Page 90 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

On those nights, he’d sleep on the floor next to their bed to make sure they were still breathin’, and sometimes he’d whisper, “You love me, Ma? Stop drinkin’.”

Once, the neighbor knocked, claimin’ she was worried. She hadn’t seen the lights on in a week. Then DYFS showed up on their doorstep, checked the fridge, checked the heat. Ma lied, “Non c’è problema. He’s fine. He was with zia and zio in Staten. Of course pantry’s low. He just come back.”

Andrew didn’t snitch. He nodded, wishin’ it was all true.

That night, he was at the kitchen table in the dark, tryin’ to finish homework by candlelight, in the same chair he used to color menus and host five-star dinners. Moms were passed out. The math equation made no sense. He tried not to get frustrated. Tried not to watch the clock. Tried not to think about how tired he was.

Then a single tear hit the paper, right in the middle of the division sign, splittin’ the problem apart. He didn’t even know he was cryin’. He scanned the dark house, makin’ sure no one was standin’ there watchin’, and wiped it away fast, erased the whole problem, started over again.

By fourteen, he didn’t have a permit, but he still drove to the bars anyway, pickin’ up Momma after last call. She’d fight him sometimes, didn’t wanna leave. He’d have to drag her out and hold her up while she cursed out the curb, then hold her hair back when her puke splashed across it.

He understood by then:

Kids learned to give love, and adults learned how to live without it.

By sixteen, Momma landed two months in county for her third DWI.

She lied to him, sayin’ she’d be at Grandpa’s for a bit, in Staten, like it was a vacation. Told him not to burn the gravy, then she kissed his cheek the way she did when he was seven, when he was still dumb enough to believe it.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t say goodbye.

He didn’t really talk much at all after that.

So when Roger texted—“Come through for me? C’mon, bro. I only turn eighteen once.”

Andrew grabbed his jacket, didn’t think twice. Roger wasn’t school or Union City. He was ball, the league. Montclair wasn’t home and felt far enough away.

He needed to get the fuck outta Union for a night.

When he arrived in Montclair, the house looked too perfect to walk up to. Driveway bleached white. Landscaping laid like carpet. Hedges shaped by somebody who got paid six figures to babysit ‘em. Andrew slowed as he walked up, hands buried in his jacket, eyes grazin’ past Roger’s blacked-out Jeep sittin’ smug in the driveway.

He didn’t bother knockin’ before steppin’ inside.

Music was thumpin’. Some remix shit, all bass, no soul. The living room was half-full of strangers, guys Roger went to school with. Others Andrew knew from the league.

Couches were covered in Solo cups. The smell of weed hovered.

A girl laughed by the window as some guy passed her a blunt.

Here, not a single person had a care in the world.

No doors were slammin’.

No mouths were yellin’.

The floors weren’t cold.

Roger clocked him from across the room. “There he is, finally,” he said, throwin’ an arm around Andrew in that one-arm slap-hug, reekin’ of designer cologne and off-brand Jack. The kind of mix that screamed birthday boy tryna forget shit.

Andrew’s scanned the place. “Your parents here?”

Roger shrugged as he sipped from his cup. “Only my mom. She’s somewhere gettin’ drunk. You know they’re splittin’, right?”

No. Andrew didn’t know. They didn’t talk about heavy shit.

“Dad cheated, bro. Divorce mess. She’s busted up. Don’t really give a fuck about nothin’ right now.” He gestured toward the back of the house. “You want a beer?”

Montclair or Union—different zip codes—made no difference. Grief still poured the same. Both their moms were still drinkin’ themselves away just to get through the night. And both their sons not talkin’ about it but feelin’ it in their bones.