Labeled Love (3 page)

On cue, she staggers into my bedroom, clearing her throat as she leans onto my doorframe. I lie in my bed with my hands stretched over my head. I’m shirtless with a pair of boxers on because it’s hotter than hell in this stagnant space. It doesn’t start to cool down here until November, and this has been one hot October.

There’s nothing graceful about Grace. I have always found it sad that my mother was given such a beautiful name with meaning, when she is nothing like its definition. Maybe at one time she was worthy of her name, but I’ve never seen that time.

“Did you take money from me?” I bring my coherent gaze to her incoherent one and give her a questioning look. Even though I didn’t take any money, I do know where some is. It’s not much—only enough to catch a bus ride to the community center, but I don’t tell her that for fear she will take it from me. She shrugs her frail shoulders when I don’t answer. “Are you going to school today?” she asks with a hoarse voice, scratching the top of her head through her unkempt hair. She either stayed up all night partying or her raspy voice is from barely waking up. That’s usually the first thing she says to me in the morning as she comes stumbling through my bedroom door.

Rolling my eyes, I respond with as much interest as she just voiced me. “I don’t know, Mom. Don’t most kids go to school every morning?”

“Why do you have to be such a wise ass, Jace? If I find out you take money when I’m not looking, you’re going to get it, boy.” I elude my blue eyes from her dull brown ones and roll over in my toddler-sized bed, blocking her out. She walks out as quickly as she walked in. “If you’re going, get ready or you’re going to be late. I don’t feel like having to go to another meeting about how I can’t control my kid,” she yells over her skinny shoulder.

Of course, she doesn’t. That would be actual parenting, and I know how much she hates doing that. The couple of times she had to come to a school meeting were because I was falling behind in a few classes, and the teachers were concerned. She took that as I was being uncontrollable, when really I was struggling. She swore like a sailor the whole time she was in the office. I remember biting down so hard on my bottom lip with embarrassment that I made myself bleed. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs to shut her up, but I didn’t want to make the situation any worse than she was already doing.

“Don’t make me come down to this school one more fucking time
,
” Grace said as
we walked out of the office.
I remember the sad expression on the principal’s face as Grace stormed through his office door that day. He’s a rather large man who doesn’t look like he gets intimidated easily. I bet that’s why he got the principal’s job at the school. This is a tough crowd of kids to watch over. He witnessed my mom firsthand on two different memorable encounters in all her drunken glory—because, believe me, Grace leaves an impression—and then add my fight, and I’m looking like a model citizen with a bright future to him. I’m sure he thinks I’m going to amount to nothing but a messed-up kid with a shitty home life, shitty grades, and a fist I have no problem using.

Never owning a car, I trailed behind her, speaking to her slumped back as she dragged herself back to her private pity party of hell she created. I mouthed, “You’re the worst fucking mother in the world.”

Struggling.

That’s all I’ve ever known. I try to stay out of trouble, but it’s all around me. Trouble breeds here, even though only a few miles away the rich and famous lay down their perfectly groomed heads, enjoying their joyous days of leisure and overly indulgent lives comfortably. While over here, where I lay mine, is a constant struggle.

WHEN MORNING IS
upon us, our bodies just know it is time to get up and starts to stir. It’s like a built-in alarm clock telling us it’s time to start our day. I’m not ready to get up, though. My body is wrapped tightly with my head resting comfortably on my big, fluffy pillow. I wish it were Saturday morning, so I could sleep in. No such luck. My human alarm clock just came prancing through my bedroom door. “Good morning, baby girl. Time to start your day.”

My mother.

Also known as my human alarm clock—not that annoying buzzer kind of alarm.

No.

My human alarm clock consists of the most loving sound. I can always count on her smelling like whatever she’s been up at the crack of dawn cooking for us. Today, she has the sugary sweet smell of pancakes and maple syrup all around her.

“I’m not a baby anymore, Mom. I’m practically getting boobs.” I peek up out of my covers to get a glimpse of her facial expression. She always makes a goofy face when we say something out of character. Yes, she’s totally making that face. She shrugs her delicate shoulders up and down like she’s doing a little dance.

“You’re twelve years old, barely in middle school. You don’t have boobs yet, Shay.”

“Why? Because I’m in the sixth grade, or because I’m twelve?”

“Both.”

“Are you sure, Mom? I’m pretty sure I’m getting boobs.”

“Who’s talking about boobs?” Dad says, peeking into my bedroom.

“Mom doesn’t want to accept that I’m maturing.”

“Me either. I’m not ready for my little girl to get boobs, not until you’re like twenty-one.”

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll still let you baby me even when I get boobs.”

He walks away, laughing.

“I don’t think I’ve heard the word
boob
so many times in my life. Time to get up, girlie,” Mom says.

I whine, sounding like I could still be a baby. “I don’t want to get up.”

“Oh, come on, Shay. You’ve been sleeping all night on those pretty curls we put in your hair last night. Time to get up and fluff those long locks out.”

I want to turn her off. I want to hit
Snooze
, but one thing about my mother—she doesn’t have a
Snooze
button. She is way too full of life and rarely lets us rest. Not in a bad way, she just doesn’t believe in wasting a day away. “Did you feel the earthquake last night?”

“Nope,” I mumble, eyes still closed.

“Really, Shay, you sleep like a rock. Your dad jumped up so quickly out of bed that he stubbed his toe. I tried hard not to laugh at him, but you know your dad. He has such a tough exterior that hearing him squeal like a little girl around the room was hysterical.”

I have to agree; that would be comical to see. My dad has a presence. He’s one of those guys that walks into a room and owns it. Everyone knows who my father is around this town. My dad is Steven Stark. That’s right.
The
Steven Stark of Stark Records. He owns one of the biggest record labels in the business. He might intimidate others with his bigger-than-life way about him, but that’s not a bad thing. Don’t get me wrong. My dad is handsome and very sweet, but really, he only shows his family that side of him. Daddy is the sweetest dad ever.

My mom laughs. I swear, she laughs at herself all the time. She starts walking over to my windows, and I know she’s going to open my curtains. It’s pretty much our routine. “Don’t tell him I said that, but if you see your dad walking with less pep in his step this morning, you know why.” Then she laughs again, shaking her head with the biggest smile on her face. “Your dad… He cracks me up.”

I think she said that more to herself. I just smile into my cozy blanket that smells like dryer sheets. My mom is obsessed with everything smelling clean. She tries so hard at times to be earth-friendly, but yet she buys boxes of dryer sheets to put all over the place. If something smells, she says, “Just put a dryer sheet in there.” Funny thing is, dryer sheets are terrible for our environment. My mom is so cute.

Making her way across my room, she pulls open the curtains to the window closest to her. The bright warm glow of the morning sun spills through my huge window. She then goes over and opens the other window. Mom might as well have opened the roof of the house it’s so bright in here.

“It’s so bright outside,” I moan. The California sun spreads onto my white comforter, instantly warming my already cozy bed. Well, I guess I have no choice now. It’s time to get up. Then she opens the window. The light breeze that rushes in makes her light brown hair blow back onto her shoulders, and my senses are instantly hit with the fragrant smell of the orange blossoms coming off our fruit trees. My dad had them planted all around our property so my mom could enjoy them. She loves gardening and would stay outside all day picking fruit if she could.

Mom inhales deeply. “The trees are really brimming this season. I better go out and pick a couple more baskets.”

“Pick away,” I say sweetly. Then in a sleepy voice I ask, “Please, tell me you made fresh orange juice this morning?”

“Of course, I did,” she answers with a look that says
is that even a question
?

“Thank God. I could live off that juice.” Pulling the covers over my head, I ask her, “What time is it?”

“After seven.” I know I have to get up. She comes over and grabs the covers, exposing my face to hers. I roll my eyes. “I’ll go start the shower for you, lazy girl.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

How can I not be motivated when I get that kind of wake-up call every morning? But still, I pretty much crawl out of bed and make my way into the bathroom once I hear the shower start. What? I can’t help it. I love my sleep.

AS I WALK
into my bathroom, my clothes are already laid out. Mom and I went shopping this past weekend with my best friend Jules. We went into a few of my mom’s favorite stores before Jules begged her to take us into this new store that she’d heard about. Jules looked at Mom like she was crazy when she said, “Jules, you’re in no danger to wear these clothes until you’re an adult. I will take you girls to this new tween store instead.”

Both Jules and I looked up at her with scrunched-up noses. “What the heck is a tween?” we said in unison.

“That’s what you girls are. You’re in between the little girl and the teen section, so you’re a tween.”

Jules did a dramatic sigh saying, “Well, if you and my mom hadn’t held us back from starting school, we would be in the seventh grade right now. But, no… You had to make sure ‘we were ready.’”