One
Mom shuffles in the door of our apartment and by the sound of paper bags, she’s brought home food.
“Need help?” My laptop’s on my lap, and my feet are stretched out on the coffee table. I click refresh on my email, just to make sure I don’t have anything new before jumping back into writing.
“No, thanks, Antony. I got it.” She steps around the corner from our hole of a kitchen.
Mom’s wide smile spreads across her angled face. She flicks her short, dark hair back as she walks into the room. “I brought Moroccan.”
“Awesome.” I set my laptop on a chair, and clear my home school crap from the top of the coffee table, shoving it onto the shelf underneath. “What’s the occasion?”
She hates picking up food, and they don’t deliver. It’s a shame, really. Almost every restaurant in New York delivers…well, except the ones I want to.
She sets the large brown bag on the table and moves toward the kitchen, where we keep our coats. “No occasion. I got a assignment offer the other day that I wanted to talk to you about.”
Mom comes around the corner, and flops back onto the couch. “When did my son get so grown up?” She ruffs my dark brown hair.
“Last year. I think it was October.” I smirk. “And watch the hair.” I point and scoot away, but we’re both smiling. Looking into Mom’s dark brown eyes is like seeing my own. I look a lot like her—same hair, same angled face. Most guys might hate that, but I don’t mind.
“Very funny.” Her hand reaches up and touches my hair more softly this time, playing with the ends. “You need a haircut.”
The way she’s staring at me puts me on edge. “I do not need a cut. And since when do you care what I do with my hair?” I try to tease, but the intensity of her look keeps my chest pounding.
Her smile falls.
Yep. Something’s up.
My stupid heart beats even harder, which sucks, cause it means something big’s about to happen.
“Next assignment is in Africa.” She pulls her short legs up on the couch.
I’m speechless. This isn’t a definite “Antony comes” kind of place. Mom has this idea that there are countries in the world that are safe enough for her, but not for me. I’m not sure yet which way this one’ll go. It sucks cause I almost always get to go.
Mom’s worked on the Today show forever, but she also does stuff for the other news networks in the same media group. She’s on TV often, but has the cool advantage of traveling all over the world. I get to follow most of the time—hence the home schooling and tutors.
“Cool, how long will we be there?” I ask, even though part of me is just waiting for her to—
“I’m going alone.” Her shoulders fall.
Dread edges its way into my gut, creating a black pit that weighs me down.
She turns to face me, bringing a knee to her chest. Whatever’s coming, I know I’m not going to like it. This is one of those moments when I wish I could stop time or something, or maybe jump ahead—that might work too. Anything to avoid what she’s about to say.
“Look, I know you barely know your father…”
My dad? What on earth could he have to do with this? Oh. Wait. “No, no no no no.” I shake my head. “He’s like, I mean…we’re not…” No way would she send me there without her. Would she? But the weight in my stomach just doubled in weight and size.
“He’s a good man, Antony.” She’s using her mom-voice. One she doesn’t pull out often.
“That’s…in dispute.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. Dad bailed about the time Mom was picked up by NBC. I was three. Who does that?
My stupid heart keeps sending me the same message—told ya this was big.
“No.” She shakes her head. “That, is not in dispute. Your dad has always been a good man.”
“Right, which is why you two stayed together for so long.” I can feel it coming. Feel it. It’s just not like her to make big decisions without talking to me.
“We were very different.”
“Yeah. And I’m like you.” And want to be like you. No one has a cooler Mom than me. Every time a musical guest comes on she knows I like, she’ll bring me to work. And it’s never—this is my cute little boy, stuff. It’s like Hey, this is Antony. He knows New York better than anyone, so if you need any help getting around, he’s your man.
“And I love that you’re like me.” She kisses my forehead. This means its bad, because she feels bad. “But you should know the other half of your parentage.”
“My parentage?” I stare. “But that’s not it, Mom. He’s weird. He lives on a boat! And not like a huge boat, either.”
“It will only be for three months or so.”
“Three months!” This is crazy. Panic starts to set in. Spending three months on a boat with my weirdo father sounds like torture. Every nerve is precariously balanced on the edge of some sort of cataclysmic abyss. “I’ve been to Africa before. Why is this so different?”
We sit and look at one another for a moment. I’m not sure if she’s trying to think of something to say, or if she’s trying to remember something she has prepared. Either way it sucks.
“It’s dangerous, Antony. I don’t want you there. You know this. You don’t always get to come. I need to concentrate on what I’m doing.” Both her feet hit the floor as she turns to the coffee table, and begins to pull out boxes of food. The smell of spices further fills the living room.
“If it’s too dangerous for me, it’s too dangerous for you.” I fold my arms. This is serious, and now she’s avoiding the conversation by dishing up.
I’m trying to think of everyone I know, anyone who can keep me from having to spend three months with my dad. On a boat. The whole idea is so crazy that part of me is sure it can’t be real.
It’s a fine balance in my life to know the right people, say the right things, and Dad doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get me, my friends, my clothes, New York. None of it. He couldn’t handle living here—not even for me.
Why should I have to live there?
“It’s not just that. I feel like I’ve done you a disservice by not pushing you harder to spend time with him.” Forks get pulled from plastic. “You’re almost eighteen and have never spent any real time together.” Plates are being dished. She finally stops messing with boxes and food to look at me. “He misses you.”
“I don’t care.” I shake my head. “I don’t really want to spend time with him.” A ten-minute phone call is awkward enough, but months? I can’t even imagine that. Don’t want to imagine it. Definitely don’t want to live it. She knows this. It’s not like her to force something I don’t want.
“He’s a good man, Antony. I loved him a lot. It was just…” Her shoulders start to shrug, but just stop at the top instead of relaxing back down.
“It wasn’t enough to counteract how weird he is!” How is something like this happening?
And I’m not completely freaking out, because in my mind, until my feet are on the deck of his boat, there’s still a chance for something else to happen.
She laughs. Laughs! “I know it feels like an eternity right now, but it won’t feel that way for long. Three months is nothing.”
Nothing. Nothing.
Right.
I don’t buy it, not for a second. Besides, there has to be loads of other options. Which gives me the perfect idea.
“What about Arnaud? I could stay with him in Paris for a while.” Arnaud is a little eccentric, but not a bad guy. I stayed with him the last time Mom left me home. He and Mom dated for a short while, and they still get together when we go to Paris. I could probably do whatever I wanted. And Hélèna’s there. I mean, we’re never exactly on, but we’re never exactly off either, and three months in the proximity of her legs sounds pretty awesome. Amazing. Perfect.
Mom’s brows go up. “Uh…nice try. No way you’re spending that much time with Arnaud. We both remember what happened last time.”
I should’ve known better. Last time ended in my first and last experience with cocaine (offered by Arnaud—which I’m sure is where the disagreement came from) as well as my first sleep over with a girl—Hélèna. Arnaud was proud. Mom was most definitely not.
“But David, or Trace, or Finn, or—” Who else do I know that lives close?
She pushes out a breath. “Sorry, Antony. It’s settled. I know there are other places you’d rather stay, but I think it’s important you spend time with your dad.”
Settled—like the weight in my gut. The only argument left is begging, or guilt, or a mix of the two. “Mom, we’ve always talked things through first. I think it’s worked really well.”
Her face begins to soften.
“We’ve made decisions together for a long time. Am I making you crazy or something? I’m a little behind in Trig, but it won’t take long to catch up. Phil said he’d meet with me tomorrow if I want.” Can I sound desperate enough for this to not happen? Because I’m feeling pretty desperate right now.
“Having you in Darfur terrifies me Antony.” Now she looks vulnerable. This is the face I can’t argue against.
“Then I don’t want you there.” But I already know how this argument goes. She’s an adult. She’s the one in the middle of cameras and security, and she can’t keep track of me when she’s working. We’ve had the run-around before, and we both know how it ends.
Her face closes off. I know before she speaks that I’ve lost. It just seems too horrible to think about. “Sorry. I did tell your dad that you needed to be able to keep with your home school. He was going to register you for spring semester.”
“What?” My head snaps back to Mom. “Like public school?” I’ve heard horrors. I’m not about to go there.
Mom laughs. “You know, I went to a public school, and I think I did okay for myself.”
I can tell by the tease in her voice that we’re still okay. But how okay am I? How will I get along with a guy who wears Costco jeans and thinks it’s cool to live on a boat?
Her hand rests on my knee. “I love you Antony, but this is a big opportunity for me to do the kind of journalism that at the end of the day, really means something. Will hopefully bring attention to an area of the world that’s in desperate need of aid. I know you don’t want to spend the time with your dad, and I’ve let you avoid him for way too long. I’ve had guilt over that for a lot of years. He asks about you a lot, you know.”
I nod. Mom always tells me when Dad’s sends her an email, or when they talk. It happens often, even though Dad and I don’t talk all that much. Mom knows how uncomfortable it is for me, which makes me even more frustrated over what’s happening now.
Dread isn’t creeping in, it’s taking over. This is insane. I belong with Mom. I belong in New York. These are my people. This is who I am.
“If it were somewhere else, I’d bring you, but this is an opportunity for both of us.” Her voice has the soft seriousness that lets me know she sort of gets it, but we’re doing it anyway.
“I could stay here. I’m almost eighteen. People leave for college when they’re eighteen. It happens all the time.” I can’t even force hope into my voice, because I can tell it’s decided.
“Love you, son.” She wraps her small arms around me. “I’ll be back before your birthday. It’ll go by so fast. I promise.”
I chuckle. “You can promise no such thing. Just, be safe, okay?”
“That, I can promise.” She has to lean up to kiss my cheek.
And this is going to suck, but it is what it is. Seattle’s not a bad city. A bit cold and rainy in January, but I can deal with that. It’s my dad and the boat that I’m worried about.