Seventeen

8

Michael's nine years old and walking up the driveway to his house, Spiderman backpack bouncing up and down on his back as he hurries towards his house. His mom is there, as always, holding the door open for him with a sad sort of smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Hi, baby," she says as he bounces inside and tosses his backpack to the floor. He flops onto the floor and starts tugging at his shoes, even as his long fringe tickles his eyelashes. He shoves at his light up spiderman shoes hastily, biting back tears for his mother's sake more than his own. "Do you have any homework?" She asks.

Michael shakes his head and mumbles back, "No."

"Alright," she sighs. "Do you want a snack?" Michael nods and stands back up to follow her to the kitchen. He's big for his age, much bigger than all the other boys in his class, all the boys who laugh at him and call him names, like baby and stupidhead. They shouldn't bother Michael, but they do, and his hands clench into fists whenever they're around.

There's one boy, with curly blonde hair and pretty hazel eyes named Ashton, who's a year ahead of him, that had once told him not to worry about it. They were just jealous, because their moms and dads didn't buy them cool spiderman gear and pokémon pencils. Ashton had helped him up from the sand on the playground one time and ruffled his hair before running off. Michael knows that Ashton doesn't know who he is, doesn't remember him in the slightest, and probably forgot about him the next day, but it was nice to know that someone was on his side.

Michael's mom pulls out two oreos and a glass of milk for Michael while he falls into the kitchen chair. She sets them in front of him and Michael sighs, like only a nine year old with problems can, mumbling out a quiet, "Thanks, mom."

She pulls out the chair across from him and smiles in the same, sad way, again. "How was school, sweetie?"

Michael shrugs as he peels apart his first oreo. "It was okay." He doesn't mention the scrapes on his knees from Robert pushing him off the swing, or how James had stolen his book during reading time, so Michael had to sit quietly at his desk for an hour. He sighs, long suffering again. "I'm glad I'm home."

Michael's mom nods in agreement and watches him finishes off his first cookie before she speaks again. "Mikey, remember how we talked about the baby growing in mommy's belly?"

Michael nods solemnly. He remembers feeling dread when his mother mentioned bringing a new baby into the family. He was worried about how the baby would have to grow up and go to school just like he was. That, and he wouldn't be the favorite, anymore.

"Well," his mother sighs and looks out the big bay window next to them. "It looks like that isn't going to happen anymore. They had to take the baby out today."

Michael looks up. "Is it ok?"

She pauses, biting her lip with the same, sad look on her face. "No, sweetie. No, the baby is- the baby is dead."

"Oh," Michael says softly. He's not stupid, despite what everyone seems to think, he knows vaguely how babies work. He knows they need to be cared for and held carefully, and Michael's mother being shove down a flight of stairs by big hands wasn't careful. He remembers the thudding and screaming as she'd gone down and has to grab onto his soft blonde hair to make the echoing screams in his head stop. "Is it daddy's fault?"

She looks over at him, surprised, before turning back to the window. "It might be, Mikey, I'm not sure." She backtracks almost immediately and shakes her head. "No, it's not daddy's fault."

Michael thinks she's lying, but he doesn't say as much. He finishes his oreos, drinks his milk, wipes his mustache off, and rounds the table to hug his mother. She rubs his back like he needs soothing, and Michael thinks he's never felt safer.