Brat

         He stares directly into my eyes and I wonder what he is thinking. I wonder how he’s still alive. The coffee table between us is littered with empty bottles. Screams and shouts are heard from the above apartment. The boy’s face remains still.

         A single picture of the boy as a baby sits on the windowsill. I walk over to the window and the boy follows me. I attempt to open it and it sticks. There’s a knock at the door, it echoes through the apartment. My heart begins to beat. Faster. Faster. I walk to the door. Knock. Knock. I reach for the handle. The door creaks. My eyes are closed.

         “Pizza delivery.”

         I open my eyes and see a thin man dressed in a Dominoes Pizza uniform. I give him a generous tip and slam the door behind me. The boy stares that the pizza box in my hands. Beer bottles clink together as I move them to make room. The scent of cheese covers the alcohol. I hold out a slice to the boy, who stares at it.

         My head turns when the door creaks. It hits the wall and threatens to break. A woman with long curly hair that hangs limply about her face and more makeup than she need, stumbles in. She hangs on the door like a crutch. “I’m home.”

         I wince. She stumbles forward, I catch her and guide her to the couch like a tug boat. “Thanks,” she slurs as she shoves money in my hand.

         “It’s okay.” The boy avoids my eyes.

         “Bye dear.” She waves at me as if she’s some queen dismissing a servant. Once the door is closed behind me, I hear the boy cry out.

***

         “So how’s the new baby sitting job?” My friend asks. “Kid’s a brat right?”


         I shake my head.

         “Tough neighborhood isn’t it? Almost like-” She pauses and stares at the empty glass in her hand. “Never mind. Do you want something to drink?”

***

         Laughter rings as the pale white door opens. The boy’s mother is with a man. He’s dark skinned with a red bandana tied tightly around his head.

         “Good, you’re here. The brat is in his room. I’ll be back.”

         The pizza box is overturned untouched, but for a few bites here and there.

         “She got mad at me.” His hand covers what I already know is there. I reach out to him. He evades my touch and scampers back into his room like a timid mouse. Inside his room, I see a few posters of baseball players. Tattered, unwanted by its previous owner. His bed is a mattress on the floor. “I’m just a useless brat,” he says.

         I sit beside him and put one arm around his shoulder. The boy buries his face in my shoulder.

***

         “So how’s the brat?” My friend asks. She holds a mug between her hands. “That’s a tough place for a child to grow up.”

         “Let’s talk of something else.”

         “Face it now or face it later. It’s your choice.”

***

         The door is wide open. I walk in slowly. “Brat stay out of my sight!”

         Glass shatters at my feet. “Oh, good you’re here. He’s in there.”

         She is gone before I can say a word. Inside, the boy is on the floor, rocking back and forth. I pick him up and cradle him. The room fills with silence. I wish I could take the boy, runaway and never again have to deal with people who don’t want him.

         “I wish I were dead,” the boy says.

***

         “It looks like the poor brat’s mother is a whore. A drunk whore.”

         What is she trying to get at?

         “Her behavior tells it all. Bet he’s some accidental pregnancy. Not unlike-”

         I glare at her.

         “Sorry, I’ll stop ranting about the brat. Do you want to play cards?”

***

         The door opens as I knock. The boy’s mother is asleep on the couch. I tap her with my fingertips. She digs her fingernails into my finger, in surprise. “Sorry dear, I got to go.” She falls over, gets up, and with more determination than a child, walks out.

         “She hurt you, too.”

         I look at the boy. He is holding my hand, like it’s made of some precious metal.

         “You’re bleeding.” I see my blood seep between the boy’s fingers. He guides me, like a guide dog guides a blind person, to the bathroom. Brown water flows from the faucet. The boy holds my hand under the icy water.

***

         “Nice band-aid,” my friend points to the Superman band-aid wrapped around my index finger.

         I roll my eyes and sit down.

         “From the brat right?”

         Where else?

         “You’ve taken a liking to him, haven’t you?”

         I don’t answer. What can I say?

         “You have. You know you can’t do anything. Baby-sit and say nothing. No matter how much you and him are alike.”