Page 91 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

“Nah, bro. You know I don’t drink.”

Roger pushed his way through the room. “Right, right. Forgot. I’ll grab you a coke.” And in old-school Jersey, coke could be Sprite, Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, or Coke.

Kitchen lights were too bright when they stepped in, bouncin’ off pearl granite. Then Mrs. Robinson turned, highball glass in hand—hair bleach blonde and blown out, face tight as hell, red lipstick fresh on full lips, tits sittin’ proud like it was her birthday, not Roger’s. Could’ve fooled you into thinkin’ she was twenty-five.

Roger had heard it his whole life from his boys: “Bro, how you eat dinner across from those tits every night without combustin’?”

“Swear t'God, I get hard every time she brings snacks to the game.”

“Yo, why your mom built like that? What gym she go to, Pornhub?”

“I ain’t sayin’ I would, but I ain’t sayin’ I wouldn’t if she asked…”

She pointed at Andrew, one eye on Roger. “That’s Andrew Harding?” she asked. “Damn. Haven’t seen you since you were a twig with a bowl cut.”

Roger chuckled, slidin’ Andrew a Coke. “Yeah, Ma. Chill out.”

“Jesus.” She pulled Andrew in for a hug before he could step back, arms around his shoulders, chest pressin’ close. “You’re not a boy anymore, huh? You’re a man.”

Andrew gave her a half-pat on the back. “Wild. I’m growin’ up and somehow you’re… rewindin’.” He knew the rhythm of drunk: smile, nod, let ‘em cling a little. He’d been trained by liquor-laced moods since he could tie his shoes. He knew not to challenge a drunk woman. Not to ignore her either. He knew they had two switches: cryin’ and smilin’, and he knew what would flip it.

Mrs. Robinson patted his chest, catchin’ the time on the stove.

“Shit” slipped off her red lips, and she made a beeline for a drawer. A spoon clanged as she pulled it out, then she turned, eyes landin’ on Andrew with a devious wink. “Andrew, sweetheart. You came just in time.”

He half-laughed, still holdin’ the Coke to his lips.

“Yeah? Time for what?”

But she was already grabbin’ Roger’s wrist and yankin’ him toward the living room, drink and spoon in her other hand.

Roger looked back at him, eyes wide like—Bro.

Andrew shook his head, followin’ like—Nah. All you, homie.

In the living room, Mrs. Robinson tapped the spoon to the rim of her glass. That hollow, clinkin’ sound that always meant somethin’ embarrassing was comin’. It made Andrew’s skin crawl. Alcohol plus an audience never equaled good.

“Alright, Roger, sweetheart.” She dragged a wooden chair into the middle of the living room, settin’ up a stage. “You’re gonna sit right here.”

Somebody killed the music.

The whole room went quiet, waitin’.

Mrs. Robinson raised her glass high. “Ladies,” she called. “Time to head outside. I got a surprise for my beautiful boy.”

Roger stood frozen, blinkin’. “Ma, what the hell are you doin’?”

She ignored him, hittin’ him with the mom glare.

Chatter and awkward laughs popped off across the room as they looked at each other. Then Mrs. Robinson cupped her hand around her mouth. “Girls!” she barked through the confusion. “I said get the fuck out for a second!”

She climbed up on the chair, wobblin’, glass still in hand.

“Yeah, you! And you!” she pointed at the girls one-by-one, then clocked a guy standin’ in the hallway. “No. You got a dick, you stay.”

Roger dropped his head into his hand. “Jesus Christ. This can’t be real life.”

The chair teetered on its side, wooden legs squeakin’ against the hardwood, when her heel slid off the edge. Andrew moved before his brain did, set his Coke on a table and leapt toward Mrs. Robinson.