Page 89 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Meanwhile, Andrew got roasted daily.

He was the soft Catholic kid with gay moms. Italian, Union City, never quite right in any room.

The church side-eyed him during communion, the priest skipped him for altar duty, and his grandpa wouldn’t even say Ma’s name. He called her that woman and looked at Andrew as the mistake wearin’ his last name.

He knew he’d never get the chain—ain’t got a pop to pass it down.

But those retro kicks could silence the jokes and slurs faster than fists.

The back-of-the-bus crowd knew what shoes you wore, and he told everyone he was gettin’ ‘em. Even told his boy he’d have ‘em before school started—Jordan 4s White Cements, the real deal.

Then on his birthday, his moms took him downtown to Payless and pointed out some knockoffs, sayin’, “Andrew, these are the one’s they’re all wearin’. Looks just like the Uptowns. Just don’t got the check or say Nike on the back.”

After they left Payless, she even held ‘em up in front of the Urban Wear window on the way to the car to show him hers were better. He didn’t argue or throw a fit. But a light went out in him as he stood there starin’ at his reflection in the storefront window. He wasn’t mad at her. He was mad at himself, feelin’ real stupid for gettin’ his hopes up, and for tellin’ people.

Walkin’ around in knockoff Js? No one survives that embarrassment. So Andrew felt guilty for not even wantin’ to wear ‘em, makin’ up some excuses about it: he didn’t wanna dirty ‘em up, he didn’t want his boy gettin’ jealous, they weren’t school-wearin’ shoes, they were weekend shoes.

The house went weird for a whole week after that.

Momma snapped at him in the kitchen. “A shoe, Andrew? You gettin’ sad over a shoe? Look at you, makin’ Ma all upset with that dark-ass cloud hangin’ over you through the house. Shit you want costs money.”

Aight. Lesson learned.

Sadness wasn’t only his anymore. It hurt the people he loved, too.

And every time he wanted somethin’, someone else had to lose somethin’.

So that was the first and last time he ever asked for anything.

By twelve, Andrew became the peacekeeper, the buffer, the middleman.

When his moms got into it, they stopped talkin’ to each other and talked through him instead—same room, three feet apart, usin’ him like a walkie-talkie. He hated that shit. A couple times, he called a family meeting and made ‘em sit on the couch.

It never went how he wanted. One would snap at him. The other would snap for snappin’ at him. Then they were back at it, louder than before, not even noticin’ he’d left the room.

By thirteen, Andrew understood what kind of drunk each of his moms were. Momma Paola drank to kill the stress and outrun the week. Ma drank to kill the silence and forget how alone she was at night.

Momma worked doubles, then hit the bar to talk shit with strangers.

Ma stayed in—wine-stained teeth, empty eyes, cryin’ into laundry piles while listenin’ to old Motown records. When it was only the two of ‘em, and Momma was at work, it always turned into: “Amore mio… I don’t feel so good. You make me eggs?”

“Tesoro… you love me, sì? Then don’t make me do it myself.”

“Take care of your ma. You’re the man of the house.”

“Amore, you love me? Be useful and go fold the laundry.”

No matter what he did, it never felt like enough.

He was used to comin’ home from school to the smell of sambuca and the sound of nothin’. But nothin’ was better than the late night soundtrack of doors slammin’, cheatin’ fights, and Ma sobbin’ through the walls.

And when the house fell asleep, he’d do his rounds. Sometimes he’d tiptoe into their room, lay a blanket over ‘em, leave water and migraine pills on the nightstand, and says, “Room service, ma’am.”

Sometimes he’d rub their backs. Sometimes he shook ‘em.

Sometimes he was afraid to wake ‘em up.

Sometimes he was afraid they wouldn’t wake at all.