortable chatter, even pulling Daryl aside to ask for his guacamole recipe. All the while Andy's mom seemed out of place, like she was being paid to be there, tossing empty soda cans and paper plates, even napkins that had been set down momentarily, smiling too wide with an actress's grin, suddenly seeming aware not of the eighty-eight days but of all the dry long years ahead.
​At four o'clock the llama came, led by a man in dirty overalls who smelled worse than it did. The kids whooped, the adults clapped, Daryl letting out a cheer...but not her mother, who was nowhere to be found. Andy didn't notice, too excited by the llama, whose name was Phil and who wore a funny hat Daryl said was called a fedora that Phil kept trying and failing to brush off. Andy was petting Phil and trying to set his hat right, basking in the glory of the day, when she was sideswiped, almost knocked off her feet, by a big wet kiss that missed her cheek and nearly smacked her on the eye. It carried a stink she knew too well to forget, as much as she'd thought she had.

​"Look at the camel, baby!" her mother exclaimed, pointing with one drooping finger, and in her eyes Andy saw clouds gathering, and the party, the presents, Phil, were all gone.
​Andy is five years old again, and she has come through the door alone, dropped off by a fellow parent, her mother missing in action after the twelve o'clock dismissal. She comes through the door, calling for her mom, and the only responses are the dead noises of an empty house, the ticking of the radiator, the tired hum of the fridge. Through the living room, which smells of a cigarette left burning, she sees a blanket crumpled like a jellyfish stranded on shore. Calling for her mom, and no answer. Beneath the cigarette smell, there's another one, sour and sharp and somehow, in a scary way, familiar, but never like this, never so strong. Through the kitchen into the back hall, and then it hits her again at the same time she sees the yellow-brown spatters on the wallpaper. Around the corner the bathroom door is ajar, and the light is flickering. She hits it at a run, crying for her mom, and it barely budges. Through the crack in the door she can see hair bunched like popped threads, blonde like her own, only thinner, and throw-up everywhere. On the sink, on the floor, in her mother's hair, trailing down to the limp body on the floor. Bawling now, she runs to the phone, hits 9, 1, 1, and when the lady answers asking what the emergency is, she says, "It's my mommy, my mommy's on the floor again."
​The party is still in full swing, her mother still keeping up with everyone's trash, but she's not there, not really. She's missing in action. Andy's the only one to notice, until Daryl does, and then everyone does. Piercing through the laughter and conversation comes a high wail through the open kitchen window. It takes Daryl all of two minutes to collect his jacket and the fountain, sloshing chocolate onto the cuffs of his pants, and flee. In the sudden quiet, the nervous chatter of bottle against glass, and then the woman herself, the mother Andy's always known, makeup running dark streaks down her face and mouth going before she's even gotten the door open, calling with sickly sweet hate, "You can all go home now!" and even when Andy had dared to hope, she'd known there would be something like this, a scene, disgusted parents and frightened children scattering like geese, honking for their cars. Mrs. Robinson just laughs and leads the way, and in minutes, the party has dwindled to Andy in her blue dress, Angelique finding anyplace to look but at her, and Phil, doing his business in the dead patch in the corner of the yard.

​"Angelique, you come on home now!" Mrs. Robinson calls from over the fence, and then, to Andy, "I'm sorry, baby. Maybe next year."